Several years ago, I befriended a woman in Cincinnati, Ohio, but then you know that, don't you? I've told you all about Miss Loretta.
A picture - even one old that has faded from black and white to soft gray - can a tell a story, long and true. That one certainly did.
There is a friend of mine - one of the heroes I have known and loved - who is fascinating in the life lessons he shares and the accumulation of wisdom that seems to come so easily to him.
It was all my idea. As immodest as that might sound, it's true. Now that my friend, Karen, has made it to the big time, she should be reminded that it all started with one of my hare-brained schemes.
It would never have occurred to me that it would mean as much as it has, never cross my mind that I would cherish it as I have. I suppose that's what makes it even more meaningful.
Daddy and Mama both spent a lot of time seeing after the needs of others. They comforted, called and cooked for those who were, in some way, suffering.
This is how bad times are getting – Claudette has taken to crying and Grace Ann has taken up cussing. It's like living in a science fiction film. It's like visiting a foreign country.
When the column appeared where I lamented that my longstanding muse, Claudette, had lost a significant amount of humor due to medication and I needed a new muse who could inspire my writing, several stepped up to volunteer for the newly vacated position.
Whenever I take out my biscuit pan - and every Southern cook worth her salt and grease has one - I can't help but shake my head.
One day at lunch, I ran into a beautiful older woman, a friend from years past, whom I hadn't seen in quite a while. She had changed very little since I first met her when I was in college.
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.
When Nix, the unpredictable, funniest kid in our family, was 4 years old, he found himself in some bit of trouble, though we've now all forgotten what it was. Only the punch line lingers in our minds.
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.
We all need to be worried about the health of the postal service and, as good neighbors, we all need to pitch in and do what we can to keep the mail comin'.
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.
There are few who cannot say truthfully they miss their parents after death has laid claim to those loved ones. The parents who taught us, scolded us and, at times, annoyed us are never forgotten, never put away on a shelf to be remembered no more.
One afternoon, I had a hankering, a primal-like craving, for a supper of pinto beans and cornbread with a tall glass of cold, rich buttermilk thrown in for good measure and extra filling.
Over the years, I've crossed paths with many people who were extremely successful as well as some who were such miserable failures that, as Mama liked to say, "ain't worth the breath they draw."
That apple tree. Oh my goodness. Something told me it wouldn't turn out well.
This happened years ago. Mama was alive then, so it's been seven or eight years. I hadn't thought about it in almost that many years, but when it came to mind the other day, I took to studying on it and how the circumstances and opportunities of life's journey can be so fascinating.
Yes, I know that I am, occasionally, prone to embellishment. But trust me when I say this is the law and the gospel: I have a longtime friend who only calls me when someone dies. Most times I know the person, but sometimes I don't have a clue the person ever existed.
A friend of mine, long embroiled in upsets, distractions, problems and tribulations, called one day to announce happily she was learning to "let things roll right off my back."
It's a funny thing. That's what Mama used to say when something baffled her.
When Miss Ondia Mae died at 75, those of us who knew her marveled that she had managed to make it to the end of her life without winding up in the poorhouse.
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