As Valentine’s Day approaches and I realize that I don’t have a suitable gift, I thought I would share one reason why I love this woman–Vickie–the embodiment of resilience.
[About the photo: I took this at the Mt. Pleasant Pier near Charleston. This bird didn’t sing, and didn’t need to sing either–what a view!. 2014]
The other day a friend came over and asked me to go into an apartment with her. Her neighbor had gone on a camping trip with a church group and left my friend to feed her two pet parakeets. My friend is afraid of the birds (and most living creatures) and she wanted me to do the feeding while she watched. It wasn’t a big deal really. The birds politely moved to the back of the birdcage while I lifted the door and placed the seeds in the front of the cage. “That was easy.” She sighed. The experience reminded me of story about my father, a somewhat eccentric person.
When I was in the first grade we lived in Illinois in a pastorium next to the church where he was pastor. He loved animals and took every opportunity to fill our yard with an array of dogs, the garage with Persian and Siamese cats, and in that year one of the bedrooms of the house with canaries. I am not sure where my 3 sisters slept, but I remember this bedroom lined with cage upon cage of pretty little yellow and other brightly colored birds. There was one problem–other than the obvious one of crowding his children into spaces so he could have the birds–the canaries wouldn’t sing. He specifically bought the canaries so he could have bird sounds around the house. What to do? Continue reading
Some family history for my daughter’s 40th birthday.
I don’t really remember the drive from Americas, Georgia Hospital where she was born. Actually I really don’t remember too much about the first year in Montezuma except the way it go started. We left Mars Hill, N.C. in the Appalachian mountains for the deeper south after looking for a teaching job for some time in 1971. There were no job openings near home in the gorgeous mountains of home that had nestled our us, our family and friends.
We drove south past Atlanta. Continue reading
Reflections on Basic Art Therapy by Jaroslava Sickova-Fabrici
What child doesn’t like mud? I grew up in the Southern United States in mostly small towns of farming communities. I remember the warm feel of the summer’s clay between my toes. Making mud pies was a favorite past time with my sisters, especially after a spring rain—and long before cable and the Internet. Playing in the mud was soothing, bonded me to my sisters, and most of all, fun. Who knew it could be part of a healing process back then? Continue reading