Hello Readers, it's me, Dixie Dew again. There was such an overwhelming response to the column I wrote a few months ago, that I was asked to give y'all an update. For those of you who might be so uninformed as to not know who I am, let me fill you in. I'm the adorable red dachshund who is known and loved by many. My ...
Once I was aboard a riverboat called the American Queen on which I had spent several days cruising along the majestic Mississippi River. I boarded in New Orleans and, along with the other passengers, crawled toward St. Louis.
Let's agree: This will be a new year unlike any other in recent time. Let's each make a vow to do something bold, unexpected and something that will make a fresh imprint on the path of our lives.
If the experts are to be believed, then Christmas seldom lives up to our high expectations, and that's why so many are stricken with depression and gloom during the holidays. It's a letdown after a big buildup.
I guess it had been more than a year that I had been thinking that I wasn't as funny as I used to be. When you make your living with witty observations and entertaining stories, this isn't an asset you want to lose.
Out of the blue one day, I got an email from an old, beloved friend from my NASCAR days. In the days when first I met him, Jim Freeman was the public relations director at the Talladega track. That was when the publicity at all the tracks was run by men, some college educated, some not, who were amicable, back-slapping and well-liked.
When Miss Virgie, my beloved mentor on all things Southern proper, came to visit with her husband, Bill, she lovingly lectured me whenever I fell short.
It's a Thanksgiving tradition, albeit one started accidentally a few years ago. Now, it has become as important as turkey and dressing and cherished as much as the dinner with family and friends.
A couple of years ago, I was in Fayetteville, Ark., having dinner with a few folks including two of the loveliest people I know, Gen and Frank Broyles.
My brother-in-law, Rodney, called me up one day. He's one of my favorite people, and even when I should get mad at him, I never can. He's so charming and funny.
When word filtered out that she was gone - just packed up and disappeared like a vapor in the broad, bright light of day - I found no surprise in it.
Jerry and I were talking the other day. We've known each other since the day I was born, he having entered this earth the day before I did.
In accordance to our weekly routine, we gather at my sister's house every Sunday for dinner following church. Normally, she who does most of the work chooses the menu, but the tradition is that each one of us gets to choose lunch for our birthday.
A while back, after a speaking engagement, I was signing books when a woman somewhere in her 40s I suppose, came through the line. We exchanged courtesies then I handed her books back to her. But she didn't walk away, despite the long line of folks waiting behind her. She looked at me expectantly then leaned a little closer.
Larry, an aspiring writer, wrote me the other day and asked if I would read a synopsis of a book he is working to complete. Like me, he writes of Southern people, especially those who rise up from the crooks and hollows of the mountains.
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.
Any self-respecting Southern woman has a list of casserole recipes a mile long ready to bake at a moment's notice.
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