I love shopping that is easy and requires no effort or gas. It is because of us that bookstores, built from brick and mortar, are disappearing. Especially the small, independent ones.
When I was 6, the boy with hair the color of cotton and eyes tinted sapphire, came to live with us. He was the same age and size as I but more timid and less secure. Depending on the day, we were either best of friends or the worst of enemies.
In all the years I have written this column, I have, unfailingly, dedicated my Easter column to the frills, fluff, and fun of the holiday. Today, though, I write of the true meaning of Easter.
Southerners tend to collect stories. And, we tend to talk to anyone who will talk to us. The latter tends to lead to the first.
One morning I went for a run, boldly planning all that I would write that day.
Wisdom and NASCAR philosophy.
I’m always suspicious when Yankees talk about rednecks because they’re bad to clump all Southerners into that category.
Old, proud men are more worried about pulling their own weight than getting something for nothing.
It is, I believe, a distinct and unique trait of the South the way we carry on long conversations with people we are passing in the loaf bread section of the grocery store or in the checkout line.
I loved those old sports writers. They were rilliant at that their craft, and each was kind to a young, prissy girl thrust into their midst.
My ancestors were taught to shoot first and ask questions later.
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.