The Boll Weevil Monument turned 100 today.(more…)
I wish I could think of a better idea for this post.
The last thing I was surprised by isn’t my story to tell.
I don’t feel like I should give a review on the three books I’m reading since I haven’t finished any of them yet.
My story about the time I slept on the Couch of Death has been posted for years. The last time was almost a repeat of the same story, and I didn’t know if a repost is against Writer’s Workshop rules.
I have not posted a picture to Instagram this month. The one photo I posted in April was an old one, and I have not tackled any spring cleaning.
Like I said, I wish I could think of a better idea for this post.
Maybe next time.
Years ago, a child asked me what I wished.
Back then I never put much thought into wishes – at least not wishes I’d tell a child – so I said I didn’t know.
The child wondered out loud why I wouldn’t wish my legs worked right.(more…)
The sun sinks in a blue sky.
The way the pale, orange glow it’s kind enough to leave in its wake shines through the trees reminds me of the last embers of a campfire on a creek bank.
It’s the last light of a long day in South Alabama, and I’m on the front porch to watch it fade into darkness.
I’m not alone.(more…)
There is something in journalism called the can.
No, not the toilet.
It’s the place, in my experience most likely some sort of file or desktop folder, where writers keep stories they’ve decided to save for a slow news day.
I toiled seven years in print journalism, and there were a lot of days I just didn’t want to write or wondered whether there would be enough words to write to fill the paper.
One of the things I learned early in my journalism career was if I would like to receive a paycheck, the paper must be filled.
My bosses never liked my suggestion we fill it with crossword puzzles so the can saved my butt more than once.
I feel like now is a good time to tell you I have no idea where I’m going with this, and the time it takes you to read these words will be time you’ll never get back.(more…)
This poem filled with pairs proved easy to write,
after I saw what I saw last night.
I watched a dad sit down in a chair,
and hold his two daughters, who sat with him there.
One of the girls held onto a book,
but dad opened it up and all three took a look.
It wasn’t just any old story or fable,
On that pair of pages, laid flat on a table.
This wasn’t a tale of planes or a park,
but the story of Noah, and a boat called an ark.
There were on those pages a few things to find,
Among all of the animals, two of a kind.
A hammer, a saw, a ruler for size,
all spied by the gazes from three pairs of eyes.
They found everything on the floating zoo,
which the animals boarded, two by two.
I know all of those pairs surely caused some congestion,
but still — I can’t help it — I have a question.
Answer me this, or I’ll never know,
why did this guy show blueprints to a hippo?
When the story was finished, goodnights were said,
then mom and dad put the children to bed.
When it comes to kids, that pair surely wins,
For they have a young son, and their daughters are twins.
This story was supposed to be a tale about a time when I made a sound investment, which grew with work and then yielded plenty of dividends.
Instead, it’s about a loss.
The moral of this story is simple. Life doesn’t go how I plan, and sometimes my plans make me sick.
The man in this picture is my mama’s daddy. The boy beside him called him Pappaw.
The boy grew up to be me.
The man didn’t have much longer to live, which brings me to my wish.(more…)
I guess this kind of rainy Monday would have really gotten Karen Carpenter down.
Maybe it’s got you down, too.(more…)