I still remember the soccer fields at the edge of Nashville, off Highway 70. Way out in Bellevue by the Toys ’R Us and the Sonic and the psychic with the big white sign. We had to be there early for our games. Squinting hour, foggy hour. Can’t-finish-your-cereal hour.
The scene of the attack is an ugly place, conjuring up a bitter taste that comes from deep down in the back of your throat, leaving a lasting sensation of utter hopelessness and despair. This landing will be difficult. I must get us down near the wounded man.
FROM THE CHAPTER 16 ARCHIVE: On Memorial Day I always think of my friend George Mangrum of Lauderdale County, Alabama. This is his story. It needs to be told.
FROM THE CHAPTER 16 ARCHIVE: Charlie and Maude began their marriage on a homestead perched near the banks of the Cumberland River. The first child came within the year of their marriage. Eight more followed. Whooping cough claimed one of the babies, and the river’s frequent flooding eventually claimed the house.
These red crown jewels of cuisine, the tiny ripe ones sweet enough to make you weep on first bite if you weren’t too busy reaching for another — they come from right up the road this time of year, if you are lucky enough to live in the right places. In our neck of the woods, the strawberry epicenter is Portland, Tennessee, and the farms stretching out across the rolling hills of the region.
I loved opening the bookstore alone on Sunday. I loved how it smelled — all those books with their genie-in-a-bottle dreams of love and fear, goddesses and coal miners — Sherlock Holmes on the foggy moor — barefoot Sappho — Harriet Tubman, vampires, Lassie. Often I would arrive well before noon, to have some time alone with the books.
