On a Sunday morning, I was tucked into bed on the island of St. Simons. This place is where I, at the age of 13, accepted the calling that had haunted me since I was 4 - to become a writer.
As a child, I was captivated by emotional stories and how words strung together had the power to make me feel happy, touched, sad or inspired.
At the beauty shop one day, I was flipping through a magazine and half-listening to the local happenings.
We were driving to the Georgia coast through little towns in which few live and even fewer know. It was near Appling County, I believe, when Tink remarked on something he saw.
It happened many years ago. My toddler niece, Nicole, grabbed a gold hoop earring dangling from my ear and gave it a good yank, ripping my pierced ear.
Since the beginning of our Southerner/Yankee union, I have kept a list of places Tink should visit to fully experience the glorious South.
We were eating lunch as the American Queen riverboat pulled out of port, having just returned from a morning-long excursion to the Battlefield of Vicksburg.
Behind the little house where I spent a happy childhood, where I toted books from one room to another, where I knelt by my bed nightly to pray, where I ate homemade biscuits buttered and sprinkled with sugar, is a little shed.
It did not turn out as I intended.
The exact moment it happened was at a large round table in a ballroom of majestic gilt in a grand hotel.
A country store is located in the middle of hundreds of acres of farmland embedded with hardwoods and pines that have grown, untended, for a century or two.
It was, of all things, a call to jury duty that reminded me powerfully of the beauty of a sweet hometown and the joy that comes from staying put where the Lord put you in the first place.
Last summer, I was telling Tink about an adorable town a few hours away.
There isn't a day that passes that I don't remember Mama. Many times when she crosses my mind, I am doing something she taught me how to do.
The Great Depression shaped my parents. In the years to come, it shaped my life as well.
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One of my favorite characters ever and one readers have unfailingly enjoyed is my friend, Poet, the scion of a cotton family who speaks in ...
One Saturday morning, I ran by the bank to pick up a checkbook that had arrived and found the place to be unusually busy.
It's hard to find a good mud hole these days.
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