An old Gainesville resident drove his big Ford truck right up to me recently at Lee Gilmer Memorial Airport.
I rose before the sun did this very morning in 2005 and hurried to join a co-worker headed to Augusta National - early.
My first meeting with Justin Ellis took place at an outdoor cafe in Athens. I drove my car there. He pedaled on his bike.
Laura Nagel steers the phrase "little old lady" into our conversation with a bit of pride in her voice. "I can use that term because I am one," she said recently.
My teacher dropped the names of every U.S. president into a hat and asked us to choose one. In fifth grade, this was a big moment. We were choosing the subject of our first real research paper.
At some point in Oakwood a little more than a week ago, a live turkey seduced a statue resembling its own kind. The epic courtship lasted for days and prompted a host of phone calls to the newsroom, a strong round of office laughs and the question new residents like me may find themselves asking with extreme regularity: "Is this a weird Hall County-Gainesville thing?"
By lunchtime, my grandmother was spent. She'd direct her young visitors, usually me and a cousin, to watch TV so she could fix our meals in peace. That the living room was the only place with an air conditioning unit parked in a window enhanced our July sojourns in South Georgia.
Charles L. Hagood already was at Derrell Clark's house when I pulled into the driveway. Hagood, the only living child of the late Rev. D.L. and Edna Hagood, visited the spot in Clark's garden where he'd planted the memorial marker bringing us together. He confirmed much of what I discovered and wrote about previously in my last two columns. Hagood's brother, Delma Lyman Hagood Jr., was stillborn in an Athens hospital July 31, 1934. He ...
Boggs cemetery was cleaned up by the time I arrived. A nearby resident called me at the newspaper where I worked to report neglect at the graveyard, which was next to an old chapel turned Methodist mission. As it happened, a warning issued by Athens-Clarke County led to a quick maintenance effort by denominational leaders in charge of the property. So I wrote the story. My personal interest there was unresolved, though. It related to ...
I once wrote a story about a lost gravestone. The tale started in Bogart, ended in Braselton and involved a good number of Methodists in between.
Working with Bob Morris felt like accompanying the grim reaper. He wore black clothes every day, drove a black car, and covered police and the crimes they handled better than anyone I've ever known.
You have to admire them in a way. They're the opportunists who briefly accompany Forrest Gump, the movie character who finds peace during a cross-country jog. "Oh, man, you just stepped in big pile of ----!" one guy screams. Gump's plain answer: "It happens." Soon the phrase is plastered as a bumper sticker on what we can safely identify as the rear end of America. The spirited contrast happens next when Gump, played by Tom ...
His milestones multiplied before my job started. Or maybe it just seemed that way to me, the woman who is supposed to know him best.
I scanned the opening paragraph, shut the book quickly and gulped back a couple "uh-ohs." Journalist Millard Grimes' passage appeared like a warning for the state's reporting pool: Swim for stories at your own risk.
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