Barbara Pearson

Apalachicola, Florida

Feathers at my Feet is a cozy fall read. Enjoy!

A MUST READ! I wholeheartedly agree with the authors’ acknowledgement of their publisher’s commitment: “…to create a body of survivor literature in response to resurgent fascism, antisemitism, and Holocaust denial.” This book is seminal to reaching that end. I sat immobile after reading the last passage, filled with the weight of the authors’ journeys. Their commitment—well accomplished—was to bring the reader along. I was there, ever grateful for the raw honesty. I’m left with a greater understanding of generational trauma. More importantly, I feel a profound connection to the authors’ and their families’ experiences. Reading this dual memoir with all its tragedies is an exercise in compassion.

Look! Feathers at my Feet is in the Library of Congress. Sorry you can’t check it out. This is not a lending library contrary to recent statements.

I LOVE THIS REVIEW.

Maybe it's time to read Feathers at my Feet again. It's April, after all. Or maybe it's time for a new book in this author's hand. Hmmmmm. It's in the works, friends. Will the Gardener make an appearance?

A tribute to Mike Perine who I called "Matt" in Feathers at my Feet. From page 41...

When I returned to the rig, Matt signaled for me to take the berth behind him, a nest he had made with blankets. A dreamcatcher bobbed over my head.

I cascaded into a heavy, dreamless sleep, and even when the big engine eventually started again, I didn’t budge, snuggled and rocked as if I were in a pram. Hours later when sun and heat seared through the window, I kicked off my blankets and slowly opened my eyes. Florida! Only a couple more hours to Apalachicola and my new second home.

I climbed over the seat and kissed Matt on the cheek, “Good morning.” He smiled. “There’s a thermos of coffee on the floorboard . . . with cream.” Ah, he remembered from one of our phone conversations.

I was determined to not only get my book signed, but to speak to the man I so admired even though we were told to keep the line moving. I stood before him and said, "Thank you, Mr. President." He stopped signing. The line stopped. He looked up at me unsmiling. "For what?" I felt like a student challenged by a teacher. How could I compose a succinct message? My reply was quick and simple: "Everything!"

Carter Presidential Center, 2017