Jerry Lee "Duff" Dorrough passed away Wednesday in Ruleville. He'd had a tough last year or two. He fought the good fight.
Last Sunday morning I called some friends to invite myself over for Sunday dinner. More often than not, every third Sunday or so their dinner table is covered with garden-fresh vegetables, fried pork chops, chicken or meatloaf and to-die-for desserts. I'm blessed to have friends that don't mind my barging in (I think?).
Like most of you, I voted a week or so ago. To be honest, I almost didn't. I got home Tuesday mid-afternoon and settled in to the comfort of the air conditioner. Suddenly, that "forgotten to do something" alarm started beeping like a smoke detector in need of a new battery. I tried to ignore it.
On Wednesday afternoon, a tumultuous thunderstorm blew through. I was at the computer staring at the screen, doing my best to conjure up something to amuse you with before you have to leave for church later this morning.
A few years back, I subscribed to Netflix. Soon after Only Daughter and Third Favorite Child, who was living at home for a spell (too long), ordered one. She used it to stream Netflix's "watch instantly" movies from the Internet directly to her television.
Many years ago a friend of mine invited me to a pickin' party at his chicken farm out at Steens. His sister, who he said "sang a little," was coming home for a visit. I got there late, after all the pickers had warmed up.
A friend of mine sent me an email Monday advising me not to waste my time making a trip to Rolling Fork. I had sent him one earlier in the day letting him know that I was going over to witness the historic crest of the Mississippi River. He reported that the levee was closed to all visitors and warned that even if I weren't shot on sight, I would end up in the county lock-up.
Seems like only yesterday that I wrote about Joe (not his real name). You might not remember; he was the meth dealer I spent a day with some four or five years ago. I made a long road trip a few months ago, where I found him back at work for my client.
Jobie Martin lost his life in a tragic automobile accident on Interstate 220 in Jackson a few weeks ago. He was 91. He was a broadcasting legend over where I grew up. I was one of his biggest fans.
I drove in late Tuesday night. I found this letter on my back door from one of my neighbors, a little girl.
Several weeks ago I got a nice surprise when I checked my e-mail. It wasn't as much an invitation as it was a notice: After some 15 or so years the old supper club was having a reunion.
Folks are always offering up suggestions on what to write about - some really good and some that would get me in trouble, politics mostly. For those, I direct them to our Letters to the Editor section that's open to one and all.
You think the Christmas holidays can cause stress -- try having the first grandchild on both sides. I was reminded of this back before Christmas in conversation with a proud father who, like me, had fathered the crown prince ... royalty if there ever was such a thing.
Almost every small town in America has a special person who rides a bike, walks the streets, everybody knows and loves, and has at least one good story about. My old hometown, Rolling Fork, claims Calvin Dickerson as that person.
When I get in a car, I always buckle up -- have for a long time. In the early '80s one of my job duties was safety briefings, most of which, back in those days, amounted to nothing more than switching off the lights and switching on a projector.
This "60 thing" has been a lot tougher than I thought it would be. Having lost one of my best all-time running buddies at the young age of 26, I made a promise to myself that I would never fret over a birthday.
Columbus has a problem -- ninjas.
The other day I got an e-mail from the boss lady here at the paper explaining how we are going for a new look in our columnists' photos, so a new picture was the order of the day.
In conversation I was surprised to find how little inconvenience was caused by Wednesday afternoon closings for the local buying public. Not that much, to hear them tell it. Folks just did a little better job of planning. It was a way of life.
I've got this place where I like to go to ponder. Some of you might have one, too. It's not so much that we need a special place for pondering; some places are just better suited for it than others.
My place is "The Asphalt" -- not necessarily a name that conjures up an image of a tranquil setting conducive for contemplating one's place in the universe.
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