When I heard there was going to be an auction of "Gone With The Wind" memorabilia, there was no doubt that I was going. Too, I knew just the person to join me in the caper.
To New York City, once I went to do a photo shoot for the cover of a book.
Being a child of the '70s, television has a powerful influence on me. It can even test the core of my Southern woman being, as it did recently.
An e-mail arrived one day from a dear, old friend who was once my boss when he was managing editor of a daily newspaper where I worked during college and which was later my first full-time job.
From my hotel room in Knoxville, Tenn., once, I phoned in to check on the girls: Mama and Dixie Dew.
When my niece, Nicole, decided it was time to separate Zoe, who was nearing the age of 2, from her pacifier, she consulted the lunar calendar.
Too often I used to stop by Mama's and find her with that look in her eye. I'd know it the moment I walked in, so I silently curse myself for picking that time to drop by.
Several years ago, an obituary in the Atlanta paper caught my eye and I clipped it out. I ran across it recently and, again as then, I found myself fascinated by how it summed up the man who died and what that summation says about our society.
You may recall past columns where I wrote of my friend, Stevie, who rescues distressed 'possums and then influenced me to do the same when I found an injured 'possum on my front porch.
I wrote of that experience, noting how sweet the 'possum was and how Stevie and I should start a nonprofit for the preservation of 'possum.
It may seem surprising to you - for it is to me - that I, the undeniable embodiment of all things Southern, should become so fascinated by a Yankee.
Right then and there in the Los Angeles International Airport, I thought I was going to have to pitch a conniption fit. That, to explain a conniption fit properly, is when a woman of Southern origin creates a scene of dramatic wailing and gnashing of teeth.
As life stretches on, it is always a blessing to share a history with those who know you well. It is a bond that cannot be fabricated, for it is created by the times and stories you mutually share over many years.
When it becomes your unfortunate lot to be orphaned in life, you recollect a great deal about your parents, reflecting back on many things including the wisdom they passed along.
The subject of homecoming queens started in the odd way that some topics enter into a conversation. It really had nothing to do with what we were discussing but then, in a very real way, it did.
I'd always heard that love - or rather the loss of it - could drive a woman crazy. Push her plum to the edge and sometimes even push her over it until she was in a free fall that landed her slab dab in the middle of crazy.
I remember more clearly than any other holiday the many Easters of my life.
A while back, a messy problem loomed ahead.
It has become somewhat of an art for me, that of studying Southern culture and deciphering what makes us different from others as well as downright peculiar among ourselves.
One Sunday while sitting around the dinner table, Louise and I began to tell Daddy stories. You know the ones that stretched back to the early days of his preaching life.
To this conclusion I have come: The most deadly years of our lives are the ages 16 to 21. Those years give us a headiness that comes from new freedom - a driver's license - and the passing of the torch from strict childhood rules to more trust, different restraints and relaxed curfews.
Their histories, accurate and complete, are lost to time and buried with them and those who knew them. I wish I knew more, for their stories would read like a page-turning novel.
My grandmother, Daddy's mother, was sometimes called "crazy" by others who didn't quite understand her eccentric ways.
It was an early summer morning, an enchanting time when flowers are blooming, blackberries are spurting to full growth and the birds are happy to have sunny warmth. I had taken myself out to the back porch where often I settle down to write after I have finished a gentle run.
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