I’ve always been curious about the unknown; the things that lurk in darkness. My earliest memory is proof of this sometimes dangerous trait. When I was about 3-years-old, I spotted a beehive nestled in the crook of low-lying tree branches.
While my mother sat on the nearby porch talking with several of her friends, I could not resist picking up a stick and poking it into the hive; stirring it like it was cake batter. Within moments those bees flew straight up my dress.
I don’t know who was screaming the loudest — me, my mother, or all of the ladies on the porch — but I’d be willing to bet those screams could be heard from Atlanta to Savannah.
Continue reading: https://medium.com/@cillamccain/becoming-my-mother-6139643f1c74