We had a funeral at church the other day which was not unusual.
She was not a pretty woman in the days of her youth. Her lips were too thin, her forehead too high and her eyes so round they seemed to bulge into the lens of the glasses she wore.
Most husbands, if they carry a photo of their wives, like for it to be one of glamour and beauty. That would not be my husband.
For years, I blamed it on those richly royal blue, suede high-heel pumps. The ones with the ridiculously tall, spiked heel and absurdly pointed toe. I was 22 when I bought them, and 36 when I donated them to the Salvation Army.
The woman looked over the selection of books, picked up four and smiled.
They all come with some kind of a price and all with a certain amount of disappointment, but still Rodney keeps trying.
Any self-respecting Southern woman has a list of casserole recipes a mile long ready to bake at a moment's notice.
Mama had great stories. My favorite was the only one I asked for her to repeat often. It has become something of an anthem in my life.
By chance, we happened upon him in a small gift shop. The clerk recognizing me laughed and said, "What a coincidence! She just bought a copy of your book!" She gestured toward a small woman browsing through a group of men's sweaters.
She said it, of course, with smirk. Those women who really don't understand the ways of the women of the South seem to always speak about us in words vividly cloaked in disdain.
(This is the third installment of a three-part series about Charlie Tinker.)
"Some day," Daddy used to say often as I was growing up, "I'm going to the Holy Land. I want to walk where Jesus walked."
Years ago when Mama was widowed, it became suddenly and shockingly clear she wasn't completely capable of being on her own. This was news to us, because she had always stepped up and did whatever it took to look after our family. She was quite ingenious and hardworking.
(This is the second of a three-part series on the discoveries made after a visit to Charlie Tinker's grave.)
The renowned bow maker in my hometown died. Only in the South would this probably be news because we Southern women do admire a well-wrapped package.
My parents, according to the world's definition of "cool," were not.
A few years ago, the magazine I have long loved - Southern Living - changed.
Several weeks ago, I wrote about moonshine runner turned stock car champion, Lloyd Seay, who was murdered in a dispute about sugar purchased to make illegal whiskey.
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."
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.
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