We have come to the end of another month so I thought now would be as good a time as any to go on a written journey back through the days of June.(more…)
I was 7 years old when my Pappaw died.
There are things I remember about him, even though I saw him with only a child’s eyes.(more…)
Today, I thought about one of the best opportunities I had as a journalist.
Every June 6 since 2011, my mind has drifted to the day I knocked on a door and what I heard from the man who answered.
I couldn’t find the full original story I wrote so some of the details may be a little off, but what follows is the short version from my memory.(more…)
Freedom is a precious thing.
We’ll honor those who paid the price to keep us free at the end of the month, but it’s never too early to start.(more…)
One of my favorite parts of my journalism job was when veterans told me their stories.
They told me how they jumped onto a beach in France, and they told me about sleepless nights in the Vietnam delta.
Sometimes, though, there were stories they weren’t ready to tell.
Sometimes, those memories were parts of their past they preferred to keep there so we let them lie buried.
There were words they couldn’t say, and scenes they didn’t want to replay.
I always accepted their hesitation without question, but earlier this year a book helped me understand it.(more…)
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…)
My mama’s daddy died when I was 7 years old, but I learned a lot about him during the 2,815 days we shared. (more…)
Atop a cabinet in my room rested an old Underwood typewriter. (more…)
Walter Nichols sat in a straight-backed chair with his back to the sun, looking at a handwritten, framed letter which lay in his hands. (more…)