banded

I love birds. And like almost everything about my personality, I believe I inherited this from my father.

As a boy my father raised show pigeons.  He took up this hobbie again in later years and he became known throughout the world as a champion bird breeder.

He has since decided that he would rather photograph wild birds than raise domesticed ones. He is an amazing photographer of wildlife.  He will sit in the cold for hours to get a good shot of an eagle or a hawk.

My father is also fiercey loyal. The day he married my mother, he became a man dedicated to a life of family goals and aspirations.

When a breeder or a researcher bands a bird, they put a small metal band around their ankle which gives information about who they are, when and where the bird was banded and a number to identify that specific bird.

The Sugar Daddy and I have been married almost twenty years. It will be nineteen years this June. Holy cow. Where did the time go?

Last week I went out to my workbench and made a band.

It states the name of the person who placed the band on my finger. The location and the date.

It felt good to be back at my workbench working with silver.

I had a helper. A grubby little imp who wants to see and do everything I do.

She's my girl. My Bird.  She wanted to be banded too.  Hers says "My Girl". This is what we call each other.

It feels good to be banded. I have a place. Every person should have a place where they belong. Where they are loved and excepted for who they are, faults and all.

Happy Monday.