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I am a converted believer in Memphis, my hometown, the place I vowed never to live after turning 18. It wasn't some great epiphany. Like many conversions, it was subtle and happened while I wasn't paying attention. If, generally speaking, places have a way of growing on a person, then Memphis is the kudzu of … Continue reading 12 articles of faith for a Memphis believer.
Inside one of the 104 boxes of stuff from my mother's house I found her Daily Reminder book, 1963. It has a red cover, now tattered around the edges, and pages full of her lovely, ladylike script. Along with mailing addresses for her parents and for the music director at the church there are notations … Continue reading Minding the day.
"What's next with your blog?" "Are you writing a book?" Inquiring minds, those of my friends anyway, want to know. It's that season, of course, new year, new you, all that. One of the things I've enjoyed most having a blog is the thread of conversations with friends who were friends before I ever published … Continue reading Blogging to Savasana.
My grandfather, my father’s father, and his sister Julia lived next door to one another from the mid 1930s, when they built their houses, until they died decades later. Their yards were connected by a garden path, their lives communal. My father was an only child, and his four cousins living next door were more … Continue reading Are you my family?
My son caught his first fish on a fly rod last week. He had begged for years to go fishing; he had seen all my gear in the hall closet and wanted me to show him how to use it. Finally last week, thanks to an invitation from a dear friend, he got his chance. … Continue reading Tight lines and sister tales.
That a future movie star's resume would not need "summer camp" was the basis of my argument. I feel certain my mother knew the real reason had more to do with my aversion to heat, bugs, and anything athletic, but she allowed that to remain our unspoken secret and never sent me to camp. I … Continue reading Summer camp.
My sister and I stifled laughter throughout our mother’s funeral. The minister was not trying to be funny. He had scarcely known our mother because she did not like him or his newfangled church policies. At her service he retold stories we’d told him only 48 hours before, and in his folksy manner he inadvertently … Continue reading Laying Betty to rest.