“What secret Morse is whispered root to stalk to root? What tremorous mystery is alive underground, even when leaves above brown and wither and branches snap at the touch? We forget how intricately we are all connected, even to our yards’ wind-tossed beings that explode pink in April and bronze in October.” Poet, playwright, and essayist Linda Parsons will appear at Addison’s Books in Knoxville on September 7.
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.
