After Sunday dinner, while the others cleaned, talked or dealt with children, I sat down in a recliner matching the one that Rodney was in. I inhaled deeply and leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees.
The elementary school in which I received my first- through sixth-grade learning was a long, straight brick building with cement steps; an auditorium with heavy, red velvet drapes; a tiny library guarded by a grumpy gray-headed spinster; and a cafeteria in the basement down a flight of creaky wooden steps.
In my early travels outside of the South, I was astounded to discover people had never heard of kudzu. After all, Southerners have been battling to gain the upper hand of the rapidly growing plant since the 1800s.
One summer night a few years before Mama died, I called her but there was no answer. An hour later with still no answer, I paced the floor and debated whether or not to jump in the car and take the 22-minute drive to her house.
The other day an email arrived from a Korean War veteran who started off by saying, "I suppose someone else will get this, add me to your fan club and you will never hear a word of it. But here it goes anyway."