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.
Old houses make my heart beat fast -- the chipping paint and aged patina of a 100-year-old fašade and the view from weathered windows looking out through giant oaks toward the river.
I was first introduced to Monopoly from the swivel bar stools of my family's kitchen, and it was there on Mama's yellow Formica bar that I learned about making deals, taking chances, and how one never wants to go directly to jail.
I hear the bells ringing in the church towers every night, but it's the sound of the whistling train near the river that carries me back to being a little boy following after my older brothers near the tracks of my childhood.
It made me uneasy as I cut into the hem, the scissors traveling across what seemed like oceans of sparkling blue fabric, and with each turn, my mind wandered back to all the times she wore the peacock shirt.
I remember it like it was yesterday. Daddy wore his brown leather blazer, always a siren to alert us that we were destined for town.
My holidays are not like old black and white films where the family sits around the piano belting out carols. Trust me.
I laugh at rules and conformity.
My vintage Santa plates stare at me from my holiday table, nestled onto blue and gold chargers as red crystal goblets stand beside them.
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