A couple of weeks ago, Butterball, one of the nation's largest turkey suppliers, announced that it would have a shortage of large turkeys available for Thanksgiving.
One ladybug chased the other, and this made me think that perhaps I had captured a male and a female. I'm no entomologist, but I'm thinking maybe.
It's a strange feeling when you see your journalistic work wind up in the book of a leading presidential candidate.
About 10 years ago Dispatch pressmen Jerry Hayes and Jamie Morrison found a litter of kittens nestled between the walls in the basement. Hayes, now retired, and Morrison worked in the dark, cavernous space that houses our Goss Urbanite printing press.
When I started writing this piece I had just a basic thought in mind, but after the media blitz associated with Alderman Roy Perkins' proposal to ban all electronic media from the Starkville Board of Aldermen meetings, it took on a new life and intensity.
Three years ago marked the beginning of a series of the bicentennials of the events leading directly to the founding of Columbus. November of 1813 was a month in which those events linked directly with one of greater national significance. That story is told in the nation's newspapers of the day.
The world has turned over many times since that fateful day in Dallas 50 years ago when President Kennedy was killed. Anyone who was old enough to understand what happened knows exactly where they were and what they were doing when they first heard the president was dead.
We use the term "dramatic irony" in plays when the audience learns from one character something that another character does not know, usually to his detriment. In the field of history, the reader always knows more than the people he's reading about. He knows how the whole thing turns out -- something the historical figures cannot know.
Ladybugs swarmed by the thousands. They whirled around the porch ceiling; they crawled on the side of the house, the garage, the boat shed. Ladybugs landed on our arms. When one took flight, three took its place.
I am frequently asked where I find the details of the stories in my column. Sometimes things just link together. A couple of weeks ago my column dealt with the construction of Andrew Jackson's Military Road. One problem with a column that only runs around 800 words is the inability to fully provide background material. So today I will delve into seemingly unrelated accounts that link together and help tell the story of the Military Road and the founding of Columbus.
Sometime in the spring of 1986 the town of Crawford threw a party for one of its native sons, Jerry Rice. After a dazzling college career as a wide receiver at tiny Mississippi Valley State University, Rice had been drafted first round by the San Francisco 49ers. Jerry Rice Appreciation Day was a decidedly homespun affair. There was a parade featuring two Cadillacs. One of them, a salmon-colored convertible, had a front tag proclaiming, "My Other Car is a Cadillac." The event culminated at an unkempt park. A troupe of break-dancers in red sateen outfits performed some impressive acrobatics on flattened refrigerator boxes and then a few people made speeches.
October is my favorite month, especially when it was as beautiful as the one just past. Lovely days. A recent Saturday was one of those perfect days, a perfect day for taking pictures and for painting outside.
Everyone talks about the start of the Christmas season, but nobody ever really mentions when Thanksgiving Season begins. There is no Black Friday for Thanksgiving, where grocery stores open at midnight and you can get killer deals on turkeys and cranberries and potatoes, etc.
Critters were building huts in the dam. Be it nutria or beaver, I thought I could trap it in my live trap.
Fred has four children. As they head out to the bus stop each Monday morning, he gives each one $10 for snacks and incidentals. Question: How much cash must Fred have? The math is not difficult.
On Friday, I spoke at the Base Community Council luncheon at Columbus Air Force Base. My topic was stories my father had told me about his World War II experiences as a tail gunner on a B-17 named Smoky Stover Jr., which was shot down near Frankfurt, Germany.
The older I get, the more of a Traditionalist I become and the world becomes an increasingly confusing place. One by one, I have seen time-honored traditions gone to seed. It is a world without rules, without order. Chaos reigns. Each day, it seems, another familiar guidepost crumbles.
Oktibbeha County along with several nearby local governments had special elections this week. In our case it was for county prosecutor.
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