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.
Brandon heaved the massive bottom portion of the now-famous amber-colored Christmas tree over his shoulder and came quickly staggering down the stairs, trying to make it down without dropping it.
It all started at the beauty shop. Most of women's troubles that don't begin with men begin at the beauty shop. But then, you knew that.
When Dixie Dew's beloved baby sitter up and went to heaven, I found myself in a quandary: What was I going to do about child care when I traveled?
For many years now, Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday.
My brother-in-law, Rodney, the wizard of wisecracks in our family, was sitting at the island in my kitchen, watching as I put away food from a Sunday school get-together.
When I was a child and given to daydreaming as children often are, I dreamed of what I would be when I grew up. I wanted to be strong, courageous, glamorous and well-traveled. And more than anything, I wanted to tell stories.
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.
Mama used to fry biscuits. If you knew Mama, that doesn't surprise you because she fried every food possible. In the course of her life, I knew her to fry green beans, corn, grits and cornmeal mush.
There are many things I love about the South. We're fiercely patriotic. We're neighborly. We're storytellers without equal. We're unabashedly and unapologetically faithful. We're proudly hospitable.
In the tiny country church where I spent most of the first 22 years of my life, where I found the Lord at the age of 11, where without fail I had the leading part in every Christmas pageant and where my daddy laid down the law in more ways than one, we sang hymns from a brown songbook and a green one, both filled with the haunting melodies that have penetrated the Appalachians for many decades.
Not long ago, a friend of mine was huffing, puffing and carrying on something awful about an injustice she had recently suffered. She had dealt with someone rather devious and the result was, well, rather devious.
Somewhere along the line, it seems, people have stopped talking about the American dream.
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