I'm still laughing about it. Well, kinda.
It's sometimes amazing the coincidences that can bring a person into your life. How they can be plopped down into your life, just like they've always belonged there.
Just this morning, I turned the page of a book and was immediately and delightedly reminded of the power of words on paper.
Early on that Saturday morning, the phone had rung as I puzzled over the recently acquired digital camcorder, wondering why on earth I had purchased such a sophisticated one.
Not long ago, headed down Interstate 20 somewhere near Augusta, I saw a sight not particularly unusual but thought-provoking, nonetheless. One detail caught my attention.
Not that I know everything. Not that I even know many things.
Never have I been interested in estate sales or bothered to attend one. But the two-day sale of Miss Henrietta's life caught my attention when, by chance, I happened to see it in the newspaper classifieds.
Daddy used to say that when most people ask, "How're you doin'?" they don't really care. It's just something they say to make conversation.
Hidden somewhere in the newspaper one day - a tiny news blurb used to fill a hole - was the story of a teenage Louisiana beauty queen whose crown had been repossessed by pageant officials after her brush with the law.
When she first brought it up, mentioning it in passing more than anything else, I thought she was joshing so I shrugged it off with a smile. Fortunately, I did not make any wisecrack that I would now regret.
A while back, my friend Reita called and began the conversation with a hasty apology.
Perhaps you've seen the T-shirt emblazoned with, "I Was A Millionaire Until Mom Gave Away My Baseball Card Collection."
To truly appreciate the irony of this story, you must first know that my history with chickens is colorful and much ballyhooed to the point of being family legend. It has never been an easy relationship between me and those feathery foes of mine.
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.
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.
For at least 20 years, maybe 25, Mama planned her home-going to heaven. Not a week - and sometimes not a day - went by when she did not use her impending date with mortality in some way.
A friend said something the other day that has clung like mist to the crevices of my mind. She's soon to turn 70 and this is what she said:
Here, I'll announce something I've never admitted publicly. I love going barefooted. It's how I was raised.
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