The first time my stories appeared in the newspaper was in second grade when my teacher had the class write letters to Santa.
I truly feel like a member of my own club lately, especially when surrounded by Millennials and whatever labels we apply to those even younger.
Once in a while, you invest a day of your life and when it's over, you know it was an incredibly good investment. I had such a day on Wednesday in Memphis, Tennessee.
The azaleas have returned to my neighborhood like old friends.
Word of the day -- desensitize: "to make less likely to feel shock or distress at scenes of cruelty, violence or suffering by overexposure to such images."
"I reckon I don't have much to give but my stories," Grandma said to John Boy as she sat on the bed beside him and wished for a better gift to give her eldest grandson.
I sat there with tears in the corners of my eyes, first from the joy of looking into their innocent, expectant faces. Then as time went on, the tears took on a very different meaning as I became outraged and terribly afraid.
The church was as majestic as I expected with massive, exquisite windows through which generations have looked in and looked out.
Since I was a little boy, the spins on the ice mesmerized me.
She came to me, not like an angel, but as my angel, her embrace just as I remember.
I wish we could go back to the moments in life that seem to stand still in our minds. Like Cher says, "If I could turn back time ... "
I have often wondered what goes through her mind when she curls herself into a big ball on the sofa and sleeps, and she does this a lot.
With the New Year's Eve champagne barely behind us, 2018 unfolds full of promise and challenge.
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, even though technically I have already had one.
It was a few weeks before Christmas in 1981 and all the halls of Richton Elementary School came alive with handmade Santa Clauses made from construction paper, scissors and glitter.
Just last night while lying in bed with my Great Dane, flannel pajamas and the classic holiday movie "A Christmas Carol" playing, I sipped hot chocolate from my favorite Rudolph mug, the one with the chip on it.
My Christmas list to Santa reads quite differently than the one I penned under the supervision of my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Jeffcoats, all those years ago.
"Look at lights! Look at lights!"
She was too young for much of a vocabulary, but her exuberance transcended the need for words.
There are so many things I miss about Thanksgiving now that the light in my little stone cottage on Dykes Chapel Road has dimmed.
Well, that's according to Groucho Marks. This much I know: The books we read while children stay with us our whole lives.
One of my favorites is "Frog and Toad Are Friends," written and illustrated by Arnold Lobel and published in 1970.
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