Unlike many people, I'm not a maker of New Year's resolutions. Mainly because when I see the need for change or improvement, I resolve to fix it then, even if it's July 23 or Oct. 1. I don't wait until the first of the year.
Last year's best present was from neither friend nor loved one. It was gifted to me by life. One of those rare lessons that grows more beautiful in memory as time passes.
There is a friend I have who cannot, for the life of her, tell a story.
For some reason, I've always loved full moons. Every time I see one, I stop in my tracks, fully absorb and appreciate its beauty and then thank the good Lord that I lived to see another beautiful full moon.
It's true. Some things you have to see to believe. And then, even though you're certain of the reliability of your own eyes, you don't believe it.
Thanksgiving is a time to come together and celebrate a family's beloved characters, the ones who give us many stories to declare and laughter to share.
Funny how situations in life can slip up on you and turn your feelings completely around.
Every trip to the beauty shop is, for me, an adventure in some way. And without fail, it's immensely entertaining.
It wasn't intended to be a long conversation, but I should have known better than that. No call to Poet is ever abbreviated.
Sometimes two old souls can find each other and form a friendship that is anchored in rock solid respect and like thinking.
In Belfast, in the stunningly gorgeous building dedicated by Prince Edward in 1932 (he who abdicated), where the Northern Ireland Assembly convenes, I learned why I can never be president of the United States.
The dawn was barely breaking, the morning just beginning to wrestle the new day away from the black night as the train traveled with a jolting purpose from Dublin to Belfast, Ireland.
There's nothing like a trip to Hollywood to remind you of the fantasies that grow there as rapidly as kudzu grows in Southern summers.
When Mama died and the remainders and reminders of her life had to be sorted, distributed and, in some rare incidences, disposed of, my sister, Louise, and I marveled constantly at the historian that Mama was.
There is a story that my daddy used to like to tell about me. It happened when I was 8 or 9.
Southerners tend to collect stories. And, we tend to talk to anyone who will talk to us. The latter tends to lead to the first.
Not a day goes by that I don't think of Mama or do something the way she taught me.
It was somewhere near the end of summer when it just come to me that perhaps my writing days were over. That it was time to just give up the ghost and move on from making a living as a writer and just settle into handling daily problems.
It is a blessing of a life to know common man philosophers. Those people, though not formally educated, are plenty smart when it comes to sizing up life.
It is, I believe, a distinct and unique trait of the South the way we carry on long conversations with people we are passing in the loaf bread section of the grocery store or in the checkout line.
One day during lunch, a friend and I were talking about the murderous felons we know as Tink quietly listened.
More than any other region, Southerners love nicknames.
Back in the autumn as the leaves began to hint of enchanting oranges, yellows and reds to come, we took a Monday off and headed to the state fair.
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