Dixie Dew and I quit a bank I've been doing business with for 15 years, marking the first time in 20 years that I have closed a financial account.
It's a sure thing that when family gathers at my house for Thanksgiving dinner, there will certainly be a hot, gooey dish of homemade macaroni and cheese on the table.
I picked up the package left on the back porch and read the mailing label that said "RCR Racing, Welcome, N.C." I smiled and hurried inside to tear it open.
Flipping through the pages of People magazine, I saw where a guy with whom I once spent a week in Hawaii had been named as one of sexiest men in America.
Three friends and I were motoring our way from the western edge of Kentucky over to Louisville when someone proclaimed a sudden and immediate need for an orange Nehi soda.
This is the kind of goody-two-shoes friends I have: Whenever Karen, Patti or Susan has a story to tell that involves someone cussing, they will not repeat the word. They spell it out. Unless it's really bad and then they will only give me the first letter of the word.
Christmas never comes to me without a childhood memory that, in turn, throws its arms around another memory and brings it tagging along.
At a Thanksgiving luncheon, I was holding my 18-month-old nephew, Tripp, as I visited tables to speak to folks. I stopped and greeted a friend, patting him on his back. Tripp watched quietly then leaned down, stretching out his little arm and patted Billy, too, in that awkward, uncoordinated way that babies have.
I chuckled, realizing that Tripp had simply emulated what he had seen me do. See, children are like that. They, more often than not, simply grow up imitating those they watch. Good or bad.
After early church and Sunday school, Mama and I had hurried to the grocery store. An older friend was ailing badly with the flu, so I told Mama I'd make him some quick homemade chicken soup and she could make the cornbread muffins. Then, I'd run it over to him.
Editor's note: Ronda Rich's mother, Bonelle Satterfield, died Sunday. This column was written in advance.
My friend, Susan, married the other day. Been claiming that she was going to. Then, she up and did it. Just like that.
Not long ago, I found myself in the midst of one of life's great treasures.
One day I ran into my precious second-grade teacher, Mrs. Rudeseal, in what used to be called the dime store but in these times of economic advancement is now called the dollar store.
Just as I tore past them, hurrying - always hurrying - into the small general store, I heard the old man speak to the younger one sitting beside him.
Upfront, I'll tell you: This is a column that somebody out there - maybe more than one somebody - needs to read.
Today's your lucky day.
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.
Over the years, I've crossed paths with many people who were extremely successful as well as some who were such miserable failures that, as Mama liked to say, "ain't worth the breath they draw."
That apple tree. Oh my goodness. Something told me it wouldn't turn out well.
This happened years ago. Mama was alive then, so it's been seven or eight years. I hadn't thought about it in almost that many years, but when it came to mind the other day, I took to studying on it and how the circumstances and opportunities of life's journey can be so fascinating.
Yes, I know that I am, occasionally, prone to embellishment. But trust me when I say this is the law and the gospel: I have a longtime friend who only calls me when someone dies. Most times I know the person, but sometimes I don't have a clue the person ever existed.
A friend of mine, long embroiled in upsets, distractions, problems and tribulations, called one day to announce happily she was learning to "let things roll right off my back."
It's a funny thing. That's what Mama used to say when something baffled her.
When Miss Ondia Mae died at 75, those of us who knew her marveled that she had managed to make it to the end of her life without winding up in the poorhouse.
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