There are some things about the South which are strange to people who aren’t accustomed to them. I’ve noticed this on occasion through the years.
One such occasion happened some time ago, when I returned to work after a short trip to Rite Aid.
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This story begins in a pool hall and ends in a goat pen.
The middle is quite messy. (more…)
I grew up in a chicken house.
I don’t mean literally, of course, though when the wind is right I can smell five of them.
What I mean is, when I was a kid, I had it made. (more…)
