Once upon a time I attended some Highland games in Scotland.
March is that month that is supposed to come in like a lion, but go out like a lamb. Yet as I sit writing this while the end of the month approaches, I imagine what I am seeing is more like a disgruntled, soggy lion, slogging around in the rain puddles, head hanging low, mane dripping.
I drove to Starkville to interview Elizabeth Gwin, who is a vital 105 years old.
As I closed my overnight case and took it to the car, I kept thinking to myself, "This should be interesting, but I really cannot think there could be anything entertaining about the Mississippi River flood of 1927."
Some of the sparkle went out of the world this past week with the death of Sylvia Higginbotham.
It is a shame that I cannot write about something that I have done before I do it, so that if it is good, I can recommend it to readers. I do not get to go to sneak previews very often, however; I just have to write after the fact.
I found Margaret Peterson. Well, I did not find her myself, but I have a reader who did!
I wrote a column several weeks ago, before the Christmas holidays, remembering a long-lost childhood playmate and just wondering whatever had become of her. I had no realistic hope of ever finding out.
The tumult and the shouting have died. The three kings have departed. The holidays are over. Even epiphany. And I am let down.
My sister's mother-in-law was Louise Whiting, who was for years the oldest newspaper woman in Georgia, probably in terms of both age and tenure.
My children put me on Facebook, but I have not figured out how to work it yet. I fear there may be people out there who befriended me who might think ill of me because I have not answered.
Right after World War II air travel took off. The war was won on the wings of aviation, and it quickly became a peacetime staple. Back in those days air travel was prestigious.
I am a sucker for celebrations. Whenever a holiday approaches, I start thinking, "There ought to be a way of making this a Real Occasion." So, now, here comes another Fourth of July, and I am at a loss to know how to make it special.
My paternal grandparents called each other "Mr. Boyls" and "Miss Ruth," at least in public. It used to drive my mother crazy. "I just know that they must call each other by more personal names sometimes!" she fretted.
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