Louise and Selena, being the genuine Southerners they are, both had a hankering for fried chicken. And I, of course, knew just where to find the perfect recipe.
It is a tradition on Sundays for my sister to load her table with food and fill her house with family and friends.
Many, who rely upon creative forces to etch out a living, depend on what is called a muse to inspire and fire up those creative juices.
There is a childhood friend whom is very dear to me, our lives having been tangled together in one way or another like kudzu clinging to a chain-linked fence.
The occasion was an anniversary party, one of those events where you dress a bit fancier than Sunday clothes but not as fancy as Saturday night shindig clothes.
In the sleepy Southern town of Selma, Ala., there is no denying that history has visited in times past and made its memorable mark. To enter into the town from the interstate, it is necessary to cross the Edmund Pettis Bridge, made famous by the march of civil rights protesters.
Dixie Dew didn't notice, but I did. She was too busy sniffing grass and prancing her bigger-than-it-should-be tail while I was casually observing life during an afternoon walk.
Brandon, the smart young man who has worked for me for years, isn't impressed by much at all. He's remarkably level-headed so fame or celebrity bounces off him like one of Penelope Ann's biscuits bounces off the floor.
Readers have often reassured me that among their favorite columns are the ones in which I share the wisdom passed down to me by my parents. But just this morning I got to thinking: I have some wisdom, too, that I can share.
To Rodney, my ever dutiful brother-in-law, I suggested that we get a community cow. What with dairy prices going so high and all.
I love small-town newspapers. I'm all for hometown journalism that is the core of communities and the heart of their citizens.
It was an interesting brief I saw in a newspaper industry bulletin the other day.
Mandatory to my mama's generation was the ownership of a deep freezer and a sewing machine. These, remember, were people who believed in self-reliance and independence. You grew what you ate, you froze or canned it and you sewed what you wore.
Now, I've been telling y'all for a few years about the importance of eating your black-eyed peas and collard greens on New Year's Day and how by doing so, you'll have more money in the coming year.
Should the opportunity ever arise for you to deal with a bona fide race car driver on anything having to with driving a car, you might benefit from lessons I've learned. Let me share them.
I remember more clearly than any other holiday the many Easters of my life.
A while back, a messy problem loomed ahead.
It has become somewhat of an art for me, that of studying Southern culture and deciphering what makes us different from others as well as downright peculiar among ourselves.
One Sunday while sitting around the dinner table, Louise and I began to tell Daddy stories. You know the ones that stretched back to the early days of his preaching life.
To this conclusion I have come: The most deadly years of our lives are the ages 16 to 21. Those years give us a headiness that comes from new freedom - a driver's license - and the passing of the torch from strict childhood rules to more trust, different restraints and relaxed curfews.
Their histories, accurate and complete, are lost to time and buried with them and those who knew them. I wish I knew more, for their stories would read like a page-turning novel.
My grandmother, Daddy's mother, was sometimes called "crazy" by others who didn't quite understand her eccentric ways.
It was an early summer morning, an enchanting time when flowers are blooming, blackberries are spurting to full growth and the birds are happy to have sunny warmth. I had taken myself out to the back porch where often I settle down to write after I have finished a gentle run.
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