Two rather disturbing things happened during our family Easter last year, both of which I hope can be corrected this year.
If you met my cousin, Melissa, you'd like her immediately. You'd be captivated by her porcelain-perfect complexion and straight, even teeth. She possesses an enviable lithe, slender body, which is standard loveliness on that side of my family but somehow chose to orphan me. "Aunt Cindy," one of the family members will say with complete authority. "That's where you got your'n from. She was short and rounded, too." We ...
Dixie Dew and I quit a bank I've been doing business with for 15 years, marking the first time in 20 years that I have closed a financial account.
It's a sure thing that when family gathers at my house for Thanksgiving dinner, there will certainly be a hot, gooey dish of homemade macaroni and cheese on the table.
I picked up the package left on the back porch and read the mailing label that said "RCR Racing, Welcome, N.C." I smiled and hurried inside to tear it open.
Flipping through the pages of People magazine, I saw where a guy with whom I once spent a week in Hawaii had been named as one of sexiest men in America.
Three friends and I were motoring our way from the western edge of Kentucky over to Louisville when someone proclaimed a sudden and immediate need for an orange Nehi soda.
This is the kind of goody-two-shoes friends I have: Whenever Karen, Patti or Susan has a story to tell that involves someone cussing, they will not repeat the word. They spell it out. Unless it's really bad and then they will only give me the first letter of the word.
Christmas never comes to me without a childhood memory that, in turn, throws its arms around another memory and brings it tagging along.
At a Thanksgiving luncheon, I was holding my 18-month-old nephew, Tripp, as I visited tables to speak to folks. I stopped and greeted a friend, patting him on his back. Tripp watched quietly then leaned down, stretching out his little arm and patted Billy, too, in that awkward, uncoordinated way that babies have. I chuckled, realizing that Tripp had simply emulated what he had seen me do. See, children are like that. They, more often ...
After early church and Sunday school, Mama and I had hurried to the grocery store. An older friend was ailing badly with the flu, so I told Mama I'd make him some quick homemade chicken soup and she could make the cornbread muffins. Then, I'd run it over to him.
Editor's note: Ronda Rich's mother, Bonelle Satterfield, died Sunday. This column was written in advance.
My friend, Susan, married the other day. Been claiming that she was going to. Then, she up and did it. Just like that.
Not long ago, I found myself in the midst of one of life's great treasures.
One day I ran into my precious second-grade teacher, Mrs. Rudeseal, in what used to be called the dime store but in these times of economic advancement is now called the dollar store.
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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