Leah stuck her bill into the broken egg and hoisted it up high. She shoved off into the water and paddled as fast as her webbed feet would take her. On the bank she carried the egg into the grass where she ate the egg, shell and all.
From under the old drawbridge at the Riverwalk, the Tombigbee River looks small and peaceful as it slowly flows toward Mobile. Yet for almost 500 hundred years that location has witnessed an almost unbelievable pageant of history.
This week, Possum Town Tales, also known as the second annual Storytellers Festival, is being held at the Rosenzweig Center, featuring a trio of renowned storytellers.
A charmed life. That's what the evidence says about Robert Khayat.
Friday night the Trotter Convention Center was filled with our nation's finest, for it was the annual Air Force Birthday Ball. Seventy years ago, predating the birth of the Air Force as a separate service, there were also pilots and other servicemen dancing at the Trotter which was then called the City Auditorium. It was a different time but the same place with different men and women but with the same sense of duty and commitment to our country.
The praying mantis had the advantage, as his head rotates 180 degrees. His forearms were folded in prayer; he looked so delicate, so pious. His very name "mantis" means "prophet" in Greek. But if there ever was a wolf in sheep's clothing, it is the praying mantis.
I saw a slow moving, old white dog the other morning. She was crossing one of the vacant fields at Lynn Lane and Louisville Street in Starkville. That property sits across from my office and so I took the time to watch her make her way through the grass in the first hours of the business day. No doubt she was headed to some quiet place to rest as the heat of the day began to descend on her home.
Early this year, when the qualifying period began for the mayor and council races began, I found it odd that more people didn't choose to run. As you will recall, two council positions were uncontested and only one council race had as many as three candidates. In the mayor's race, two challengers faced incumbent Robert Smith. Given the general downward trajectory of the city, you might have thought more people would be inspired to jump into the fray. Hardly.
Just the other day Tjajuan Boswell was working on the flowered medians in downtown Columbus. Heat radiated at 107 degrees, and she was working like a Trojan. With the back of her forearm she wiped sweat from her brow. I complimented her on how wonderful the flowers looked and thanked her for her efforts to beautify the city. It's no easy job.
Lynn Spruill grew up in Starkville, the only child of an accountant whose energy level and curiosity exceeded the demands of his practice. L.E. Spruill, the son of a Kolola Springs farmer (his only sibling is the wonderful Frances Jutman of Columbus), also bought, demolished and rebuilt failing subdivisions and rental properties. He did dirt work.
Lately there has been much conversation about the future of the Tombigbee cut-off across from Columbus, commonly referred to as the Island. The Island has a long and historic past. Prior to the construction of the Tennessee-Tombigbee Waterway in the late 1970s through early 1980s what is now called the Island was a big bend in the Tombigbee River.
It's been 12 years now, yet anybody over the age of 20 or so remembers where they were when the first planes hit the World Trade Center. I was living in Arizona then, on my way to work, listening to sports talk radio. I don't recall the topic they were discussing, of course, but do remember one of the radio hosts commenting on something he had just noticed on the TV. "Wow. What is that?" he said. "It looks like a plane flew into a building somewhere."
Susan sat in the chair facing the woods. "Look!" she said, "There's a deer, no bigger than a dog looking in the window."
Why doesn't little Johnny in Mississippi score as high on achievement tests as his counterparts in other states? Why, it's George Bush's fault.
The late 1800s were a time when women were still expected to stay at home and tend to children and household duties. Marion Stark Gaines was not one to limit her lifestyle.
Fifty years ago when they were young and beautiful and gas was 35 cents a gallon, they drove their cars across the river bridge to a battered little drive-in with a gravel parking lot. The place was a staging ground for the rituals of their youth: dating, hanging out, racing their father's car down Old Macon Road.
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