Last Saturday was the first time I photographed a wedding.

My friend was getting married and asked me to be the informal photographer. She had hired a professional photographer for the family photos and the ceremony (she wanted me to be relaxed and present, not distracted, for the actual wedding), but it was my job to catch the behind-the-scenes stuff. I showed up at her house before noon and played, I mean, took pictures, all the way through until the bell-ringing, firecracker-popping send off.

I loved having permission to photograph what I found interesting without the stress of having to be perfect. Which was good, because one, most of the lighting was artificial and I don’t have the fancy flashes and lenses to compensate, and two, I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. Whenever something caught my eye, I just clicked.

My favorite part was capturing the photos that no one else was taking, the un-posed, casual moments that told a story. The calming hand massages. The quiet conversations. The panic over a torn stocking. The mad dash upon being released from a formal photo session. Except for when I told my friends’ kids to grab their friends for some spontaneous outside photos, all the photos were off-the-cuff.

I tried to capture as many of the different wedding day components as possible: the teen boys’ last minute washing of a car, the sound tech guy, the food, the ushers, the guests, the hyper, post-wedding children, the caterers. (My one regret is that I didn’t get many photographs of the groom’s family. I had never met them before, and since I was working with a 50mm lens, I couldn’t discreetly snap pictures from a distance. But it felt invasive to get all close and personal, so I mostly just didn’t. And of course, that didn’t feel right, either.)

The whole day was loads of fun, but by the end I was whupped. The exhaustion was bone-deep and debilitating. All I wanted was to lay flat on my back for a very long time. So I did. The end.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.26.15), and then we moved into a barn, housekeeping, flourless peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, and shoofly cake.  

This same time, years previous: first day of classes, five things, grumble, grumble, thoughts, and baked Brie.

“You know, when I was in college in Northern New York, we’d go to bed at night and the next morning there would be three feet of snow on the ground and it was no big deal. But now we get snow and everyone falls apart.”

My husband was standing in the hallway, shedding his snow clothes, or maybe putting them on yet again, his eyes dancing. All week long he had regarded the storm predictions with cool reserve, but as soon as the storm hit, he turned giddy, so charged up he practically crackled with excitement.

He was a little bummed it wasn’t a total white-out.

“You think I should string a rope between the house and the chicken coop just so we can say we did?” he asked.

The power only briefly flickered off twice, and the Internet never once went down (!), but I stayed on red alert the whole time, keeping a carafe of hot water at the ready, the bathtub filled with buckets of water for potential toilet flushings, and the dishes washed up. And you know what? Aside from my niggling (and unnecessary) worry, the two days of blizzard turned out to be a delightful mini vacation.

We played Rook and Uno, watched PK (not your typical movie—think Indian movie with subtitles, theology, excellent humor, and Bollywood—but I highly recommend it), cracked open a 1000 piece puzzle, moved snow around, rigged various shelters for the animals, and made cupcakes. I did some recipe testing for Luisa, took pictures, made hot chocolate, watched my son sprint around the house in his swimming trunks, baked a chocolate cake, talked to my mom on the phone, and read by the fire.

Now it’s Sunday, the sun is shining, and we’re digging ourselves out from under.

This same time, years previous: rocks in my granola, and other tales, what you can do, on thank-you notes, pink cupcakes, in no particular order, movie night, on not wanting, and capturing the moment.