Fun with the Family - Julie Lavender

Make long-lasting memories in the shortest month of the year

Updated: Feb 9, 2025, 2:36 PM

Published: Feb 9, 2025, 2:37 PM

My kindergarten grandson’s favorite number to express gigantic proportions is 139. “Grandmommy, I want you to stay 139 days when you come see me.” Well, in some ways, January felt like it was 139 days long, but on the other hand, it’s hard to believe the calendar has flipped to a new page. Make the most of the shortest month of the year with fun activities with the family. Add these celebrations below to family festivities or make up a few unique family celebrations of your own.

Hot Breakfast Month – Start every morning off right with a healthy breakfast this month. Here’s a recipe you might want to try to celebrate Hot Breakfast Month. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Brown a 16-ounce tube of sausage. Drain meat and pan completely, then put back into warm pan with one eight ounce block of cream cheese. Stir together until cream cheese melts. Spray a 9 X 13 inch baking dish with vegetable spray. Line the bottom of the dish with an unrolled tube of crescent rolls. Pinch the perforations together and flatten dough gently to cover the bottom of the dish. Spread the cream cheese and sausage mixture evenly across the dough. Unroll a second tube of crescent rolls and lay the dough on top of the sausage. Center the dough and it will rise to cover the top of the dish as it bakes. Bake for 12 minutes or until golden brown on top.

Sweater Day – Well, it’s hard to think about wearing sweaters in recent temperatures, but celebrate this day sometime during the month when it’s really cold outside. Have each member of the family pick out a sweater to wear and take a family selfie. Then go on a shopping spree to purchase new sweaters to donate to a church clothing closet or other organization that accepts clothes for those in need. Drink hot chocolate to end the celebration on a cold winter evening.

Get a Different Name Day – Just for fun, pick new names for everyone in the family. Call each other by that name throughout the day, but before bedtime, revert to original names and share goodnight hugs and words with given names.

Invasive Species Week – Yes, you read that right. There’s a whole week to celebrate – or maybe a better word is acknowledge – invasive species. Plan an afternoon over the weekend to take a long walk or hike. Before you go, look online to find pictures of some of these invasive species: kudzu, chinaberry tree, wisteria (be sure is the non-native wisteria), Bradford pear, English ivy, Chinese privet and tallow tree. On your walk, look for some of these trees, vines, or shrubs. Take pictures to document your hike and identify the greenery you find.

Sled Dog Day – The Iditarod Sled Dog Race takes place annually in Alaska for a number of reasons, but most notably to commemorate the delivery of medicine in 1925 via sled dogs during the Nome, Alaska diphtheria epidemic. Sledders and their dogs will mush from February 27 to March 6. To celebrate the day, read some of these books for all ages: Dogs on the Trail: A Year in the Life by Blair Braverman, Togo and Balto:The Dogs Who Saved a Town by Jodie Parachini, Storm Run by Libby Riddles, Akiak: A Tale From the Iditarod by Robert J. Blake, chapter book Sled Dog School by Terry Lynn Johnson, the photography-rich book Iditarod: The Great Race to Nome by Bill Sherwonit, and a longer book Born to Pull: the Glory of Sled Dogs by Bob Cary.

How’s your 2025 Bucket List shaping up? Did you do all that you wanted to do in January? There’s still plenty of time to carry out all those fun family activities you planned, but don’t wait too long – the clock is ticking! February will be over before we can blink twice if we’re not careful!!

Statesboro native Julie Lavender is the author of A Gingerbread House and other books and enjoys spending time with her husband, David, their four kids, two sons-in-love, and three grandchildren.

Kathy Bradley - The power of Spring

Updated: May 4, 2025, 2:05 PM

Published:

I planted the crepe myrtle last spring. Actually, I did not plant it. I had it planted by someone who knew what he was doing. It was his suggestion that the tree be planted outside one of the windows where it would eventually provide some relief from the western sun that, in July and August, turns the living room into a reasonable facsimile of a sauna.

My professional picked a spot between the chimney and the bay window in the kitchen – a little nook, a niche, sheltered corner. He dug the hole according to the guidelines known by every subscriber to Southern Living (“three times wider than the root ball, but no deeper than the root ball itself”), loosened the roots slightly, and dropped the tree into the hole. He then patted the soil gently and gave the tree its first bath.

I have failed at a number of horticultural efforts over the years – the camellia, the dogwood, and multiple hydrangeas – but something about the crepe myrtle made me optimistic. Despite its scrawny limbs, I got the impression that this one, this Lagerstroemia indica, was scrappy. And the chances that I would forget to water something that I saw every time I passed the window were pretty low.

The crepe myrtle survived the summer heat and almost total neglect as I directed all my attention to the sudden illness that would take my father 37 days after diagnosis. Withstanding a near-drowning from Tropical Storm Debbie and Hurricane Helene, it limped its way into fall, dropping with a languid sigh the one leaf it had managed to produce. It trembled in the cold stiff winds of winter and bore up under four inches of unexpected snow.

When green finally begin its creep across the landscape, I kept waiting for the little crepe myrtle to, if not burst into bud, at least gasp its way into producing some evidence of life. Day after day I stared through the window at a bare tree. I was disappointed, but not surprised. Had I really expected this latest attempt at gardening to result in spectacular success? I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath something about wasted money and “never again” and I let it go.

Then just before Easter, I noticed the way the late afternoon light was falling in soft puddles on the wood floor and stopped to watch it shimmer like the surface of a pond beneath a gentle wind. I took a deep breath and turned to look at what I knew would be a subtle, but still stunning sunset. And that is when I saw it – the crepe myrtle covered in fat buds and bright green leaves bouncing in the breeze. The tree I had left for dead, the tree I had forsaken was alive.

I stood there with my hands on my hips frustrated with, aggravated at, and provoked with my own self. This was not the first time I had, in an effort to avoid disappointment, given up on something beautiful. Not the first time I had feigned disinterest or claimed detachment when I stood on the edge of letdown.

In fact, I had lived enough moments just like that one to know that if I chose to stand there long enough, take another couple of deep breaths, stare into shimmering light at the horizon for a few more seconds, I would experience the magic that is believing, that is hope, that is resurrection.

And I did. Thus, is the power of spring.

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