The soft lighting had hidden the ground-in dirt on his face. He exited the hotel which sits in downtown Memphis near the river and there he met up with another man who looked like him. Homeless, no doubt.
With Mother's Day here again, my thoughts drift back to Mama and how she put me through college.
The truth isn't always pretty. Or easy. But it certainly gives respect to those who tell it.
When it comes to remembering things, it's funny how the mind works.
At a garage sale, that bowl would bring no more than a nickel or a dime, bought by someone who would use it for dog food or fertilizer or such. But from me, you couldn't buy it for a million dollars.
Though I come from hardscrabble folks where education was a luxury, they had enough learning to know that others should be treated with decency and respect.
In churches like ours, the men gather on one side and the women on the other so they can sing parts and blend deliciously together. To me, it is simply beautiful to hear songs like "I'll Fly Away" or "When We All Get To Heaven" sung with such gusto, almost always ending with a soprano refrain.
Oh how I love a parade.
Remembering a great lady and a great friend.
I can't wait to return and tour the home again, under official guidance.
Mr. Gene Bobo was special. There's no denying nor disputing that. He was a courtly Southern gentleman, his manners impeccable and his vocabulary belonging to a genteel past.
Honesty isn't always pretty, but sometimes it gains respect, no matter how unpleasant.
I love dreamers who have courage. That's even better than an Academy Award.
A while back, a lovely young lady approached me and, without introduction, recited several lines of wise, well-written prose. "That's lovely!" I gasped. "Who wrote that? She was taken aback and stared for a moment before finally answering. "You did. It's in your first book."
It's six degrees of separation. Southern style when it comes to knowing people in your neck of the woods.