No sooner had I proudly written the column about the young boy who had named his new pet chicken after me than Ronda the Chicken proved to be as unpredictable as Ronda the writer.
A dear friend of mine, bless his heart, has to work every major holiday. Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter are days on which he labors while his family celebrates without him.
I'm still laughing about it. Well, kinda.
It's sometimes amazing the coincidences that can bring a person into your life. How they can be plopped down into your life, just like they've always belonged there.
Just this morning, I turned the page of a book and was immediately and delightedly reminded of the power of words on paper.
Early on that Saturday morning, the phone had rung as I puzzled over the recently acquired digital camcorder, wondering why on earth I had purchased such a sophisticated one.
Not long ago, headed down Interstate 20 somewhere near Augusta, I saw a sight not particularly unusual but thought-provoking, nonetheless. One detail caught my attention.
Not that I know everything. Not that I even know many things.
Never have I been interested in estate sales or bothered to attend one. But the two-day sale of Miss Henrietta's life caught my attention when, by chance, I happened to see it in the newspaper classifieds.
Daddy used to say that when most people ask, "How're you doin'?" they don't really care. It's just something they say to make conversation.
Hidden somewhere in the newspaper one day - a tiny news blurb used to fill a hole - was the story of a teenage Louisiana beauty queen whose crown had been repossessed by pageant officials after her brush with the law.
When she first brought it up, mentioning it in passing more than anything else, I thought she was joshing so I shrugged it off with a smile. Fortunately, I did not make any wisecrack that I would now regret.
A while back, my friend Reita called and began the conversation with a hasty apology.
Perhaps you've seen the T-shirt emblazoned with, "I Was A Millionaire Until Mom Gave Away My Baseball Card Collection."
To truly appreciate the irony of this story, you must first know that my history with chickens is colorful and much ballyhooed to the point of being family legend. It has never been an easy relationship between me and those feathery foes of mine.
A few years back, someone I knew ever so slightly died. Though I didn't know him well, I knew him to be mean, egoistical and quite a bully.
My husband was out of town working on location when he called one night and discovered I was still working though the hour had grown late.
It happened a few months back. My father-in-law celebrated, to our great joy, his 88th birthday.
It happened the other day. It's funny how things so simple can remind us of things so meaningful, of those sweets tucked inside our hearts and unknowingly treasured.
My parents, according to the world's definition of "cool," were not.
A few years ago, the magazine I have long loved - Southern Living - changed.
Several weeks ago, I wrote about moonshine runner turned stock car champion, Lloyd Seay, who was murdered in a dispute about sugar purchased to make illegal whiskey.
There are few who cannot say truthfully they miss their parents after death has laid claim to those loved ones. The parents who taught us, scolded us and, at times, annoyed us are never forgotten, never put away on a shelf to be remembered no more.
One afternoon, I had a hankering, a primal-like craving, for a supper of pinto beans and cornbread with a tall glass of cold, rich buttermilk thrown in for good measure and extra filling.
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