I'd always heard that love - or rather the loss of it - could drive a woman crazy. Push her plum to the edge and sometimes even push her over it until she was in a free fall that landed her slab dab in the middle of crazy.
A friend e-mailed to remind me of something I had long forgotten. "I still owe you a theater date," he wrote, referring to that time in New York City when business had delayed him and he had flown in too late for the Broadway play. That began a back and forth of "do you remember," as one memory dovetailed beautifully into another about that trip. "Remember shopping in Bloomingdale's? How much we laughed?" he asked. ...
My worse fears are about to be realized: Mama has announced her intentions to write a book. My payback is coming. Before the bombshell dropped, I was ruler of my own universe, which means that I also reigned royally over Mama. I was completely in control of my little kingdom. Then in a matter of seconds, the bomb exploded and there was a changing of the guard. Suddenly, I was dethroned and the new queen ...
For a couple of years, I had been trying to get Mama to write my column one week.
To be quite frank, I don't remember from where the idea arose. It could have been at the suggestion of one of two friends or - and this is quite possible - it was my own bright idea.
Sophie Rose was not, in the assessment of other women, what you would call "pretty."
It is not certain how we got on the subject but somehow a friend mentioned that when he dies, he wants "What A Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong to be played at his funeral.
Once when I was young and love had broken my heart for the first time, I thought I would never recover from the agony resulting when the bliss had been sucker punched and sent packing.
It would behoove all you men to thoroughly understand one thing: We women normally conduct our romances by committee.
When Ferroll Sams, one of the most beloved writers of Southern literature, was inducted into his native Georgia's Writers of Hall of Fame, he did not let the moment pass without taking the opportunity to underscore one of life's most enduring truths.
The other day I was digging through a box for one thing or the other, when I ran across a picture of my best pal, Karen, and me when we were in junior high and on the student council together.
Dixie Dew and I went away for the weekend to visit our friends Stevie and Darrell in Nashville, Tenn. It was actually Dew's invitation, but I was allowed to tag along.
If a woman is truly fortunate, she will know two distinct dating periods in her life.
Last year, as New Year's approached, a reporter called and asked for my resolutions for the upcoming year for a story she was doing.
A friend and I were just talking about this. Talking about how so many people want to write a book.
When Peggy Sue went away, just fell off the face of the earth with no warning or even a holler, we all wondered where she had gone.
Recently, I was in a bookstore with a friend. We stopped at a table near the front of the store and it was loaded with different books that had such obscene titles that many of the words were expressed as "@?*#."
Mama was stubborn. "Set in her ways," is what country folks call it and boy, was she. When she made up her mind, nothing stopped her. Especially when she set her jaw and punctuated her declaration with a firm nod of her head. If she also threw that crooked forefinger in your direction, you knew it was set in stone. Destined to be.
One day over lunch, my new-to-the-South-but-thoroughly-loving-it husband commented on the choir singing at our church, which is led by my brother-in-law, Rodney.
To be downright honest, I never expected to miss him this much. And, if the deeper truth be told, perhaps it isn't just the loss of a singular man, though great and admirable he was.
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