Friday afternoon Adrine Younger welcomed me into her tidy kitchen and offered me a glass of tea and a piece of Italian cream cake. The grandmother and widowed mother of five lives in a pleasant one-story farmhouse about a mile down a gravel road that bears the family name. I had come to talk politics.
WASHINGTON -- When Barack Obama looks in the mirror these days, he must see a terrifying visage staring back at him: that of George W. Bush.
By now, most Americans probably have formed an opinion about what comedian Bill Cosby did or didn't do sexually to or with at least 16 women beginning in the 1960s.
This Thanksgiving marks an anniversary for a particularly difficult time, probably one of my most traumatic days. I have the gift of not remembering the bad things so when something stands out, it is for a reason.
In the 1960s, Tupelo was an Ole Miss town. This was especially true in east Tupelo, my part of town, and Lawhon Elementary school, where I attended first through eighth grade.
When does the voice of the people no longer matter? Is it when the voice of the governed is silenced?
The voters have spoken. My white kitten, Chuck Younger, is named after Mississippi's most recently elected state senator.
As predicted, the Ferguson grand jury decided not to indict police officer Darren Wilson in the fatal shooting of Michael Brown. And as expected, chaos erupted and violence swept through the streets.
In September, I received an email that should have left me feeling vindicated.
As we previously have noted, Gov. Phil Bryant should have known more about Chris Epps before reappointing him prison commissioner in 2012.
I heard the news recently of John Doar's passing.
Post-election analysis falls somewhere between amusing and clueless.
Next week brings the American Thanksgiving holiday and for most of us a wonderful feast.
Friday morning started out with a small crisis. We were out of coffee and I had a gathering to attend before 7. The downtown shop I frequent doesn't open until 7:30, so I headed out 45 for a national coffee chain that takes its name from a character in Moby Dick. (The company, I learned on the Internet, was almost named for the whaling ship in the story, Pequod.)
If Martha Stewart were in charge of heaven, it might look something like Ocean Springs, Miss., on Peter Anderson Festival days. Traffic is blocked on the main downtown streets, the smell of boudin and barbecue is in the air, clever people hold sway. And that's a good thing.
Wow. Just ... wow. So what's next? Will it turn out Mother Teresa was a pornographer? Or Mr. Rogers a meth head?
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