When she talked about those tribulations back in 1937, her feeble voice crackled with both age and emotion. With over 70 years separating then from now, the grief still lingered but wisdom had covered it like moss on a riverbank. Read More»

At a cafe in Biloxi, Miss., friends and I were chatting over coffee when we were joined by a man who is a business associate of one of my friends who was sitting at the table.

He pulled up a chair, plopped down and launched fast-paced into conversation. He was straight-forward, minced no words and softened no opinion.

He is a Yankee.

“Damn Yankee,” he corrected me. “That’s what I am.” His blue eyes locked mine with a steely look that bored deeply. “Do you know the difference between a plain Yankee and a damn Yankee?”

I nodded and smiled. “You’ve come South to stay.” Read More»

Poet, my friend who reigns supremely in the Mississippi Delta, has few complaints, so when he voiced one the other day, I was not only surprised, I was astounded. Particularly when I heard what was troubling him.

While there are those who have questioned Poet’s serious commitment to a life of hard work – I have on occasion been one of those – he has stepped up to a commitment to public service. The fine folks in his small town have elected him to various and sundry positions over the years until they saw fit to make him ruler of all. He is now the mayor. Read More»

Years ago, before fuel conservation became popular and trendy, I was a forerunner to saving gas by combining errands. When I go into town, I spend several hours doing errands that I have been waiting to do. It saves both gas and time.

One of those combination trips always includes the beauty shop and having my car serviced simultaneously. The other day, I stopped in to Harrison’s where those folks who have become good friends, take good care of both me and my car.

“Can I get a ride to the beauty shop?” I asked Roger, while several other customers milled around. Read More»

During those gray, cloud-filled days, figuratively and literally, I wasn’t exactly imprisoned but two years of consented captivity in the unfamiliar North was one of the greatest burdens my Southern soul has ever carried.

In those troubled days, there was little relief, it seemed. From early November until late March, the sun seldom smiled, the wind always chilled and the snow often fell. Read More»

I visited a woman, old and gray, her journey of life nearing its winter’s end. She settled into an armless rocker and moved gently, slowly back and fro, looking from her view on the porch past the towering magnolia trees that spread the full length of her yard. Read More»

A few months ago when Poet, the free-lance wanderer that he is, found himself passing through my neck of the South, he called up, then turned up at my front door, then plopped down in my guest room for a few days.

And, of course, he was most welcomed. Not only because we have a deep and abiding friendship but also because whenever Poet is in my midst, a column or two will be awaiting breathlessly to drop into my lap. The friends I cherish the most are always the ones who provide me with entertaining stories, especially ones that I can pass along to you. Read More»

One Sunday morning I came breezing into Sunday School class, after having been out of town for a week. My sister grabbed me and hugged me tightly to welcome me home.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re back!” Louise shrilled happily. She hugged me again. “I missed you.”

I grinned. “Well, you wouldn’t know it. You didn’t call me one time to check on me. When I was in Ireland for a week, you worried incessantly. But when I went to Los Angeles for a week, you didn’t call once.” I laughed. “And everybody knows that L.A. is much more dangerous than Ireland.” Read More»

In the home in which I grew up, the daily newspaper was almost as important to our everyday lives as the Bible.

Daddy came home every night, finished his supper – which Mama brought to him on a tray as he relaxed in his favorite recliner – then picked up the paper and read every page.

Until she died, Mama planned her day around the arrival of the newspaper. As soon it arrived, she hurried to get it, made a cup of coffee with cream and sugar, then settled into her chair and savored the pages. She took hours to read every word. Read More»

Like any self-respecting Southerner, it’s hard for me to pass up reading a well-written obituary. Especially when it runs in the Wall Street Journal and begins with she was “a dash of Southern class in a raucous old boys club.”

Thus began the ending of the life of one Claudine Williams, a Shreveport, La., native, who remarkably showed her Southern prowess and charm in the toughest of worlds – the mob-run Las Vegas of the 1950s and ‘60s. Read More»