We’ve all heard the old saying “You can’t take it with you”, right? And we all know why old sayings get to be old sayings, right? (In case you don’t, it’s because there’s a grain of truth hidden in them . . .)
It’s raining. A rare occurrence of late. And a welcome one. It’s done that off and on for the last few days, and you know what? The grass that once crunched under my feet is now soft and green again. And in need of mowing.
It’s Fair Week in Hardin County, Tennessee! Just like it is or has been or will be in the near future for many counties around the south. And maybe the north. I’m just not sure how many of our southern traditions they embrace.
The name they had chosen was filled with meaning, a combination of his father’s—Jon—and her father’s—Michael. Even before they knew what he was, they knew who he was.
It was sometime in the 1960s or perhaps even the early 1970s. We could possibly even narrow it down a bit more than that . . . let’s say the mid-60s to early 70s. There had been a murder . . .
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”
Carl Jeter had walked out on the deck of his house to survey the flood waters of the Guadalupe River—and to be certain the level was no longer rising.
It was bedtime in the Guinn household and six-year-old Malcolm had decided tonight was the night to declare his independence.
They had been married almost 25 years when Death suddenly took him. Twenty-five years of traveling around the country with his work. Twenty-five years of adventures and building their family and finally settling into a place they believed they could call their forever home.
