I’ll eat leftovers from the same meal for a week. Doesn’t bother me. As long as it’s in the refrigerator, it’s fine. In fact, I love leftovers.
One of my friends called the other. One of my best friends. There was both urgency and distress in her voice.
A few years back, someone I knew ever so slightly died. Though I didn’t know him well, I knew him to be mean, egoistical, and quite a bully.
Do you flip through magazines or newspapers and find a recipe, tear it out, then stuff it in a drawer somewhere? And, worse than that, never give it a try?
Saluting TV legend Grant Tinker on his 88th birthday.
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.
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.
When I have a decision to make that I am not well equipped for, I call someone who is smarter and has more experience. When someone wiser than I makes a recommendation, I take it. If it goes against what I want to do, I get a second opinion.
In my opinion, there’s nothing wrong with being called homemaker. In fact, I think it’s one of the most beautiful words in the America language.
When I think back on the days of my youth, that time when I had the privilege of traveling on the NASCAR circuit, it would be hard to pick a lesson learned that was more important than another. But there is one that deeply branded itself in the bones of my being – that of the importance of being loyal in all things.
May all storytellers learn from such an American master on how to turn our own lives into art.
When business called Tink back to Los Angeles, he decided to take the opportunity to have his annual check-up. When it ended, he called home.
They listened and learned from those who went before them and when you think about it, that’s a pretty wise way to learn about things like long, hard, cold winters.
My Daddy told me: “Choose a side. It’s despicable to see someone who is mealy mouthed and doesn’t stand for one side or the other.”
One thing I have found to be mostly true, as true as any rule can be, is that in the South, you are either proud or humble. There is very little in-between.
You know the feeling I am sure. You find something that somewhere back in time meant so much but years have passed and you have forgotten its existence. Then you find it and it’s like running into an old friend who reminds you of happy times.
One Sunday while sitting around the dinner table, Louise and I began to tell Daddy stories, the ones that stretched back to the early days of his preaching life. Since I was born 12 years after he ‘made a preacher’, as our folks said back then, I could only contribute what he had told me about those days not what I had seen.
When you add the opportunity to go off to college or move out on your own, we’re fooled into thinking that we’re mature enough and wise enough to make decisions that will affect the rest of our lives.
My grandmother – Daddy’s mother – was sometimes called “crazy” by others who didn’t quite understand her eccentric ways. Of course, in the South, we are proud of such a label for it means that we are interesting and worthy of being the center of coffee and cake conversation.
For those of you who are faithful to this column, you will, no doubt, recall that last year I made brand new resolutions. I tossed out the old ones that I had failed at repeatedly and trudged ahead to new ones, optimistically believing that success was mine for taking.
I realized this year, though, that there is one day of the Christmas season that never disappoints me. In fact, it is always warmer, more loving, memorable, and joyous than I expect. That’s the day that I put up my favorite of three trees.
Whether this has been a year that leaned more toward blessings or tribulations, give thanks for it. Because even the hard times are leading to better times and when you get to those better days, you’ll celebrate them with pure joy.
The American Dream. Pure and simple. Why aren’t we doing more to extol it these days? Why aren’t we celebrating the opportunities of a country where the poor can rise mightily?
It’s been 20 years without Davey Allison and I, at last, am able to laugh at his antics rather than recalling just the sorrow. And there are the lessons, too, that he taught.
I do not believe it is a coincidence that our family from Mama and Daddy’s generation lived, for the most part, long and healthy lives. There were no preservatives in their food and their water came either directly from mountain streams or deep wells.
When the military guard stood at attention at Mr. Hoyt’s casket and taps played, I put my hand over my heart and cried.
She did not squander time on life’s foolish pursuits – shopping for pretty dresses, parties, choosing a new lipstick color or beach vacations. She was, all would agree, a statue for sturdiness, a monument to women who looked life and its troubles squarely in the eye and stared down those challenges.
About the only thing that has changed is that Mama doesn’t make my clothes any more. And that is both a good thing and a bad thing.
This is my South of which I am so proud, a community, broad and vast, where tribulations and triumphs alike are shared.
When it’s born in you, you just keep doing the best you can to help those in need.
Any self-respecting Southern woman has a list of casserole recipes a mile long ready to bake at a moment’s notice. You got a sickness or a death in your family, we’ve got just the casserole for you.
She said it, of course, with smirk. Those women who really don’t understand the ways of the women of the South seem to always speak about us in words that are vividly cloaked in disdain.
Charlie Tinker had a front row seat to history, ranging from a friendship with Lincoln to the Civil War to the hanging of those convicted. Thanks to his diaries, we are able to see what he saw.
“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.”
Having helped raised Mama to independence, I can tell you —be it teenagers or elderly mothers, independence is a good thing for everyone.
Upon discovering Charles Almerin Tinker’s leaf-strewn grave in Green-Wood cemetery in Brooklyn, NY, we – one of us more than the other – began to study the names and dates engraved on the towering monument.
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.