I grab my coffee cup, go outside for a break from work, and take a leisurely lap around the yard to enjoy the cooler weather.
Granny’s at it again. I recently regaled readers with the tale of my 80-year-old grandmother demolishing me at Words With Friends — an electronic version of Scrabble. This woman, may I remind you, can’t even send an email and calls Facebook “Faceplace” but she destroys me at online Scrabble.
I know that I have written quite a group of stories about ghosts. I am asked by a lot of people, “do you believe in ghosts?” I answer, “there are a lot of strange things that happen in this old world — some you can explain; some you cannot.”
Many years ago, as I was leaving a local church I happened to be behind an elderly lady whom I knew to be the widow of a prominent Rome physician.
The rise of the Islamic State in the Middle East is, to be certain, shocking to Western sensibilities and seems so sudden that it requires an equally swift and shocking response. In Washington, Congress has clamored for and President Barack Obama seems to be promising just that.
The other night I saw where a friend of mine had posted on Facebook. Bryant Steele (a great American) is a talented writer and is not prone to drift far from the truth. I don’t think he imbibes too much of the local squeezins, and seemed to be typing plumb sober when he made the post.
I am a man who has never hit his wife, and I am a longtime Atlanta Falcons fan. I understand neither of those facts will push me over the hump toward eventual sainthood.
Last month, Maryam Mir zakhani became the first woman in history to win a Fields Medal — “math’s Nobel Prize.” This is a cause for celebration, but also for reflection.
Some of my best buddies are the goofiest three guys you’ll ever meet. But they are good as gold. Here’s an example of what I have to deal with on a day-to-day basis.
At the annual luncheon meeting of the Rome-Floyd County Commission on Children and Youth, Director Carol Willis reported on the need for more foster homes.
Anyone who viewed the chaos in Ferguson, Missouri, surrounding the shooting death of Michael Brown as a local problem with black hoodlums that does not affect us here in peaceful, bucolic Northwest Georgia, is ignoring a deep racial divide in our own city and state — one which we continue to ignore to our peril.
AT THE WEEKLY SESSION of the scholarly No Name Coffee Club, Dr. Dan Hanks, who recently was barely voted into membership by a vote of 6 to 5, interrupted our ongoing erudite analysis of world affairs, to ask me, “What were you doing at Physical Rehab yesterday?”
Even partisan political rhetoric must have some level of truth, and Kenneth Fuller’s op-ed this week (“Both Perdue and Deal have betrayed our children,” Sept. 1) fails that test in embarrassing fashion. The blind attacks on Gov. Deal are so easily refuted — so contrary to the public record — that they destroy the credibility of the writer and require a correction.
Labor Day weekend, the opening of football season captured the nation’s interest. In Athens, home of the University of Georgia, Uga was in mourning.
The U.S. Department of Agriculture has estimated it will cost middle class parents an estimated $240,000 to raise a child born in 2013 to the age of 18.
If your friend ever invites you to a Labor Day fish fry hosted by their kind-but-mildly-racist father, GO!
I was thinking back on an incident that happened years ago. It was an Easter Sunday and I had come downtown to see what was going on.
Since the beginning of the term of Gov. Carl Sanders in 1960, and continuing through the term of Gov. Roy Barnes which ended in 2002, Georgia’s Legislatures consistently viewed the education of the state’s children as being the first priority of our government.
This is the time of the year to raise a toast to Andre Michaux. You may not think you know him, but you know about his influence on the landscape. It was this French botanist who introduced the common crepe myrtle to Charleston in 1790 — a great day for the South.
So, your neighbor has a garden. It’s that time of year again, where he or she shows up at your front door holding a bag. You grimace. You already know what it is. Okra.
My 80-year-old grandmother is demolishing me at Words With Friends. That may sound adorable to you, but to someone as competitive as I am, it’s infuriating and embarrassing.