On Thursday, the Columbus Arts Council’s Mississippi Writers’ Series presents nationally syndicated columnist and author Rheta Grimsley Johnson in a “lunch and talk” at the Rosenzweig Arts Center in downtown Columbus.
I’ve been three times to the Ernest Hemingway house in Key West, Florida, hoping with each visit to find some secret to writing short, declarative sentences that resonate with the reading public and sell millions of books.
I’m scheduled this month to show up at a writer’s fair in Mississippi’s Jackson, a town where I’ve only ever distinguished myself by not being hired by the local newspaper, being evicted from an apartment for parking a rotten sailboat in the side yard and working briefly for United Press International after that news organization stopped issuing regular paychecks.
As soon as the heat dropped below 90 degrees one recent late afternoon — about 7 o’clock, really — I moved the CD player to the front porch, adjusted the fan just so and put my feet up on a coffee table. I played “Sunday Morning Coming Down” and “The Pilgrim” and “The Captive.”
President and Mrs. Obama reportedly are about to join a club in which I’m glad to no longer hold membership: They are about to become renters.
It is Twelfth Night. Beneath a balcony in the French Quarter, we listen as dignitaries high above welcome Joan of Arc and the start of Carnival season.
I was making a gingerbread man, a ginger-Trump-man, using candy orange slices for the infamous hair, all the while trying to figure out why a smart friend the night before had said what everyone and his brother keeps declaring with conviction: The Donald is sure to lose steam any day now.
The world’s problems are best solved with old friends around a warm fire in the kitchen stove in Fishtrap Hollow.
I am in my quiet spot on this earth today, but thinking only of another place, another country, a good friend.
It strikes me that those who are defending the Confederate flag in the name of their Southern heritage are a little late.