Somehow I ran across an out-of-print book called "The Last Lap." It is now 15 years old but tells an intriguing, timeless tale of the early days of America's first stock car racers.
You can't buy history like this. You can't earn it, either. You just have to thank the good Lord for giving you the gift of a small town family.
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.