There is something about dirt roads that whistles to me like a siren's call. A dirt road beckons and I answer. I cannot resist its allure.
When Mama, my last surviving parent, died, I was orphaned; so my sister, Louise, stepped up and took charge.
Down in Milledgeville there is a lovely woman named Sophia who is a fan of this column. In turn, she is a supporter and friend of mine.
When I learned that a friend had decided to plunge himself into the political world and run for office, I thought it prudent to offer two pieces of solid advice.
One night at the supper table, my brother-in-law took a teasing jab at me over a sour business deal.
One of the things that always excites me about Easter is that it kicks off the spring and summer season; so Sundays, until Labor Day weekend, will be the stuff of which memories are made. Especially for kids.
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.
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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