One thing that doesn't change much is a dirt road.
I am not sure that I have anything new to say about the horrific crimes against humanity committed in Orlando, but I feel compelled to say something, anything really, that keeps the conversation going, that pays respect to the memory of those who lost their lives, that offers solace to their families and friends, and that calls us all to own our part in the open warfare being waged in our cities and towns.
"It's Colorado rocky mountain high. I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky."
I have heard this lyric by the late John Denver all my life, but recently it has come to mean a great deal more to me.
I remember sitting for hours turning the white knobs left, then right, on that little red square from my toy box.
My favorite book when I was a little boy had to be "Coco's Candy Shop." I traveled across the colorful pages with Coco and friends as we all learned valuable life lessons.
There's nothing quite like opening up that yellow and green Crayola lid to get lost in the familiar smell of a new box of crayons.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life."
Most scars heal on the surface, serving as reminders of not-so-gentle events in our lives. Others run much deeper
Mrs. Stoddard is terribly worried -- all day, every day, and especially at night.
The big yellow school bus was and is a rite of passage for so many of us. If you lived on Dykes Chapel Road and your mama was still in her duster, it was quite literally the only way to get to the red brick schoolhouse in town.
I remember the first time I met her. She called herself "a fan" of my column, and that's why she reached out to me.
I drove my cars fast when I was a boy. Vroom, vroom.
Mama and I fussed over those baskets for hours, filling them with chocolate bunnies, marshmallow peeps and jelly beans.
I wonder why we are so darned sentimental.
Spring must be in the air, literally, because I wake each morning to the birds serenading me.
Mother Teresa said it best, "If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."
Listening to the raindrops beat against the old glass panes brings back my favorite rainy day memories.
While this space is usually reserved for my trips down memory lane with Mama, my childhood antics on the Dykes Chapel Road, the latest lipstick rage from New York City's red carpets, or the amazing china pattern I found at the thrift store, today I am wading into a river in which I have not swum before -- politics.
It doesn't get better than a good devil's food cake made from scratch, with milk chocolate buttercream frosting, the kind my granny made and most likely passed down from her granny, too.
I remember as a little boy hiding underneath the mahogany dining table, holding my knees in my hands for no reason except that I could.
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