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.
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 happened in Memphis. A lot of history and interesting stuff occurs in that magical city that sits grandly next to the Mississippi River. Elvis held court there, the blues grew up there and barbecue is queen. Elvis, of course, is still king.
The waitress set down the cup of coffee and I poured cream into the hot, black liquid while quietly reflecting, pondering something.
My parents told great stories.
Recently, I was in a bookstore with a friend. We stopped at a table near the front of the store and it was loaded with different books that had such obscene titles that many of the words were expressed as "@?*#."
Mama was stubborn. "Set in her ways," is what country folks call it and boy, was she. When she made up her mind, nothing stopped her. Especially when she set her jaw and punctuated her declaration with a firm nod of her head. If she also threw that crooked forefinger in your direction, you knew it was set in stone. Destined to be.
One day over lunch, my new-to-the-South-but-thoroughly-loving-it husband commented on the choir singing at our church, which is led by my brother-in-law, Rodney.
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