Most of us celebrate Thanksgiving without a second thought. That’s not how it was intended.
When we moved into our house several years ago, it was during the month of June. A scruffy tree with small green leaves was blocking our view of the pond. I said I was going to cut it down.
I was in my 50s when I started my writing career. When most people were enjoying their newfound discounts at Denny’s and Cracker Barrel, I was reinventing myself. Even though I didn’t know it at the time.
Folks who aren’t from the South invariably aren’t familiar with grits. When they come for a visit, they often twist their eyebrows into a John Belushi-type look after they spot them on their breakfast plate.
When I was a kid, things didn’t break as often as they do now. If you bought something at Sears Lawn and Garden, you needed to run over it with an 18-wheeler to render it nonfunctional.
When you’re stuck in your house for weeks on end, there’s an undeniable temptation to eat more. It creeps up on you at first, but soon the cravings hit you like a high school girlfriend who caught you looking at a cheerleader.
How is it that we’ve managed to cram virtually every necessity we need into one single cell phone but I still have seven TV remotes on the table next to my chair?
When I still lived at home with my parents I went to see my grandparents often. After I moved away from my hometown I made it a point to call my grandparents at least weekly.
The Old Farmer’s Almanac said it was time for me to plant my potatoes and corn. But the weather forecast called for a gully washer. That’s a fancy weather term for a lot of rain.
I was never any good at football. I played because my dad had been a football star in high school. All-District and All-State, he was even offered a college scholarship.