It's December and time for my annual barbecue column.
If Kendall Graveman's baseball career continues its present trajectory, he's going to turn at least one cliche on its ear. Nice guys can do just fine in the Majors, thank you.
A co-worker greeted me as she arrived at work Thursday with a casual observation.
I was going through some files not too long ago and noticed both my driver's license and passport had expired.
I've come to believe that Christmas is state of mind and, therefore, pretty much a matter of timing.
It had been 10 days and Sam was sick and tired of being sick and tired. He had only been out of the house for a trip to Robert's Apothecary for vitamins, nasal spray and a B-12 shot. He pinned his hopes on Robert's elixirs, supplemented with Dayquil and Nyquil.
Friday afternoon Adrine Younger welcomed me into her tidy kitchen and offered me a glass of tea and a piece of Italian cream cake. The grandmother and widowed mother of five lives in a pleasant one-story farmhouse about a mile down a gravel road that bears the family name. I had come to talk politics.
This Thanksgiving marks an anniversary for a particularly difficult time, probably one of my most traumatic days. I have the gift of not remembering the bad things so when something stands out, it is for a reason.
In the 1960s, Tupelo was an Ole Miss town. This was especially true in east Tupelo, my part of town, and Lawhon Elementary school, where I attended first through eighth grade.
I heard the news recently of John Doar's passing.
Next week brings the American Thanksgiving holiday and for most of us a wonderful feast.
Friday morning started out with a small crisis. We were out of coffee and I had a gathering to attend before 7. The downtown shop I frequent doesn't open until 7:30, so I headed out 45 for a national coffee chain that takes its name from a character in Moby Dick. (The company, I learned on the Internet, was almost named for the whaling ship in the story, Pequod.)
There are differing ideas about the recently proposed ban on allowing dogs in public cemeteries in Starkville.
The Egg Bowl was played Wednesday on the Mississippi State campus and for time first time ever, it didn't matter who won or lost.
The public hearing had just ended. As Tommie Cardin was packing up for his drive back to Jackson, Darren Leach approached him and made what seemed to me a curious comment.
Mississippians will be able to tell whether the criminal indictment faced by Christopher Epps means anything by how the 2015 edition of the Mississippi Legislature reacts.
Shirley, my walking partner turned house sitter, reported all went well at the Prairie house while we were away. She had only one scare when she feared Jack, the cat, had expired on the sofa.
"Since time memorial the Choctaw Indians have lived in Mississippi, and have made baskets of the reed cane which grows in the swamps of the south." So begins a ca. 1920 letter from Mrs. J.E. Arnold, a Baptist missionary to the Choctaw in Union.
In 1953 the French writer Jean Giono published a thin volume, titled, "The Man Who Planted Trees." The story's narrator, hiking alone in the south of France, comes upon a desolate, treeless valley covered in wild lavender. The year is 1910.
On Nov. 1, 1980, John Bond became a king and I became one of his subjects.