A couple of years ago, when I deemed it absolutely necessary to cross the big pond and investigate my heritage that had been seeded in Northern Ireland, I had the good fortune of being introduced to a renowned historian who, through greater good fortune, has become a friend.
Several years ago, I was in Talladega for the NASCAR race and had stopped by the No. 3 truck to see Richard Childress and Dale Earnhardt. Earnhardt, as usual, was picking and poking at me over one thing or the other.
It's me. Dixie Dew, again. Y'all who read this column regularly know that I am Ronda's adorable and svelte (though she writes differently) dachshund. This is the third time I've guest-written this column, but since it's Mother's Day, I'm giving her the day off. This is my gift to Mama. She's been working on a tight deadline for a new book so she's earned a rest.
Someone wrote to complain about my grammar. This isn't new, though it doesn't particularly irritate me. This gentleman was especially kind in his admonishments, noting first and foremost how much he enjoys my writings.
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.