With a bit of imagination you could say that last fall our bees gave us a preview of the pandemic now besetting us. Suddenly they started dying in large numbers. I would walk out mornings to find piles of dead honeybees on the ground around the hives. Not only was it confounding, it was heart-wrenching. These thousands of small flying creatures were our pets.
On a recent Saturday morning as I walked into the Starkville Community Market, a young boy, his blue baseball cap askew over curly brown hair, asked if I'd like to buy a beeswax candle.
When someone mentions gout, you think of Ben Franklin and Samuel Johnston, the 1700s. Do people still even get gout?
You bet they do, plenty.
Around this time a year ago, a friend and I were walking in a Noxubee County woods.
The leafy canopy above had turned the forest into an echo chamber for the trilling of birds. The dappled light it permitted played across what seemed infinite hues of green. Signs of spring were everywhere.
About 15 years ago a stray cat gave birth to a litter of kittens in a wall of The Dispatch pressroom. Shortly thereafter she rendered them orphans when she tried to exit the building through a normally dormant exhaust fan.
Near the end of the podcast, Gail from West Point called to tell about taking a can of potted meat re-labeled as opossum road kill with her to the Air Force Academy.
The newest member of our household is under a self-quarantine. Eleven to 13 days. She just flew in and is not taking any chances.
How slowly can you eat a tangerine?
Advice, insight and inspiration from a variety of sources.
It was one of those glad-you-are-alive-and-out-in-the-world Saturday afternoons -- sunny, bright, crisp and clear -- and I was sitting in the three-sided shed that is the in-house dining facility of Brother's Keeper Barbecue.
Ben Depp is a New Orleans-based freelance photographer with a fixation on Louisiana's disappearing wetlands.
You put a message in a bottle and toss it out to sea hoping the right beachcomber happens by.
Chances are if you've paid any attention to the music scene in these parts, you know the name Paul Thorn.
On the front page of the May 9, 1952, edition of this newspaper, a page that has stripped across the bottom: "Week's best slogan: We'll get more done if we work together," is a story about Tennessee Williams' visit to Columbus. This was the playwright's first time back in his birthplace, according to the article, since he was 3 years old.
While battling a case of cabin fever on a cold, rainy afternoon the Sunday before Christmas, I sent Craig Hill a text asking if he wanted to go paddling. We'd had a lot of rain and the river was high.
It is not every day you drive down Seventh Avenue North in Columbus -- a timeworn neighborhood made more so by a tornado 10 months ago -- and see young Amish women in calico skirts toting power tools through red clay mud.
On a July day in 1966, MSU student and future Oktibbeha sheriff Dolph Bryan walked into the Starkville Ford dealership with the intention of buying a new car. As it happened, a salesman was sitting in the car Bryan would buy. He was reading a newspaper.
Chances are if you ever took an art appreciation course you encountered Édouard Manet's "Le Dejeuner sur l'herbe" ("The Luncheon on the Grass"). In this large canvas -- now acknowledged as a masterpiece but considered scandalous at the time -- the French Impressionist portrayed two men and two women picnicking in an idyllic wooded setting.
Monday afternoon Bill Cole sat on a barstool in the empty bay of a metal building that houses Dixie Towing, the New Hope business he has owned and operated for 30 years and looked out across the road. Cole was wearing pressed jeans, cowboy boots and a black long-sleeved shirt. His swept-back white hair gives him the look of a country music star -- think Charlie Rich.
This past Sunday Ed Rice, Bobby Manning and I were headed north on Wolf Road when Bobby for no apparent reason launched into a narrative about his family history.
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