Thanksgiving approaches. We have had an official national day of thanksgiving ever since Abraham Lincoln's administration.
What is it about some perfectly nice people that gives them an affinity for alligators?
When Trudy Gildea had barely moved to Columbus from New York State, she went uptown to Alford's Drug Store, bought a copy of The New York Times, took it home and began combing the want ads for jobs in New York.
When people drive by Lola Atkins's house in Columbus, they usually slow down.
Seeing students going back to school got me to thinking. If we have done nothing else, my family has covered a lot of territory.
My mother went to Mississippi State College for Women. So did I. Throughout my youth and childhood I heard about the Junior-Freshman Wedding at the college.
A fortunate modern development is the option of several different means to have one's book published, if, as I suspect, there is at least one book in each of us.
Recently I got a phone call from my niece Mary Louise, who lives in Florida. Since her only child, Elizabeth, has never had a chance to meet many of her family members, she asked that I write for her daughter's 16th birthday something about her family.
I have been away for a while, and I have to say coming home in time for the recent Fourth of July takes on special meaning.
There may never be in my life a time when I set any kind of record; but, if there were, it would probably be last week.
When my family moved to Columbus shortly before World War II, we rented a little house on Second Avenue North, before we could build one. We lived there two years, then moved to the house I lived in until I married.
It was one of those days. I am told everybody has them.
Once upon a time I attended some Highland games in Scotland.
March is that month that is supposed to come in like a lion, but go out like a lamb. Yet as I sit writing this while the end of the month approaches, I imagine what I am seeing is more like a disgruntled, soggy lion, slogging around in the rain puddles, head hanging low, mane dripping.
I drove to Starkville to interview Elizabeth Gwin, who is a vital 105 years old.
As I closed my overnight case and took it to the car, I kept thinking to myself, "This should be interesting, but I really cannot think there could be anything entertaining about the Mississippi River flood of 1927."
Some of the sparkle went out of the world this past week with the death of Sylvia Higginbotham.
It is a shame that I cannot write about something that I have done before I do it, so that if it is good, I can recommend it to readers. I do not get to go to sneak previews very often, however; I just have to write after the fact.
I found Margaret Peterson. Well, I did not find her myself, but I have a reader who did!
I wrote a column several weeks ago, before the Christmas holidays, remembering a long-lost childhood playmate and just wondering whatever had become of her. I had no realistic hope of ever finding out.
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