While studying for a degree in journalism, I learned the basics of telling a good story and answering questions before they could be asked.
The little house in which I was privileged to be raised - the same one I wrote of recently - needed its annual deep cleaning.
It was with remarkable bravery that Daddy plunked down $1,000 of hard earned, long saved money in 1956 to buy a few acres of pasture with a large, tree-shaded creek that twisted through it.
Two Bibles sit, always untouched, on the fireplace mantle in our living room.
When we decided to visit the few remaining members of Tink's family who live in Connecticut and New York, we chose to drive.
It was about 1 a.m. when our alarm system woke me up with the beeping sound that it makes when one of the exterior doors is opened. The beep was coming from the front door.
When he asked, I answered. Then I laughed.
As the years of Mama's life grew long into the shadows of age, she managed to squeeze every bit of good out of growing old.
The despair in their eyes haunts me still. The dullness of emotion and deadness of spirit shall remain forever embedded in my memory.
It happened, I suppose, when I was in the fourth grade. That is my first strong recollection of the unfairness of life.
Over the course of many years, I have spent a lot of time in hospital waiting rooms, hoping for good news and dreading the bad at the same time.
As the old year spits and sputters to an end and the new one waits in the wings, straining with enthusiasm to burst forth with fresh hope, I see things differently than I have in past years when I wrote this New Year's column.
So it was several years ago, I was hired to speak on a few occasions for riverboat cruises on the Mississippi.
When I was a young sports writer, just beginning an education on the world of sports and the men who made the majors great, I was fascinated with NFL quarterback Kenneth Michael "Ken" Stabler.
Editor's note: Penning this week's column is Ronda Rich's husband, John "Tink" Tinker
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As the road twisted and turned while rising up through the elevation of the tree-smothered mountain, I slowed the car and looked at the place ...
It is a solid friendship of two like-minded Southerners that started, of all places, in a high-end restaurant in Beverly Hills.
Maxine Trapnell, whom I've known and admired for many years, is my kind of Southern woman.
In my early travels outside of the South, I was astounded to discover people had never heard of kudzu. After all, Southerners have been battling ...
One summer night a few years before Mama died, I called her but there was no answer. An hour later with still no answer, I ...
As best I can recall - and I've been thinking hard about this - I have only written one fan letter in my life.
Many years ago, out of nostalgia mostly, I ordered a dipper from a local hardware store.
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