Ronda Rich

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RICH: The lost art of sitting and pondering

I learned a lot from Mama but, without question, one of the best lessons she taught me was to be still and quiet.

RICH: The melody of our words

It is fortunate for me that I was birthed and raised in the South, a place of magical, moonlit and sun-kissed areas where the landscape is the melody and the people are the harmony in our stories.

RICH: Dead conferderates and live yankees

A speaking engagement in the Chattanooga area landed us within a few minutes of Chickamauga, the site of one of the Civil War’s bloodiest battles, so I insisted that we take a side trip to the historic battlefield.

RICH: The preacher and his kindness

The moral of this story is simple: There are people and churches in need of kindness and generosity. We can each be a blessing in meaningful ways. Just look around.

RICH: Missing mom and dad, no matter your age

No one, regardless of how old we are, likes to be an orphan. It feels oddly like a ship that has been securely moored in a harbor but then is set free to drift without anchor.

RICH: Hollywood gets the South wrong — again

Watching some movies set in Georgia, you’d think a screen writer has never visited the South.

RICH: Sticking together 150 years later

Sticking together 150 years later

RICH: The yarns of life

Something the other day took me back to a time, many years ago, when I followed the tight, winding roads of the mountains to present myself at the door of my maternal grandmother’s house.

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RICH: There’s something about having a pick-up truck

In the South, having a truck is akin to being free.

RICH: A father to remember

It happens all the time. Tink will meet someone new around where we live and, invariably, that person will mention my daddy.

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RICH: Remembering the great ones like Jim Lofton

There were several of these coaches who I found admirable, albeit sometimes gruff and rough-spoken. All refused to suffer fools or encourage them. I suppose it isn’t fair to single out one, but Jim Lofton always stood out.

RICH: Enough to bury me

My grandmother had a little, black, homemade pouch that stored carefully folded money. Daily, she tucked it inside her bra. “This oughta be enough to bury me,” she’d say.

RICH: The yankee and the pocket knife

Out of the hundreds of columns I have written, that one is, without question, a top 10 favorite. Especially for Southern men. In that essay, I wrote that the sexiest men drive pick-up trucks and carry pocket knives.

RICH: Sometimes a little info is too much

Occasionally, sleep will sneak away from me in the middle of the night. I will try not to get my mind going because once it takes off, it will wear me out with all its thinking.

RICH: Don’t want to die before I get read

The only thing that really scares me about dying, is thinking of all the good books yet to read.

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