Ronda Rich


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RONDA RICH: Memories in the ashes

THE DIXIE DIVA: Things can be replaced, but not what those things represent

We stood in the charred remains of a life that once was – my sister and I – and said not a word. What was there to say?

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RONDA RICH: The legacy of Don Light

THE DIXIE DIVA: Don Light taught of you keep going, you will get the yes you are looking for

While Don Light leaves behind an admirable reputation, he leaves a legacy to those of us touched by his wisdom.

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RONDA RICH: When a man finds his destiny

THE DIXIE DIVA: I still shake my head in wonderment and marvel at the amazement of Gods plan

Inexplicably, destiny finds him. It threw itself into his path, tackled him, and when he stopped wrestling against the mighty force, saw he was staring right smack into the eye of what God had destined for him all along.

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RONDA RICH: Special friendship something to be thankful for

THE DIXIE DIVA: Great traditions are not planned, they are born

It started accidentally. Some good ideas and memorable moments are like that. They aren’t planned. They’re born, bringing with them an ability to nudge a way naturally into our lives and become a tradition.

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RONDA RICH: A rumor gets a life of its own

THE DIXIE DIVA: Nothing moves as fast as a rumor

A planned memorial service for a guy gets plenty memorable.

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RONDA RICH: Teachers also can learn at Bible School

THE DIXIE DIVA: Volunteering for VBS can be a learning experience

In the kitchen and dining room, we saw women who unselfishly put aside their own work and prepared food all day for 200 children.

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RONDA RICH: There's wealth in being poor

THE DIXIE DIVA: Poverty gives you a place to go -- up

My people, as I have long said, were raised up on hard times in the Appalachian foothills. I don’t know that I had a grandparent who ever saw the sum of $500 at one time or even held a hundred dollar bill in hand

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RONDA RICH: When time melts away

THE DIXIE DIVA: Memories bind us together later in life

Southerners are always buoyed by a sense of place and the stories that unfold there. For us – the pretty redhead girl and me – it was summer Sunday afternoons.

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RONDA RICH: You gotta be careful

THE DIXIE DIVA: Be careful what you ask for - - especially if it's powered

Having great power tools comes with great responsibility.

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RONDA RICH COLUMN: Ghosts in the ashes

DIXIE DIVA: Fire can't destory memories

One of Daddy’s self-penned mantras danced in my head as I looked around. “Kid, never worry over that which money and hard work can replace.”

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RONDA RICH: Steady like a chainsaw

THE DIXIE DIVA: Ouch, right in the frugal bone

To be honest, I was more than a mite worried. I was plenty worried. My husband, raised not in the South or in the country, wanted a chainsaw. The one farm accessory that has brought down many a man. From an early age, I was taught respect for that chewing, sawing, respect-for-no-man power tool.

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RONDA RICH: Miss Elinor's thank you

THE DIXIE DIVA: Miss Elinor might be a hundred, but she sure has got the lingo down

Well, Miss Elinor, here’s what I have to say to you and I want to say it publicly through the dozens of newspapers across the Southeast that carry this column, including your beloved Brunswick News: I can tell by the time that you have taken to encourage someone in a world that is not always kind that your South is one of gentility and warmth.

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RONDA RICH: Everything works out if you'll let it

THE DIXIE DIVA: Learning to cope is the gift of enduring many trials

If I could go back in time and give the younger me one piece of advice, it would be this: “Minimize the drama. Step over a disappointment and move onward to a new opportunity.”

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RONDA RICH: The American Dream lives on

THE DIXIE DIVA: America, as a land of opportunity, is at her best when the chips are down

When I’m accused of having lost touch with hard-working Americans who have faced misfortune, it’s a stab to the heart because I have long been one of those Americans.

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RONDA RICH: Old money, old South

THE DIXIE DIVA: Dry weather and red clay are formidable foes

I think of Rowan Oak when I look at my yard and remember what Faulkner told his wife, Estelle, when she told him that she would like to restore the gardens and make a pretty place of it. I can imagine him now, tilting his head down to look up at her when he spoke sternly: “Only new money would ruin a garden like that.”