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 of mine, who has a penchant for sending along lovely, thoughtful gifts, outdid himself a while back. The contents of the package quickly became one of my favorite gifts ever.
It's just funny, I guess, the way I get caught up in the lives of other people, folks I don't even know.
Perhaps you've heard. It's been the source of newspaper, magazine and television stories as they all pay tribute to the anniversary of the King James Bible. It's a sprightly 400 years old.
It started with Mama. All good stories and jokes in our family, including me, started with her.
For a long time, I've driven past that house and thought how happy it looked. Isn't it funny how you can look at a house and know that laughter rings within its walls?
Now, we all knew that wasn't going to work. Not for one cotton-picking minute did we think that those two could say "I do" and keep that vow until one of 'em stopped breathing.
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.
It happened recently: The 20th anniversary of the death of stock car racer Davey Allison. Maybe you remember him. Maybe you don't.
Tink had been in Los Angeles for a week so that morning before his plane left LAX, it occurred to me that a good, wifely thing to do would be to welcome him back to the Rondarosa with a home-cooked meal.
If New Year's is a time to regroup and look toward the upcoming year, then Thanksgiving is a time to gather and reflect on the year that has passed.
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.
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.
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