A friend, en route from Charlotte to Atlanta, stopped to spend the night with me. I knew she needed more than a comfortable bed. She needed a hot meal. That's Southern hospitality as we've been taught to practice it - the comforts of our home shared with a friend.
It's been almost 30 years since Debbie and I, as school girls, began the great debate. Over the ensuing years, we have each stood firmly on what we believed to be true. There was no compromising, moving on or being reasonable.
I have always believed - old fashioned though it may be - that when it comes to courtship, men should be the pursuers. The way that I see it , a woman's place is to wait on a man's attentions, not throw herself in front of him, jump up and down, flail her arms and make sure he notices her.
When you've known someone since you were teenagers and have shared deep secrets ranging from boys to money to worries and wishes, you think you know them well and that there is nothing they can do or think that will surprise you. That would not be the case with Karen, one of my two best friends.
I never took my daddy for the sentimental kind. And in this assessment, I was not alone. He was a man's man with a generous heart and compassionate spirit, but sentiment seemed to have no place in his life.
Over lunch, Debbie and I were having a conversation about someone we knew in our youth and were wondering what had happened to him.
In a recent conversation, a guy friend commented on seeing someone, saying, "She was in evening makeup."
If you ever hear that I have been baby-sitting, know this: It was an absolute act of desperation on the part of the mothers. It means there was no other option.
The text from my friend, Stevie, popped up on my phone. "We made the Hall of Fame! Woo Hoo!!!"
Hello Readers, it's me, Dixie Dew again. There was such an overwhelming response to the column I wrote a few months ago, that I was asked to give y'all an update. For those of you who might be so uninformed as to not know who I am, let me fill you in. I'm the adorable red dachshund who is known and loved by many. My ...
Once I was aboard a riverboat called the American Queen on which I had spent several days cruising along the majestic Mississippi River. I boarded in New Orleans and, along with the other passengers, crawled toward St. Louis.
Let's agree: This will be a new year unlike any other in recent time. Let's each make a vow to do something bold, unexpected and something that will make a fresh imprint on the path of our lives.
If the experts are to be believed, then Christmas seldom lives up to our high expectations, and that's why so many are stricken with depression and gloom during the holidays. It's a letdown after a big buildup.
I guess it had been more than a year that I had been thinking that I wasn't as funny as I used to be. When you make your living with witty observations and entertaining stories, this isn't an asset you want to lose.
Out of the blue one day, I got an email from an old, beloved friend from my NASCAR days. In the days when first I met him, Jim Freeman was the public relations director at the Talladega track. That was when the publicity at all the tracks was run by men, some college educated, some not, who were amicable, back-slapping and well-liked.
It happened in Memphis. A lot of history and interesting stuff occurs in that magical city that sits grandly next to the Mississippi River. Elvis held court there, the blues grew up there and barbecue is queen. Elvis, of course, is still king.
The waitress set down the cup of coffee and I poured cream into the hot, black liquid while quietly reflecting, pondering something.
My parents told great stories.
Recently, I was in a bookstore with a friend. We stopped at a table near the front of the store and it was loaded with different books that had such obscene titles that many of the words were expressed as "@?*#."
Mama was stubborn. "Set in her ways," is what country folks call it and boy, was she. When she made up her mind, nothing stopped her. Especially when she set her jaw and punctuated her declaration with a firm nod of her head. If she also threw that crooked forefinger in your direction, you knew it was set in stone. Destined to be.
One day over lunch, my new-to-the-South-but-thoroughly-loving-it husband commented on the choir singing at our church, which is led by my brother-in-law, Rodney.
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