March 1, 2013
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“Some day,” Daddy used to say often as I was growing up, “I’m going to the Holy Land. I want to walk where Jesus walked.”
The renowned bow maker in my hometown died. Only in the South would this probably be news because we Southern women do admire a package well wrapped.
The way she was was a long way from what she became. I can't help thinking about how life veers so far away from the beginning of the journey and how the destination can vary drastically from where it all started.
For those who have no idea how good they've got it, how blessed they are in life, introduce to them to the other folks.
We've all got stories, we just don't all turn them into books. But that's not to say we shouldn't.
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.
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.