Seems like only yesterday that I wrote about Joe (not his real name). You might not remember; he was the meth dealer I spent a day with some four or five years ago. I made a long road trip a few months ago, where I found him back at work for my client.
The Easter bunny hops into town with baskets spilling over with eggs decorated in all the colors of our imagination, but those eggs aren't the only color on our minds this season. The most popular question asked of me is, "What is the best hair color for me?"
The 1890s Friendship Cemetery square of Thomas Carleton Billups II often draws attention because of its large statue of an angel. It is an angel that faces west rather than the traditional east.
My neighbor said, "Don't you think Prairie life is like living in the '50s?" Her comment made me think about our lifestyle; physical labor and a slower pace is a good thing. When I move through life at a comfortable speed everyone around me is happier.
My morning chores just increased by one. Cormorants have come to the lake, and I don't think fire ant bites could annoy Sam more. As he leaves in the morning I mount the Gator and head yonder.
That morning while putting out cat food, I noticed a possum in the critter trap. We had extra family at the house and everyone was scurrying to get to church.
The family's been touting the benefits of upgrading my computer and Internet. "It's so easy," they said.
My college roommate called; we discussed our lives and I thought how far life is from "Ozzie and Harriet." Not that it's bad, just different.
Reading news accounts last week brought to mind the many landmarks that Columbus has lost.
It is said that, when we die, our life flashes before our eyes. We experience a sort of review, revealing our good deeds and a few things that might evoke regret. That may be true. But, in some ways, my life is already a constant re-run of events.
There is a lot of hoopla going on right now about the 150th anniversary of the start of the War Between the States. I thought it might be a good time to write about a little book Elayne Goodman leant me.
Feathers in the hair? I was born and raised alongside roosters and hens, chasing them across the barnyard on my daddy's farm in rural Mississippi, and to tell the truth, never once thought of chicken feathers as a hair accessory.
Go through any city and you will find graffiti written on any available surface. The stuff we see nowadays is usually spray-painted, and while some of it is just stupid and offensive, some has real artistry and style. Graffiti, of course, was not invented along with the spray can. It could famously be found on the walls of Pompeii, and also in Rome and in Egypt, and just about everywhere else in the ancient world.
T. S. Eliot must have been a bit dyslexic. He added an extra "L" in the word cruelest and omitted an "L" and a "T" in his last name. (My opinion, only). Still, he was an amazing poet.
Jobie Martin lost his life in a tragic automobile accident on Interstate 220 in Jackson a few weeks ago. He was 91. He was a broadcasting legend over where I grew up. I was one of his biggest fans.
I have always loved pink. Secretly, of course, because little boys just did not express themselves with a feminine color like pink, but somewhere between eighth grade and high school yearbook camp, the '80s happened.
Nov. 2, 1909, was to be a red letter day for Columbus. President William H. Taft was coming to town. He was to be accompanied by his Secretary of War, Hon. J. M. Dickinson, a Columbus native. (A few years later, Crawford native T. W. Gregory served as Woodrow Wilson's Attorney General.)
The dazzling "Moby Dick" is not simply about whaling. Melville's grand and exhilarating volume is about good and evil, nature, the futility and magnificence of human endeavor, and literature itself, to list just a few subjects.
History is rich with stories of pilgrims. Sometimes they are fleeing religious persecution. They may be traveling toward Mecca, the shrine of a special saint, or even a battlefield.
Snow was piled to the tops of doors, even to the eaves of some houses. Residents had had to cut corridors through the drifts to get out to the street.