Pardon me as I stray from my usual topics of lipsticks, mascaras and bangs for this column, but last Friday morning my definition of "beauty" was expanded when the historic house we called home was destroyed by fire. The phone rang in Jackson, where I was visiting with our four dogs, Naomi, Stella, Lillian and Sophia, and I have not been the same since.
A few days ago I was asked: “Why in the world would they want to name the new Columbus soccer complex Tan Yard Park?” Historically there is a very good reason for that name.
For centuries, philosophers have pondered the question — is there life after Pilgrimage? Yes, the pilgrims have moved on. They probably imagine that Columbus quickly converts to a sleepy village, only to awaken next spring when the travelers return.
When invited recently to be a guest lecturer on beauty and style for an upcoming event, I rolled up my shirt sleeves and dove into the notes from classes, workshops and seminars that chronicle my past 18 years as a student of beauty in some of the most glamorous cities around the country.
I woke up one morning thinking about Sue. There wasn’t anything Sue couldn’t do, except beat cancer. She was the epitome of the “earth mother.” She made everything from scratch, organically. She organized food co-operatives: “Apple Blossom,” another “Milk and Honey,” one beautiful; one basic. Every Tuesday her garage was filled with brown paper bags. Women came to retrieve their weekly rations, the click click from the high heels of the bank teller to the soft padded steps of the soccer mom.
Angels are all around us. They flutter in stained glass windows, of course, and in cemeteries, but little ones shoot arrows into hearts, especially around Valentine’s Day, and they show up in movies like “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “Wings of Desire.” Something like 70 percent of Americans believe in real angels, not just the one shown in art, and they believe that angels are busy doing things and helping us along.
Recent TV ads informed me that Ringling Brothers-Barnum and Bailey Circus was performing in Tupelo. I remembered the last time I went to a local circus, when our children were small. I vowed I’d never, never, no never, go again.
Shampoo. Rinse. Repeat. It might seem trivial to explore shampoo, to dive deeper into such a staple in the daily routines of sanitary personal care, but with all the shampoos on the shelves today, I deem it essential to elaborate on the subject.
Good news and bad news at the Bardwell’s. The bilge pump stopped working on the fishing boat, and that was the good news. Working on the pump revealed the boat was taking on water, a lot of water, maybe 20 gallons or so. That was the bad news. Sam emptied the water and looked for the breach.
“Bridge” is a versatile word, a chameleon. It can be a noun, or a verb, or even a complicated card game.
Everyone imagines that they can write. We have often heard someone say, “I have a book in me.” Seldom does that book ever emerge.
Some of you may have noticed that I have been absent over the last few weeks. I have had writer’s block. I called on a friend of mine who writes and edits for a living. He gave me hope. He confessed that he, too, suffers from this malady once in a while.
Driving to Tupelo, I was excited about going to see columnist Rheta Grimsley Johnson. “The Enchanted Barbie and the Second Coming” has just come out, and Rheta is on the publicity circuit.
It may well have happened to you.
A reader has asked about the old Plymouth settlement on the West Bank of the Columbus Lock and Dam.
Spring has arrived right on time, as the calendar and daytime temperatures reassure us. Redbud and saucer magnolia blooms are fading and dogwoods are showing their true colors. Here are a few tips to help you and your landscape be prepared for the coming season.
Columbus is filled with pilgrims these days. They wear “comfy” shoes and cameras around their necks, and expressions of awe. These are time travelers, truly aware that they have arrived in a very special land, so distant from everyday reality.
Somewhere along the way of trying to get educated, I think some teacher told me that many, if not most, nursery rhymes of our childhood were actually thinly veiled political comments.
I love these seven words from our memories that are hardly used unless you have been lucky enough to eavesdrop on a conversation between two or three Southern belles from another time. Old in wisdom, but young at heart, these women’s mothers rode in carriages along brick city streets. Listen up, because the words these matriarchs in tweed suits, pearls and arched brows drop are the ones too special to be forgotten.