I know that he loved the golf channel and the shelf of cereal boxes in the pantry, the dog and us and the big glasses of ice water he drank with his dinner. But he never really nested in that house the way the rest of us did. When my parents divorced, all he took with him was his clothing, tied up in big black leaf bags with the wire hangers poking out.
Every place I hike is a graveyard, and each bed I make on the earth is made atop death.
You can write anywhere. Just make sure you show up ready to do the job.
I watched my husband Bo paint the purple letters on the yellow header above the plexiglass door of my new free library. Visions of spines with names like Maya Angelou, Aldo Leopold, Salman Rushdie, and J.D. Salinger danced in my head. The neighbors up and down Devil Fork Road were going to love it — and I could create my own literary community.
Miss Betty’s column was never supposed to be funny. Still, every Christmas, after making the pilgrimage from Georgia to Water Valley, Mississippi, my sisters and I would read “Betty’s Week” aloud for guaranteed laughter. Scoring a copy of the North Mississippi Herald was a family tradition, right up there with perusing the staff picks at Square Books and snorfeling down pepper-flecked bacon at Big Bad Breakfast.
I recalled, mistily, an incident at a carnival when I was 4 or 5. I’d wandered away from my parents, in pursuit of an enormous teddy bear. I followed the bear behind the Ferris wheel, through a canvas flap. As I looked on fondly, the bear ripped its head off — and lit a cigarette.
