A couple weeks ago, Bob Nolan and I were standing around in my backyard talking. Actually, I was doing the talking; Bob was repairing a crack in a rowboat made of polyethylene plastic with a heat gun. I was trying to stay out of his way.
Wonder what Joe would have said about "Bobby" winning the Nobel.
Monday through Friday from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Linda Swift sits in front of a large picture window with sagging Venetian blinds and sews.
Thursday evening while paddling on the river, I looked up at the moon and thought of Ansel Adams. Adams, you may know, was a photographer of the American West -- arguably the photographer of the American West -- known for his black-and-white prints that rivaled the grandeur of the landscapes they depicted.
Out of the blue comes an email from Larry Studdard. If you qualify for a senior discount at the picture show, went to high school in the area and paid attention to the sports pages of that time, you need no introduction.
Wednesday afternoon, as my grandson and I waited on milkshakes at Jack's, a man walked up and started telling us about his '61 Corvette.
Beth and I went kayaking Wednesday afternoon. We launched at DeWayne Hayes Park out near Columbus Air Force Base. It's lovely out there.
OK, let's get one thing straight before we go any further: Bobby Harper has no more goats for sale. Fact is, he never had any to begin with. Throughout most of August, though, he's had a pleasant, though not always easy, time trying to convince readers of the Mississippi Market Bulletin of that.
Since company was coming at 7:30, bright and early, we needed to get up and get moving. There was the old cypress table Melvin Brewer made for us to move to the garage, the extractor to set up and the five-gallon pails to rinse out.
NESHOBA COUNTY FAIR, THURSDAY -- Phil Bryant is on stage talking about Tuesday at the fair with his new friend, "Don Trump," the candidate's son.
Nedra Mitchell has a lot of pictures on her cellphone. So many, it took her several minutes Thursday to dig up two images of swimming holes in the Caledonia area, one she took Memorial Day, the other about 40 years ago.
As Troy Clyde Eaves lay dying, his seven children gathered round to do what they had done with their father all their lives, play music. Bluegrass and gospel music. Around midnight, a curious thing happened.
Years ago, when our firstborn was small enough to carry around in a basket, a night on the town was often dinner at the Old Hickory Steakhouse.
Pat Burwell is telling me how to get to her house in Steens, but I'm not getting it.
It's Friday afternoon and I'm sitting on the front porch of an uninhabited trailer that until recently was the home of Homer Cantrell.
Omar is having trouble with his bees; they're not producing honey. This according to Rashita, the woman who manages the inn where I am staying.
A woman in our group wonders aloud if the birds were singing when the air was filled with ash. I walk over to the fence and balance my recorder on the rusting strands of barbed wire.
About four years ago a friend visiting from the North rode with me to a rural church outside of Caledonia to photograph the tombstone for a woman's leg. The woman had the leg removed for medical reasons, and, perhaps thinking it would be useful later, had it buried next to the spot her remains would eventually (and now) inhabit. Her husband's grave neighbored her on the other side.
Last weekend I attended the funeral of a dear friend who died after an almost two-year battle with pancreatic cancer. Though not a religious man, Bob's funeral was held in a Catholic church in a scruffy section of Syracuse.
One afternoon last week I walked into the house to find our grandson helping Beth develop a personal emoji. You know, those little icons that go with emails and text messages to communicate emotion: happiness, sadness, anger, surprise.
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