“Iced tea,” she says with a smile. “For my American writer.” They’re doing okay here in Rome.
It was simply that she was the only woman he ever loved. And after a few decades of marriage, she still is.
The students poured peanuts into their bottles. Messes were made. Bottles erupted on desks like Mount Saint Soft Drink. Everyone started to giggle.
The Alabama game was on. The Crimson Tide was beating Texas, and my heart sang. We were at a family reunion.
So he’s sitting on the hood of his ‘73 Piece Of Junkola when an old guy at the next pump notices there’s something odd about this kid. Namely, the kid is wearing a tux.
I get Andy. And though I never knew him, he seems to understand me. And when I see that familiar jailhouse, or hear Barney Fife’s tenor voice, I am no longer that lonely child who once sat before a television and wondered if anyone would ever love him.
Did you know that nearly eight out of every 10 Americans believe in angels? For the math challenged, that’s a whole dang lot of people. When it comes to global figures, seven out of 10 humans believe in angels.
He is playing on his phone when he asks, “What was it like before smartphones?”
Hundreds of years ago, when Choctaw Indians still lived on the Gulf Coast of Florida, Alabama, Louisiana, and Mississippi, they had a word in their language. It was a short word: Okeh.
And I want you to know that long ago, a woman once told me that if I counted my blessings, I would get meatloaf. I’m glad she made me do that.
The locals call this the greatest city in the world. Which is sort of stupid, if you ask me. Birmingham is a pretty small city, compared to your mega-cities. The greatest? Come on.
The beauty of Milo’s tea is that it’s not too sweet. It is the right balance of sugar and tea. In 12 fluid ounces of Milo’s tea you’re looking at a mere 26 grams of sugar. Which is nothing.
There is a lot of talk in the writing community about how artificial intelligence chatbots are going to replace authors someday.
For the unbaptized, Fifth Sunday Sings were started in the pioneer days. Back then, rural Americans couldn’t make it to church every Sunday.
My mother always used to tell me the same stupid thing: “Be yourself,” she was always saying. Give me a break.
He’s a good boy. A good man. A fine soldier. And that is why I thanked a perfect stranger for his service to our country.
“It sounds like a plot from a Hallmark movie,” he says. “But that’s how it all happened.”
The entire region has been succumbing to deadly heat this week. There have been 11 heat-related deaths in the Southeast recently. On Tuesday, a postal worker collapsed and died while on his route in Dallas.
My cousin was over for dinner; we got to talking about mayonnaise. One thing led to another. The conversation got heated, and eventually we were shouting.
“Just Married.” That’s what’s written on the back of a ratty tailgate in white shoe polish. The plates are North Carolina. The old Ford Ranger has seen better days.
A side-of-the-road restaurant. Way out in the sticks. The young boy was seated at the table with his mother and father. His mother had green hair. His father was bald, with tattoos on his face and on his scalp. The little boy was using a wheelchair.
There is magic in old things. You can’t find this charm in glowing monitors or phone screens.
There was excitement in the air. The same kind of under-the-surface joy that precedes all ball games. Only more so. Because, you see, this was a Miracle League game.
I am perplexed why homeowners in Birmingham are always cutting down enormous, 150-year-old, healthy trees. Is it an aesthetic thing? Do some people just hate trees?
Cracker Barrel is quiet this time of night. My wife is with me. We’ve been traveling all day. On the way into the restaurant, I see a few kids sitting on rockers outside. They’re playing checkers.
Those who do not have dogs do not get it. They will not get it. For there is a bond between human and canine which is so thick not even the strongest man could tear it asunder.