By Chris Johnson
Director of Communications

As I'm writing this, spring is in full bloom here in beautiful Americus, Ga., where it's a mostly sunny 82 degrees at the headquarters of The Fuller Center for Housing.

Yeah, yeah, I know the Ides of March doesn't quite mark the official beginning of spring, but it's unofficially marked all over the place around here. And that's OK with me. In fact, for years I've lobbied Congress to do away with winter and go to a calendar of two months of fall, five months of spring and five months of summer. But they don't listen to me. If they did, we'd also have a balanced budget thanks to my program that would encourage all Americans to just one day dig between their sofa cushions and donate everything they find to the government.

So I have to endure each winter, and I seriously believe I suffer from Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder, or what's more commonly referred to as the “winter blahs”. Of course, of all the disorders I probably have, it's likely way down the list.

It's not hard to see the signs of spring around here. The sun sets later. The days are warmer. Yellow pollen coats my black truck so much that it looks like a rolling Pittsburgh Steeler. I had to pick up my son from school today for the first time this school year because allergies have hit him hard. And everything is in bloom. It's been so nice here that even our artificial plants are blooming.

Early last week, sure signs of spring came in the form of spring breakers from Davidson College and Penn State University, who were working with a couple of covenant partners around here as alternative service breaks. Few things are as uplifting as seeing service-minded youths giving of themselves and having a good time in the process. They gave me new energy. (Read and see a video about those groups here.)

By Chris Johnson
Director of Communications

In World War II, my grandfather, Fred Dixon, lost both of his legs to Nazi machine gun fire in Tunisia 1943 while he was fighting as a member of the legendary Darby's Rangers. He carried one of his legs in his arms on his way to cover as he continued to return fire. He was quite the fighter.

That drive continued when he came home and helped raise war bonds in Washington, D.C. First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt wrote about him in her nationally syndicated “My Day” columns on Feb. 21, 1944, and Feb. 25, 1944. (Click the dates to read them.) He was optimistic then. But by the time I got to know him in the 1970s until he died in 1981, all the optimism had been drained from him. He was pessimistic, caustic and bitter because he felt like he gave a lot more for his country than his country gave for him. It was a daily struggle then, back when America wasn't nearly so accessible for those in wheelchairs. He loved kids and his grandkids, but he had little use for adults, especially bureaucrats and the people who held up his medical care with red tape.

That brings me to Fuller Center homeowner Thad Harris. His story is similar, though inversely. He once had feelings similar to what my grandfather experience late in his life. But Thad rose from that point to where he is now. Now, he exudes joy, optimism, determination, love and amazing generosity and selflessness.

Thad was confined to a wheelchair after he was paralyzed in an auto accident through no fault of his own. For years, he was depressed and felt hopeless. “Life was just one long day,” he told me last year. But everything changed when he became a Fuller Center homeowner. As he said, “The American Dream was here. It's here now, and for me!”

If generosity was a drug, Thad would be hopelessly addicted. I see Thad all the time these days, rolling through the headquarters in search of Americus-Sumter FCH director Alyssa Hostetler, trying to find out whom he can help next. One of those people he has helped is Deborah Clayton, who faces challenges of her own, yet is just as positive as Thad. No wonder they're friends.