The text that my sister sent was simple yet so powerful: "He is gone to be with God."
There was a man I knew once who lived for a good time. Work, he believed and ardently practiced, was only good for providing a means to an end, the end result being that of his vigorous pursuit of wine, women and song.
The other day I ran into General Robert E. Lee, along with his wife, and his arch nemesis, General Ulysses S. Grant.
Daddy always believed that the good Lord should be thanked for the hard times as much as he was praised for the good times.
It is possible that I could say that I didn't believe my eyes. The truth is, though, that when it comes to the bizarre, the absurd, the downright unnatural, my eyes pretty much believe whatever they see.
My friend, Linda, is one of those kinds of friends that drift in and out of my life. The kind of friend that I see infrequently but when we gather together over lunch or dinner, it's as though we've had coffee together every morning for the past six months. Our conversation isn't constant but our friendship is.
In a moment of not perfectly clear thinking, I agreed to sit on a panel composed of several women for a television show. The idea was that we so-called "experts" would answer questions posed by guys who wanted to know about the inside thinking of a woman.
When a friend and I were planning a winter time trip to London, we were discussing, as women tend to, what clothes we were packing.
I come from a long line of know-it-alls. Honestly, on both sides of my family, we can pretty much tell you anything you need to know for we know it all. Or so we believe.
When news came that one of the most memorable Southern characters had passed from this world, I found myself musing back on the color, interest and myriad conflict he brought to the world around him.
It's getting to the point that I don't believe my own eyes or trust what my ears hear. Sometimes it feels like I'm starring in the old movie, "Gas Light," where the world is conspiring to make me think I'm crazy.
When one of life's tribulations smacked me in the eye, I did not cry. I thought, instead, of Daddy's words from way back then.
When I had the privilege of delivering a keynote address to the National Association of Postmasters of the United States n Anchorage, Alaska, I spoke on the joy that comes in the form of a card or letter.
When I had the privilege of delivering a keynote address to the National Association of Postmasters of the United States in Anchorage, Alaska, I spoke on the joy that comes in the form of a card or letter.
One night as a particularly hard, extremely long rain poured down, I discovered a leak in my roof. The leak became a minor problem. Finding a roofer to show up and fix it became the primary problem.
Here, I'll announce something I've never admitted publicly. I love going barefooted. It's how I was raised.
Many people have crossed the path of my life but only one crossed it from three different directions.
Carrie called the other day, and I grabbed the phone just as I was coming in from the garage. I dropped my purse at the foot of the stairs and sat down on a step to talk.
When the New Year arrives every year, I like most look forward to the next 12 months filled with promise, opportunity and a chance to reform from bad habits.
It was late in the summer of my parents' lives that I was born into a family with three children well on their way to being grown and done with home.
Coming home one Sunday from the family dinner after church, I said out of the blue, "I feel like we should volunteer for vacation Bible school."
My people, as I have long said, were raised on hard times in the Appalachian foothills. I don't know I had a grandparent who ever saw the sum of $500 at one time or even held a hundred dollar bill in hand.
It was over Sunday dinner that my sister told me what I did not know.
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