A young hitchhiker encounters two men on a lonesome Montana road
Two cowboys in a Ford Ranchero pickup truck stop and tell me I can ride thirty miles to Missoula in the truck’s back bed. There have been no cars for nearly an hour. I think for a nanosecond. Then I take the ride.
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I was transfixed by the woman’s stories and could not imagine just walking away
The elderly woman greeted everyone as though she knew them and gave each a bright smile.
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Walking a labyrinth for the first time taught me to trust the path
My intention had been to attend a writing retreat, but I suddenly had the feeling that I was actually there to attend a labyrinth retreat.
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An old friend is the best friend
It was the fall of 1970, and we were freshmen in high school, that tender, socially feverish age when your friendships are everything and time stands still around every relationship.
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A forgotten novelist is remembered through music
Thomas Stribling won the Pulitzer Prize for a trilogy he wrote about Florence, Alabama. But when I was growing up in the 1960s, no one in Florence spoke of Stribling anymore.
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There’s nothing like the connections that bring writers and readers together at the Southern Festival of Books
Here it is, finally, the day when writers and readers throng into Nashville on an October weekend seeking fellowship and elevation of the spirit and news and gossip. But especially old friends and new books.
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