Rich: The photo of back then

There is a photo that I discovered a couple of years ago and immediately I put it on the refrigerator, so I’d never forget who I am. Who I really am. It is a color photo made with a Kodak Instamatic camera. Remember those? The little silver box with a flash cube that snapped on top.

Rich: When the good ones leave

Over the past few years, I’ve lost too many loved ones who meandered out of this life and crossed the River Jordan. “I don’t know why the Lord keeps taking the good ones and leaving the bad ones,” I complained to a friend, recently widowed. Her husband had been a celebrated legend of the ages.

Rich: The river birch trees

Three river birch trees surround our home. I planted them three years after I built this house. River birches are pretty trees. They grow long, toward the sky, and spread a beautiful canopy of shade. The trunks are interesting and artistic as the bark is constantly curling into pieces.

Rich: The high cost of Crisco

From the car, I toted in bags of heavy groceries. I have become my mama. Mama mostly bought staples: five-pound sacks of flour and cornmeal as well as gallon jugs of sweet milk and buttermilk.

Rich: The South I’ve met

Most of the best stories I’ve heard come forth from the South. The most memorable people I have met, by far, are Southerners. I’m a Yankee and moved here by way of California.

Rich: Facing the new year

A new year has arrived and a half-ragged one lies behind, reduced now to memories. It seemed, at times, I couldn’t enjoy the wonderful things popping around because of such bone-deep sorrow brought on by the home-going of loved ones.

Rich: Looking back at Christmases past

When I was a child and even through my teenage years, Christmas night and the following day were the saddest time of the year. The anticipation of presents, church pageants, and holiday cheer was swooped away in such a short time.

Rich: Rodney the storyteller

Rodney, my brother-in-law, is one of the South’s best storytellers. He doesn’t tell stories in the typical Southern manner of embellishment, lyrical phrasing, or extreme expression. He tells them in such a casual way that the story becomes the king. Not the storyteller.

Rich: The dried flowers

Sentiment is not something I was taught. It was born in me. Both my parents were hardscrabble Appalachian folks where sentimentality was a luxury that could be afforded no more than new, wool coats for the entire family or a simple, gold wedding band for my grandmother. But me?

Rich: Southern Gothic Murder (Final Installment)

Seton Tucker is the reason that I all a sudden packed a suitcase on Sunday night and said, casually, to Tink, “I’m going to South Carolina for the Murdaugh trial tomorrow.” He chuckled. “Be safe.” He is used to my spontaneous ideas. He never interferes or tries to make sense.