It’s just funny, I guess, the way I get caught up in the lives of other people, folks I don’t even know. Yet I share their sorrow or rejoice with their successes. And they feel like friends, though most of them I have never met and suppose I never will.
It was an easy phone call to make. I knew it would be. I called my neighbor who lives across the road, not the street mind you for we are country folks, and asked for help.
It’s a funny thing about us Southerners. If a Yankee criticizes us, we haughtily disregard it, muttering over their ignorance.
Smiley cake brings back fond memories of Mama at Easter time.
Perhaps you’ve heard. It’s been the source of newspaper, magazine and television stories as they all pay tribute to the anniversary of the King James Bible.
Now, we all knew that wasn’t going to work. Not for one cotton-picking minute did we think that those two could say “I do” and keep that vow until one of ‘em stopped breathing.
A friend, en route from Charlotte to Atlanta, stopped to spend the night with me. I knew she needed more than a comfortable bed. She needed a hot meal.
It’s been almost 30 years since Debbie and I, as school girls, began the great debate. Over the ensuing years, we have each stood firmly on what we believed to be true.
I have always believed — old fashioned though it may be — that when it comes to courtship, men should be the pursuers. (Do you know how the Sadie Hawkins Dance that reverses traditional invitation roles got started? Go to Ronda's column and take the Quik Quiz to find out.)
I never took my daddy for the sentimental kind. And in this assessment, I was not alone. He was a man’s man with a generous heart and compassionate spirit but sentiment seemed to have no place in his life.
Over lunch, Debbie and I were having a conversation about someone we knew in our youth and were wondering what had happened to him.
If you ever hear that I have been babysitting, know this: It was an absolute act of desperation on the part of the mothers. It means there was no other option.
The text from my friend, Stevie, popped up on my phone. “We made the Hall of Fame! Woo Hoo!!!”
Let’s agree: This will be a new year unlike any other in recent time. Let’s each make a vow to do something bold, unexpected and something that will make a fresh imprint on the path of our lives.
Hello Readers, it’s me, Dixie Dew again. There was such an overwhelming response to the column I wrote a few months ago, that I was asked to give y’all an update.
If the experts are to be believed, then Christmas seldom lives up to our high expectations and that’s why so many are stricken with depression and gloom during the holidays. It’s a letdown after a big build-up.
Once I was aboard a riverboat called the American Queen on which I had spent several days cruising along what I consider to be the majestic Mississippi River.
Out of the blue one day, I got an email from an old, beloved friend from my NASCAR days. In the days when first I met him, Jim Freeman was the public relations director at the Talladega track. That was when the publicity at all the tracks was run by men, some college educated, some not, who were amicable, back-slapping and well-liked.
It’s a Thanksgiving tradition, albeit one started accidentally a few years ago.
A couple of years ago, I was in Fayetteville, Ark., having dinner with a few folks including two of the loveliest people I know — Gen and Frank Broyles.
My brother-in-law, Rodney, called me up one day. He’s one of my favorite people and even when I should get mad at him, I never can. He’s so charming and funny.
When word filtered out that she was gone, just packed up and disappeared like a vapor in the broad, bright light of day, I found no surprise in it.
Jerry and I were talking the other day.
In accordance to our weekly routine, we gather at my sister’s house every Sunday for dinner following church. Normally she who does most of the work chooses the menu, but the tradition is that each one of us gets to choose lunch for our birthday.
Singlehood is no curse. It's better to be single and happy than married and unhappy while waiting for the right guy to come along.
There's still a nice bit of kindness out there, but we could all use a little more.
Perhaps it isn’t a great mystery of life but it’s certain one of life’s more intriguing questions. At least for us women, that is.
One morning in Sunday school class, members were requesting prayer for those who were facing trials and tribulations.
As bad as it might sound, I have a couple of friends for whom I pray that they will outlive their spouses. The reason is simple: I want to see them have peace and happiness on this earth.
‘This is none of my business,” I said aloud to myself in a valiant, noble effort to mind my own business.
Until the day he died, Daddy had one prayer about his children that he prayed constantly. Probably every day of his life.
One night I was doing an appearance in a town where this column runs. A woman waited in line to speak to me and brought a clipping of that week's column for me to sign.
Just when I thought I knew most of what there was to know, or at least that which was mostly worth knowing, about what is alluring to men about women, I uncovered a stunning new truth.
There wasn't very much of me back then. I was a tiny girl, just big enough to reach up and grab hold of the wooden counter top in that old country store and lift my chin enough to allow my eyes to peer up in quiet fascination at the man who rang up the items that Mama had laid down.
It is one of the great mysteries of life. Why are some things so hard? Why, if some things are meant to be, is it so difficult sometimes to make them happen?
I wondered the other day how a mother could even think that, let alone say it. But then Mama was a woman who defied exact definition. She was strong, smart, courageous, sometimes outrageous and, above all, ruled by a faith that was simply unbendable and unquestionable. That part of her was definable and clear: She believed unyieldingly in an Almighty God who never left her side. Even when it could have seemed that He did.
It all started at the funeral home. A few other of my misadventures have begun there, too.
A few weeks ago, I was on the phone with a friend who lives in Las Vegas. Suddenly, out of the blue, he asked, "Is Easter this Sunday?""No," I replied. "Easter is one month from this Sunday."
My brother-in-law, Rodney, is a farmer of the most admirable kind. He farms, despite the heartbreaks, hard times, hot sun and little pay, because he loves it. Not even the relentless stronghold of healthy kudzu could choke the passion for farming from him. He is devoted to the land and what it brings. Good or bad.
Southerners tend to be practical folks, at least those of us raised in rural areas that have seen their share of hard times.
Any Southern woman worth her weight in Martha White flour has at least one drawer or cook book in her kitchen stuffed with recipes she has torn out of magazines or newspapers, fully intending to try each and every one of them.
Since I once called the garage area of the NASCAR Cup Series "home", working in the sport for several years as one of few women among hundreds of men, folks often ask my opinion on today's NASCAR.
Mama wasn't sentimental. In fact, I never knew of anyone who grew up in the Southern mountains during the Depression who was sentimental.
One night back in the summer, Louise, Rodney and I stopped to see Russell and Neva, whom we have all known in one way or the other for decades. Yet, we go ages without seeing each other. It's a crying shame, as Mama would say.
When Robert, a devout reader of this column who also happens to be an accomplished researcher in matter of family lineage, offered to trace my family roots, I accepted faster than kudzu can grow on a hot summer's day.
In digging through the material remains of what I consider to be my heart's one and only home, I have smiled repeatedly, even chuckled out loud on occasion, at Mama's thriftiness.
One morning when I went for a run, the good Lord blessed with such a joy, though simple that it was.
The other day I took a short cut down a back road, the likes of which I had not seen since I was a child in petticoats and Mary Janes and rode the big, yellow school bus.
A while back, I was on book tour when my publicist called to say I had been asked to cook on a television show.
It is my strong and abiding philosophy that good springs forth from the midst of whatever bad happens to us. In the recent days that now trail behind me as time spent sweetly, I have luxuriated in the good that came from the water line break that practically demolished my childhood home.