Here's what happened, and I swear on Mama's cocoa-splattered chocolate cake recipe this is the gospel.
In the South, everyone has a story. Every name is followed by a few sentences or paragraphs. No one is known by name alone.
It was in Oxford, Miss., that it came to me so clearly. I knew it, of course. I had known it since I was a child skirted in gingham innocence and trimmed with inexperience.
It takes a lot of time to be the proper Southerner, the kind respected for thoughtfulness and kindness.
It was at lunch after a morning revival service last summer that a few of us sat around, munching on Southern casseroles and talking about one of the most memorable mothers any of us had ever known.
When I was 6, the boy with hair the color of cotton and eyes tinted sapphire came to live with us. He was the same age and size as I but more timid and less secure.
Southerners tend to collect stories. And, we tend to talk to anyone who will talk to us. The latter tends to lead to the first.
Not a day goes by that I don't think of Mama or do something the way she taught me.
It was somewhere near the end of summer when it just come to me that perhaps my writing days were over. That it was time to just give up the ghost and move on from making a living as a writer and just settle into handling daily problems.
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.
Not long ago, I watched a couple of documentaries on ESPN about the Southeastern Conference called, "SEC: Storied."
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.
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A while back, we were in Canada for a movie filming there.
When I was approaching 7 years old and about to wrap up the first grade, I reigned as the No. 1 reader of books as ...
In the months before we married, I showed Tink the Southern mountains of my raising.
It was time for spring cleaning around the Rondarosa, which seems to always start with a ton of limbs, twigs and branches that have fallen ...
A while back, a Los Angeles-based producer approached Tink and me to gage our potential interest in writing a historical mini-series about the life of ...
When I was 4, Mama's uncle, a kind and successful man, died.
History's full of people who made a difference, took a stand or voiced an opinion against injustice when it cost them plenty. Either it ...
A few years ago when I had a new book releasing about Southern women, the publisher asked me to speak at a conference for owners ...
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 ...
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