For some reason, Southerners, more than any other region, love nicknames. It’s really a show of affection when we care enough to bestow a nickname rather than call a person by his Christian name.
You probably think that this story is about my citified husband from California learning to milk a cow. It is not. This is about how a Southerner makes an introduction, especially when there’s a connection of some kind.
For at least 20 years, maybe 25, Mama planned her home-going to heaven. Not a week – and sometimes not a day – went by when she did not use her impending date with mortality in some way.
The early part of our lives seems to drag. Christmas and birthdays are too slow to come and are the only days that pass too quickly. High school math class is a preview of eternity and a week of being grounded for some teenage infraction feels like six months.
As the new year approaches, I’d like to take a minute and reflect on the lives of three people who impacted me deeply.
There aren’t many things that thrill me as much as getting and enjoying my Christmas tree.
I went barefoot as a girl and still like doing so today.
Many people have crossed the path of my life but only one crossed it from three different directions. Don Light, one of Nashville’s most admired powerbrokers and star makers, was meant to be part of my life. I said this repeatedly because I encountered him through friends in country music, Southern gospel and NASCAR racing.
Sometimes a man, despite his best efforts, doesn’t find his destiny. Try as he might, down through the earnest years of his life, he chases it and can even believe he has it, only to awaken one morning and discover he doesn’t. That what he has is an illusion, a mirage that he tried to turn into reality.
It started accidentally. Some good ideas and memorable moments are like that. They aren’t planned. They’re born, bringing with them an ability to nudge a way naturally into our lives and become a tradition.
There’s nothing like gossip to get the phones rining and get people talking.
RICH: Children are often the best teachers
My people, as I have long said, were raised up on hard times in the Appalachian foothills. I don’t know that I had a grandparent who ever saw the sum of $500 at one time or even held a hundred dollar bill in hand.
My husband is like a relentless teenager. When he wants something, he persists until it’s easier for me to say “yes” just to get him out of my hair.
It was hard not to see the ghosts in the blacken ashes, to hear their whisperings, or to recall the wisdom plied like a fine whiskey upon the ones who would listen and take note.