I believe the year is 1956, because we kids look to be ages 10, 7, and 4, or thereabouts; at any rate, very new to the farm in Arran township where we grew up from these ages on. We’re all dressed up, which would make it Sunday, and a certainty that we’ve just arrived home from church. There would have been no time to snap a picture before church – that was always a mad rush making sure everyone looked presentable – and there would have been no one else around to take this picture until company came home with us for lunch. I remember how much I dreaded having to get dressed up, and how wonderful it was to shed the skirt and the itchy blouse and the dreaded blazer and especially the socks (I still hate socks!) in favour of something old and comfy. Along with bare feet, if I could get away with it. We are on the lawn, in front of the infamous lily pond which my dad filled up with rocks so that no child would accidently drown in it. Mom is wearing a mustard yellow coat that had thin black horizontal stripes and huge shiny black buttons – it was fuzzy and soft and thoroughly luxurious from a 7 year old’s point of view. Dad disliked the colour immensely. Mom didn’t care – it was dressy and it was warm. Funny, the little details that surface when you stop to think about them.