It was almost 10 o’clock last Wednesday night. I had sent my 5-year-old daughter to bed, with instructions to pick out a bedtime story.
Starting mid-morning May 6, the movement began to organize a televised debate between Parker Wiseman and Matt Cox before the Democratic run-off. The idea was to hold a debate with a moderator and format that would produce unscripted answers. A candidate would be asked a question, get two minutes to answer, and then his opponent would get two minutes to answer.
Many folks stick close to their families all their lives, so occasions such as Mother’s Day are somewhat routine. I used to feel that way.
Friday evening around 6:30 Paul Thorn and his band were relaxing and eating sandwiches in the mayor’s conference room at City Hall. Thorn is an intense and muscular ball of energy who at 44 looks as though he could go a few rounds with a middleweight boxer.
Praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition. I always liked that phrase. Yes, the Lord should be praised. And ammunition is good too, especially if you have a gun.
It was an urban sound, a distant clanging coming from the direction of the port. But standing in the backyard on a recent morning, tea in hand watching the bees begin their day, the noise caused me to flash back to a morning seven or eight years ago in Manhattan’s Flower District.
As many of you know, MUW is in the process of finding a new name. The process has been thoughtful and transparent, and all the documents relating to it are on our Web site.
What’s in a name? For Mississippi University for Women, the more appropriate question is, ‘What’s not in a name?’: Reality.
It seems a team of scientists has been cataloging the nation’s bad-hair days. As it turns out, Kentucky is gloomy, but so is Mississippi. In fact, you could call Mississippi the buckle of the "Gloom Belt."
As I write this column, I’m switching back and forth to a program called TweetDeck. Its dark, businesslike interface fills my entire laptop screen with several columns of updates, each one chiming as new information comes in.
Last summer at the farmers’ market I asked George Dyson if tupelo trees grow this far north. George, one of the market regulars, is the grizzled fellow usually on the north end of the market with a beard and the tattered “I (heart) Bikinis” baseball cap. He sells bowls and cooking utensils he crafts from native woods such as bois d’arc, oak and sassafras.
We’ve covered some ground. Lee and the two girls, ages 7 and 9, are here for Spring Break, their first time in Columbus, in advance of moving here from California after the school year ends. I’ve received lots of suggestions on how to keep them occupied; we’ll never cover it all but we’re off to a good start.
Glenn Lautzenhiser and Rufus Ward are at it again. The two local cultural preservationists have, in the past year or so, organized memorial events for native sons who have been titans in their field, sports broadcaster Red Barber and boxer Henry Armstrong.
It’s D-Day minus two. My wife, Lee, and our two kids are coming in for a visit Friday night, and preparations have begun.
According to Roger Short, the jury’s still out on the site selection for the proposed sportsplex. Someone called earlier in the week to say word on the street is that the decision has been made, that it will be Burns Bottom.
If you’ve seen the movie “2001: A Space Odyssey,” you have an idea of what they look like.
Deborah, a friend visiting from New York who loves most things Southern, invoked the spirit of Eudora Welty Friday evening. At issue was whether she should have a dessert made from chocolate, pecans and vanilla ice cream.
There is a certain poetry about Columbus — literally. Writers are among us, in places you wouldn’t expect, recording bits of everyday life.
“Hey, didn’t you say you were on Paul Harvey?” Nancy Perkins asked her husband when she heard news of the radio broadcaster’s death recently.
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