Ronda Rich's blog

Dixie Dew, aspiring writer

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It is true that I have a nice, comfortable office, arranged with all a writer needs for inspiration, including French doors that open onto a balcony which overlooks the front pasture.

Dixie Dew loves to lie there while I work. I myself often enjoy standing on it and admiring the beauty of the black Angus cattle as they chomp away determinedly at the grass or lounge lazily by the creek bank. Read More»

Getting by crazy ones

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Not too long ago, a friend of mine discovered rather abruptly and rudely that he had dated a crazy woman. Now, in the South, we’re used to such. It’s actually a common practice. But west of the Mississippi, it’s a bit different.

He was bewildered. “She didn’t seem crazy. She seemed normal.”

I laughed. Remember: I’m Southern so I have a lot of experience with crazy. “See, that’s the problem,” I counseled him. “Crazy can hide itself so well that you don’t see it for a long time. Matters like this require expert supervision. You should have called me.” Read More»

Clip their wings, oh, Lord

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Until the day he died, Daddy had one prayer about his children that he prayed constantly. Probably every day of his life.

He did not, like many parents, daily beseech the good Lord to protect us or to give us wealth or happy lives. Instead, his most diligent prayer was always, “If any of ‘em get to flyin’ too high, oh, Lord, just clip their wings. Teach ‘em a thing or two, dear Lord, if they fly too high and forget you. Let ‘em fall so they’ll find you again.” Read More»

Enjoying the return of laughter

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You know how it happens. You go to the funeral home to pay respects and run into people you haven’t seen in ages. Many years have passed but yet y’all begin telling stories – always the funny ones – and, there in the midst of grief, you begin to laugh. Read More»

Young at heart . . . and looks

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One morning, I received an email from a reader who began by explaining that her 81-year-old mother was a devoted reader of this column and my books. Read More»

Kindness of risk takers

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One night I was doing an appearance in a town where this column runs. A woman waited in line to speak to me and brought a clipping of that week’s column for me to sign.

She handed me the newspaper clipping and said, “You made a mistake.” She pointed to it and said, “You used the wrong word.” Read More»

Ruby, don’t take your love to town

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It wasn’t long ago that a friend of mine – a West Coaster no less – got onto the subject of country music. Some he likes, some he doesn’t, he said. Then, he laughed and recalled one that he had recently encountered.

Somehow, he had run across the country classic, “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” A bit condescending, he chuckled over its lyrics. He had gotten the title wrong and most of the lyrics but I knew what he was talking about.

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed. “That’s one of the great story songs of all times. It’s a classic and certainly not anything to scoff at.” Read More»

Losing out to an ugly woman

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Perhaps it isn’t a great mystery of life but it’s certain one of life’s more intriguing questions. At least for us women, that is.

Think about this: Is it easier on your self-esteem to lose a guy to an ugly woman or a beautiful one? Having lost guys in every way possible, I should be able to answer this. After all, I have lost out to beautiful women and once I was jilted in favor of a girl so ugly that even my own father mocked me. Read More»

Gary was my friend

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It started one Sunday when I slid into the third row pew next to a slender man with rumbled silver hair just as the first notes of the organ announced that service was starting.

He wore a blue polyester sports jacket, plaid knit slacks, a crumbled shirt and an incredibly wide tie. He nodded and I smiled, as I noticed that one of his clear blue eyes drew inward toward his nose. A moment later, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a piece of hard caramel candy and, unsmiling, handed it to me. Read More»

St. Simons, yes or no, & destiny

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There is a seaside village on the coast of Georgia that my heart, in fact my entire being, is summoned to at fairly regular intervals. It is as much home to me as the red clay hills of North Georgia.

I understand why it is so about the mountains. My family, at least nine generations of them, has been embedded in those hills so deeply that it’s hard, impossible really, to separate the land from our souls. There is no dividing line where the land ends and our flesh begins. And St. Simons? Why does it has such a mystical draw over me? That, too, is easy to explain. Read More»

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