Thanksgiving

On Thanksgiving morning I left home before eight and drove my Jeep 20 miles to photograph a farm I’ve been shooting for the past 15 years. Sometimes it’s hard to keep a relationship fresh and exciting for such a long period of time, but like an exciting woman, this subject reveals something new to me every time we meet.

It was 34 degrees when I left home, but at the higher elevation in New Jersey’s Ramapo Mountains, the mercury hovered at 31, just cold enough for the hoar frost to still be thick and brilliant. Clouds hid the sun and I waited until their feeble rays broke through just enough to highlight the brittle, frozen leaves.

I worked for over an hour, I guess—I lost track of time the second arrived. I moved quickly, knowing that the sun would soon be strong enough to banish the frost sculptures. In every direction I discovered something new—a bristling red berry, a leaf silver-tipped with rime, green grass dusted with frost. When I finished my bare fingers were numb and my feet were like ice. But I felt wonderful.

And I felt so lucky to be able to enjoy the moment. We all have so much to be thankful for. I’m blessed in that I don’t have to look far to see my true fortune.

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