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.
To Rodney, my ever dutiful brother-in-law, I suggested that we get a community cow. What with dairy prices going so high and all.
Before Thanksgiving, as I 'juned' around the kitchen - a mountain word Mama used to mean "fast moving" - preparing for company, it occurred to me that I should invite Jerry.
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:
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