Joe Ray Roberson, longtime Dispatch photographer, was one of those people so well known around town, the use of a surname was superfluous, if not confusing; he was simply "Joe Ray." Roberson died early Sunday morning after a long illness.
Darkness came early; I beckoned Jack, the cat, to come inside but he stopped, uneasy, and stared into the woods. There was a sound unlike any I'd ever heard. Not at all like the snort of a deer warning its young, then the sound of deer running through the woods. This sound was different, and it didn't run. There was thrashing, a scream, but no running.
I have previously written about John Pitchlynn and Fort Smith at Plymouth Bluff during the Creek Indian War of 1813-1814, but there is much more history surrounding the bluff than just that.
In a previous life, I was a sports journalist, an occupation that took me to many of the biggest sporting events in the United States. As a reporter and later, an editor, I attended the Masters Golf Tournament, the Kentucky Derby, the Super Bowl, three college football championship games, the NCAA Final Four, the World Series and innumerable professional and college sporting events that people typically pay good money to see.
I know they thought I was some crazy person. I drove slowly by a couple of times and waved so they wouldn't think I was hostile and then turned in and sat observing them for a few minutes.
Even I was willing to blame the president, or at least his namesake: Obamacare. What other explanation was there for the fact that it was taking weeks to get a prescription filled, and I was suffering an acute flare-up of my rheumatoid arthritis?
It occurs to me that when a pit bull menaced Jackson TV newsman Bert Case back in 2010, it was because one watchdog recognized another -- and didn't want competition in the neighborhood.
Crawford Mayor Fred Tolon is optimistic about his little town and wants to see it flourish. On Jan. 25 he hosted a breakfast with ministers and other key people in the community to discuss his vision. I was happy to be among those invited.
Snow dusted across the Prairie, temperatures plummeted. Sam built a wood fire. We have other heat sources, but firewood is cheap and available and propane has become high and unavailable.
There is a 1908 postcard view of the Steamer American at the Columbus landing which has become the iconic image of a Tombigbee steamboat at Columbus. I have twice used the image in articles and it appears in my book "The Tombigbee River Steamboats: Rollodores, Dead Heads, and Side-Wheelers."
I must confess: I know nothing of football. Mama and I would often wait until Daddy, my three older brothers and Uncle Wayne got consumed with the surround sound of our family TV and then disappear into the sanctity of her light blue ceramic bathroom.
Thursday afternoon while eating Indian food, I thought about Leo Spatz. A bit of history: A native of Germany, Leo came to Columbus in 1935 to manage the restaurant and coffee shop of the Gilmer Hotel, a four-story, Civil-War era brick building where the Gilmer Inn is now. Leo's father ran the kitchen and his wife Florence was hostess. For my mother's generation, the Gilmer was the fashionable place to go.
Earlier this week the Greater Starkville Development Partnership honored its members who have contributed to the community. A wide assortment of people and businesses were recognized for their volunteerism and altruism.
In the wake of the President's State of the Union address the nation's economy has become the most discussed and debated issue facing our nation today.
Tuesday morning I turned on the radio and was greeted by the news of Pete Seeger's death. "Impossible," I thought, stunned.
There is still no cure for the common cold. Medicine-sellers offer us lots of choices to calm the symptoms -- a spray for congestion, a pill for aches, a syrup to comfort the cough. But no elixir exists to stop a cold in its tracks.
My wildlife biologist brother spent some time with us over the holidays. Coming through the door, he said, "Being the creative type, I saw something that you might want, but you have to tell me right now so I can go get it."
It's Super bowl time and conversations turn to professional football. While Mississippi has never had an NFL team, there have been pro football teams from minor or indoor leagues.
People often ask me if I am still flying. When I say no, the next question is, "Don't you miss it?" My answer may sound unpleasantly snobbish, but it really isn't meant to be. I have not stayed current (the term for being licensed and eligible to legally fly an airplane) and I have no plans to get back in the air anytime soon, if at all.
Someday, when the story of the LGBT struggle for Civil Right in Mississippi is told, people such as Ben Carver, Roy A. Perkins and Henry Vaughn will be regarded as pioneers of the movement.
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