In a small town in Arkansas, I was leaving a social gathering of divorced women who had found solidarity in their situations. Many are women who, later in life, have found themselves divorced from influential men. And, as far as I could decipher, none of the divorces were of their choosing.
Years ago, before fuel conservation became popular and trendy, I was a forerunner to saving gas by combining errands. When I go into town, I spend several hours doing errands that I have been waiting to do. It saves both gas and time.
It was one of those crowded events a while back that I didn't want to attend. But courtesy and obligation dictated that I put my wants aside and be a big girl about it all. So, I put on a pretty dress, a gorgeous pair of high heels and plunged in.
When she talked about those tribulations back in 1937, her feeble voice crackled with both age and emotion. With more than 70 years separating then from now, the grief still lingered but wisdom had covered it like moss on a riverbank.
Poet, my friend who reigns supremely in the Mississippi Delta, has few complaints. So when he voiced one the other day, I was not only surprised, I was astounded. Particularly when I heard what was troubling him.
During those gray, cloud-filled days, figuratively and literally, I wasn't exactly imprisoned but two years of consented captivity in the unfamiliar North was one of the greatest burdens my Southern soul has ever carried.
I visited a woman, old and gray, her journey of life nearing its winter's end. She settled into an armless rocker and moved gently, slowly back and fro, looking from her view on the porch past the towering magnolia trees that spread the full length of her yard.
A few months ago when Poet, the freelance wanderer that he is, found himself passing through my neck of the South, he called up, then turned up at my front door, then plopped down in my guest room for a few days.