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The curling iron changed things. From the male perspective, not necessarily in a good way.

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.

My father couldn’t pass a roasted peanut stand without stopping to buy a bag. He loved them.

Charlie is 7. Part Basset and part Beagle, he was placed in an animal shelter. Not once, but twice. That means he went through three different homes.

Writers do what we do because we are unable to not do it. In spite of our efforts, most who write for a living can best be described with one word: broke.

I remember it as clearly as yesterday. There it was in my Weekly Reader: “By the year 2000, the United States and the rest of the world will be using the metric system.”

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My hometown of Ashdown, Arkansas, had Walmart No. 17. They’ve since built a Supercenter, but during my early teen years, it was a small store.

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.

In the South, the only thing you can say that’s bigger fightin’ words than “Why didn’t you put beans in your chili?” is to speak ill of dry rub on ribs.

I’ve always worked at least two, sometimes three jobs. My dad said it built character. Maybe so, but what I noticed was it built my bank account.

The yards had been mostly vacant on the street around the corner from our house, save for the tricycles, small bikes and other toddler transportation.

Rush Limbaugh single-handedly revived AM radio. In 1988, his syndicated talk show brought people back to a place they had left for the FM dial.

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?

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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 price you pay when you lose a beloved animal is so steep that every time I lose one I say, “Never again.”

The old joke when I worked as a country music DJ was that our station played both kinds of music — country and western.

Of all the buildings on my high school campus, there was only one I’d never entered. That was home economics.

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.

We’re losing the art of conversation and small talk.

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In 2013, TV Guide ranked “The Waltons” number 34 on the list of the top 60 TV shows of all time.

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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.

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The phone rings.

Me: “Hello.”

Mom: “Did you know that your cousin Tina works at a restaurant that serves chocolate gravy?”

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I don’t exactly recall when I moved from the little table to the big table during the holidays. But I thought I had arrived.

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I never expected to do most of the things I’ve done in my life. Radio announcer, public relations, health care, law enforcement, and working for charities.

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The fact state Rep. Dennis Bonnen is far from the only state lawmaker with disdain for local control and the weakness in U.S. Sen. John Cornyn's latest measure to reduce carnage from gun violence were among the issues being discussed this week by Texas editors.

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It wasn’t until we took our seats in the auditorium in Shreveport that it hit me. We were sitting in the home of the old Louisiana Hayride.

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I’m not sure when they started charging for air at gas stations, but I firmly believe that collusion was involved.

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The fridge. ‘Frigerator. Some even called it “The Frigidaire.” A few decades ago it had many names.