Without saying a word humans say so much
EDITOR'S NOTE: Lisa Kelley is away this week. Writing in her stead is her dog, Baxter.
Couple doesn’t get far from country roots
If the shoe fits
A bit of country in the city
If a man walks in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer. But if he spends his days as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making the earth bald before her time, he is deemed an industrious and enterprising citizen.
Sick habits go ‘nucular’
‘You’re so gonna break something’
I remember Skate City being a place where the cool kids scissor-crossed their skates and zoomed passed me while I stayed along the edge of the rink, trying to remain vertical. The times I managed to go backward were done by inertia and gravity, not by choice. I looked like a go-cart in the Daytona 500, but I didn't care. I was happy to be there.
Celebrating Easter southern style
Most Easters of late, I've traveled to spend time with my Uncle Ronnie. But because I'd just been there for the farm sale, I decided to stay put this Easter Sunday. I mapped my day with church and two separate gatherings at beloved friends' houses, where I'm always welcomed as a baby sister, crazy aunt or second cousin once removed.
A countrified fountaion of youth
The first Saturday of this month brought the 43rd annual FFA Farm Sale to the Clay County Fairgrounds in Piggott. I'd texted Uncle Ronnie during the week to see if he'd taken a sneak peak.
Forth time is charm
My driver's license came up for renewal this month. When it was renewed four years ago, an elderly clerk kindly said I needn't have a new picture taken because I looked the same as I had four years prior. This year, a pubescent clerk took one look at me and pointed toward the camera. I took solace in the fact that his badge read, "Trainee," and he'd sent everyone ahead of me to get a new picture, too. Or maybe it was the fact my photo looked like a 1980s glamour shot, and I ... didn't.
Hee Haw icon comes to town
The audience heaved a collective sigh at seeing the performer shimmy his way to a seat at center stage. Gone were the trademark mutton chops and youthful face-filling smile. Gone were the limber fingers that tore up banjos, guitars and fiddles to the point where actors sharing scenes with him broke character in awe when he played. All had been replaced by a frail old man buried beneath a brown coat and hat. At seeing the audience, he tapped his cane on the floor and flashed a grin as the crowd rose with welcoming applause.
Flies, toads with a side of gravy
The cursor blinks. Random thoughts polka in my head. My mama's chocolate gravy recipe twirls with Grammy's sharecropper stories while my driver's test experiences try to cut in. I subconsciously switch from writer to editor and criticize myself for ending a sentence with a preposition -- a sentence I haven't actually written, only narrated in my mind. I wonder who made that preposition rule anyway -- and why we listened.