It happened the other day. It’s funny how things so simple can remind us of things so meaningful, of those sweets that are tucked inside our hearts and unknowingly treasured.
My parents, according to the world’s definition of “cool” were not.
A few years ago, the magazine I have long loved – Southern Living – changed. Like most Southerners, I have an aversion to change which is why our traditions have such strangle hold. We never let go.
Several months ago, I ran across a book called “Alone Among The Living,” one of the most powerful titles I have ever heard
There are few who cannot say truthfully that they miss their parents after death has laid claim to those loved ones. The parents who taught us, scolded us and, at times, annoyed us are never forgotten, never put away on a shelf to be remembered no more.
One afternoon, I had a hankering, a primal-like craving, for a supper of pinto beans and cornbread with a tall glass of cold, rich buttermilk thrown in for good measure and extra filling.
That’s the difference between success and failure. It’s not what we do, but how high we are lifted by those around us.
That apple tree. Oh my goodness. Something told me it wouldn’t turn out well.
This happened years ago. Mama was alive then so it’s been seven or eight years. I hadn’t thought about in almost that many years but when it came to mind the other day, I took to studying on it and how the circumstances and opportunities of life’s journey can be so fascinating.
If Hillary Clinton’s concussion was not serious and there are no concerns about its long-term effects; if the glasses she now wears are not to correct double vision or other lingering symptoms attributed to her fall, then there is no problem. But if the reverse is true and she is covering it up, the public has a right to know and she has a duty to tell us.
Yes, I know that I am, occasionally, prone to embellishment. But trust me when I say this is the law and the gospel: I have a long-time friend who only calls me when someone dies. Most times, I know the person but sometimes I don’t have a clue the person ever existed.
Everyone loved Mama. And they loved stories about her. This is a column written before her death but never published. I decided to share it to celebrate Mama.
Drama is only as big as you make it.
So, you see, I love, as most do, the comfort of air conditioning. But, oh, how I miss that time with nature and all that profound daydreaming I used to do.
Celebrate Easter for the promise of hope it brings.