Ronda Rich's blog

Goodbye to Pinky

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It seems too many loved ones recently have said goodbye to this vale of grief and sorrow and said hello to sweet eternity. Heaven is blessed but I am distressed.

Whenever I needed a good story of kindness and compassion, I could always find one quickly in Pinky Cabe. Since she blushed mightily at the hint of any praise -— hence the name Pinky forever cloaked her Christian name of Martha — I mentioned her only once in this column but in my last three books, I tossed the veil aside and told the world of her gentle spirit. Read More»

Miss Eudora’s house

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In the past several years, I have had as much luck visiting the historically preserved home of Southern iconic writer, Eudora Welty, as I would have had when she was alive. The front door is always shut to me. Read More»

Missing Mr. Bobo

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To be just downright honest, I never expected to miss him this much. And, if the deeper truth be told, perhaps it isn’t just the loss of a singular man, though great and admirable he was.

Maybe it’s the combined losses of those three who sat together on the church pew in the third row. Perhaps that’s what makes the grief so profound and long lasting. Read More»

The most honest bio

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A major New York publisher sent a review copy of a much touted novel called “If Jack’s In Love.” Because I write about the South and because this book had won the Willie Morris Award for Southern Fiction, the book’s publicist followed up with an email.

Since this column runs in Yazoo City, Miss., hometown and burial site of Morris, I decided to give the book a look in deference to the Southern literary legend. Surprisingly, it was the author’s biography that caught my attention rather than the sprawling words between the pages. I must share it with you: Read More»

The ‘Rocky’ method

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It has long been my belief that the dreams tucked into our hearts are the compass we’re given to find our direction in life. Children know at an early age what they’re called to do. Sadly, too few grow up to follow that calling because life’s demands and sensibilities get in the way.

The key, I have decided, is to grow up brave enough and bold enough to follow our dreams, regardless of how crazy they may seem to others. Strong perseverance and determination will lead to the fulfillment of our passions. Read More»

The truth about my words

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Before I say this, just know that I am not bragging. I am sure that this is not anything to brag about. But you and I are friends and I always endeavor to be honest with you so you should know the truth.

When it comes to my books — there are six now — I have a hard time remembering precisely — even generally in some cases — what I have written in each. My best defense is to say: I write what I write then I move on, with hardly a backward glance. I head into the next book, next column or next speech to be written. Read More»

Who’s kin to whom

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It is of paramount importance that I teach my husband how to be a Southerner, at least a half-decent one if not one of regal bearing.

For instance, I tell this dear man, who descended from those who traveled on the Mayflower, and therefore is generations deep in New England, that to be a true Southerner, you have to get into everyone else’s business. Not in a mean way but in a caring-I-can-help kind of way.

His family has boundaries. No one over shares or over asks. No one intrudes or inquires with personal questions. Everyone minds their own business. Drives me crazy. Read More»

When Mama made up her mind

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Mama was stubborn. “Set in her ways,” is what country folks call it, and boy, was she. When she made up her mind, nothing stopped her. Especially when she set her jaw and punctuated her declaration with a firm nod of her head. If she also threw that crooked forefinger in your direction, you knew that it was set in stone. Destined to be. Read More»

The rusty truck

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Back in the summer, unwillingly, I would rise early and take a run to beat some of the oppressive heat and humidity that smothers the South when the sun inches higher in the sky. Many mornings, I encountered something that would stick with me for the rest of the run.

Few cars were out so early on non-school mornings, but I often saw a rusty pickup, perhaps 25 years old, ancient according to today’s need for new vehicles. A man, whose face was covered in gray whiskers, hunched over the steering wheel while a lanky, teenage boy slumped in the passenger’s seat. Read More»

Being Danny McGuire

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Little Danny McGuire was the scrawniest kid in class. He was so frail, so downright skinny that his dungarees clung to his bony hips only thanks to a well-worn brown belt that was pulled tight to the last notch, causing the fabric to gather in folds. What a sight he made with blue jeans cinched to the waist and little ol’ legs hidden somewhere in the yards of material. Read More»

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