One September night when I was 4, my father came home early from the butcher shop where he worked in the Florida Panhandle town of Pensacola. We were, he announced, going to the fair.
The New York Times says that the choice of a bona fide working man as the Democratic nominee for Mississippi governor "illustrates to some degree the forlorn state of affairs for Democrats in the South."
Made in China. Made in Mexico. The souvenirs our Virginia visitors bought at the Elvis birthplace museum in Tupelo, Mississippi, all were made far away in other countries, and I'm wondering why. Elvis wasn't made in China. He was made right here in Mississippi.
Among the family treasures my siblings and I divided up after my mother died, there was a sewing machine drawer full of postcards. She may have neglected to save one at some point over her nearly 90 years, but I doubt it.
I wake up in the delightfully retro Austin Motel and see that the childproof top remains on the ibuprofen, which means I did not make it to midnight to hear Bobby Rush at the Continental Club. And that means I'm likely to finish my waltz across Texas without any music.
You should know that I have this thing about long road trips with a turnaround planned but not realized until there are a lot of detours and meanderings and good music that doesn't require a ticket. I'm overdue.
It strikes me that those who are defending the Confederate flag in the name of their Southern heritage are a little late.
I grew up in cemeteries. They were part of our education, recreation and, too often, conversation.
There is a website that purports to expose "myths about the economy and government," Cry Wolf Project.
NASHVILLE, Tenn. -- I try to love Nashville because of its country-music heritage. Whenever I visit that city, I listen to WSM on the drive up to get my mind right, and I wear a plaid shirt that snaps and old blue jeans. It's a matter of reverence. Nashville ought to be different, somehow.
I have made a long career out of writing about good people who are not celebrities, who typically appear in news pages a prescribed three times: when they are born, when they get married and when they die, and then only if someone cares enough to pay for an obituary.
I have liked it that way. I always wanted to grow up to be Charles Kuralt, not Barbara Walters.
Who knew that the Father of Our Country made and sold whiskey? Rye whiskey, most probably foul-tasting, un-aged, as was the custom of the day. I would not tell a lie.
Almost everybody I've ever known in the newspaper business threatens at some point to write a book. Few do.
I guess it's realizing that you spit out enough words in daily increments to complete "War and Peace" 50 times that makes you think writing a book would be a piece of cake. And, yes, make that a best seller while we're at it.
FRONT ROYAL, Va. -- It must have been a harried parent trying to cope while youngsters protested a long drive who invented that car game where you try to spot license plates from all the 50 states. In this the season of school tour groups and cherry blossoms, it's almost too easy.
It was a "magical place," she says, back in 1992, when her parents bought the big house overlooking the Mississippi Sound in the quaint harbor town of Pass Christian.
In a Natchez, Mississippi, gift shop I saw a sign with a dog swilling a pint. It said: "In dog beers, I've only had one." Some days I feel that in newspaper years, I'm 434 years old.
The New York Times comes to the mailbox in fits and starts, sometimes three papers a day, often none at all.
Warning: The following column contains sexist comments that might be offensive to just about everyone.
I heard about the cleverest gift ever, and -- imagine this -- it was given from a man to his wife. He presented her with T-shirts for every University of Alabama football opponent for the entire past season, before the season, so she could wear their colors and root for the Tide's opponents.
The second record album I ever owned was "In the Wind" by Peter, Paul and Mary. The first, a compilation of rock hits by various artists, including the inimitable Aretha Franklin singing "Sweet Bitter Love," one of the best songs ever sung.
I still have Albums One and Two, their surfaces scratched and covers worn.
When I was little, Stuart Hamblen's song "This Ole House" always made me unutterably sad.
Despite the lively melody and cheerful beat, the homeowner was giving up, leaving his faithful hound dog to fend for itself.
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