Mark Ballard
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I have always been fascinated with butterflies. Their colorful wings look handpainted, each one bearing a slightly different set of markings. No two are the same. They seem to be so free and content as they float effortlessly like a feather caught in a gentle breeze. Carefully perching on a branch and quickly fluttering their wings, they appear to be here just for the sole purpose of brightening our day.
With a Southern drawl that was as sweet as sugar, she said, “I would absolutely love to have one of your prints, but unfortunately I don’t have my checkbook or any cash with me.” “That’s fine,” I replied. “You can just mail me a check when you get back home.” She reluctantly took my print of Old Wesleyan Conservatory but, all the way out of the door, continued to say, “Are you sure?”
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