My father loved telling folktales to his kids when we were small, and he loved singing. My mother loved singing too. My father was a principal, the head of a local secondary school, who also illustrated artworks for sports and conventional causes. He loved fine arts, he loved using colors. 
My mother was also a local school teacher, creative with everything she touched- From food innovations to fashion ensembles and accessories, I seem to recall. But her topmost was in her creative teaching methods for her students, who all sang her praises, some of whom I got to know. 

Creatively, my hands have always been good- Home decors and arrangements, color mixings, improvisations, and sort. But nothing that I ever gave second thoughts to, in attribution. I have also asked myself- ‘Perhaps my ways with words as a writer were influenced by my many days of watching my father slowly pace up and down his office, pausing between moments, only to quietly gaze far out in thoughts, into the openness of the woods surrounding his office-The young, tall mahogany trees, their tender leaves in breeze, swaying at heights in the middle of the afternoon- My father, building his thoughts, reciting his speech, as he prepared for his day at the head of schools’ associate meetings?