My love for photography started long before I ever held a camera. It began with my Grandma and her massive collection of photo albums. She never announced herself as a photographer, but she was always behind the camera, quietly documenting everything: holidays, family, ordinary days that mattered more than we realized at the time.

She was meticulous in the best way. Every album felt like a time capsule. I met ancestors I'd never known, flipped through holiday dinners that looked like they belonged in a soul-food magazine—fine china on crisp tablecloths, layered silverware, and cloth napkins folded just right. You could practically taste how delicious the food was, all homemade by Grandma, my mom, and my aunts. Everything had a place. Every memory was worth keeping—she even wrote the year and location on the back of most photographs.



Grandma was involved in everything. She ran the Busy Bees Sewing Club, served on the church usher board, led exercise groups, knitted, tended a bountiful garden in the lot next to their home, and still managed to be a mom and devoted wife. Even on church trips to places like Mexico, she was the one documenting it all, camera in hand. She had an uncanny talent for capturing those spontaneous moments that make you wonder, when did she even take this? No matter the occasion, she was always there, preserving it.