Would you pay good money to take a long, twisting and turning walk through a cornfield? For many, the answer is a most emphatic yes.

Covering municipal meetings is at the top of my least favorite things to do list. Generally speaking, they are boring and stale. Most last far longer than they should.

classroom. When one teacher is leaving, other teachers grab stuff they can use.

“[W]e currently have an inferno of political violence to which the president of the United States adds fuel,” Jennifer Rubin thunders from her bully pulpit at the Washington Post.

Parable of the editor and the church ladies

A wonderful thing about column writing is that every so often a published column can give birth to another column. On even rarer occasions, the result can be multiple columns - twins, triplets, or – Heavens to Betsy – quadruplets. Such an occasion occurr

Oh, I can imagine all the broken-hearted little girls who just read that headline and broke down in tears. “Daddy, that bad, bad man didn’t really kill a unicorn, did he?” I will most certainly have some explaining to do to my dear, sweet granddaughter.

Some decisions are necessary, but that doesn’t make them any easier. Knowing it’s the right thing to do takes some of the sting away, but feelings of sadness and loss still remain. Such was the case last week when the Presbytery of New Harmony voted to p

During a conversation with a friend the other day I mentioned the name Lewis Grizzard. “Is he a writer or something?” my young friend asked. “Are you serious?” I shot back, a look of shock on my face. “Son, you cannot rightly call yourself a true Southern

When this COVID-19 thing finally blows over, we will be able to look back and be thankful for a few good things that are a result, either directly or indirectly, of this pandemic. For me, one of them will be the Sequestered Songwriters Facebook page. Ever

Amid all the troubles occupying our attention, one of the more worrisome is also one of the least visible. It is the loss of public faith in the effectiveness of our representative democracy.

I love back roads and their fading vestiges of yesteryear. Bull Durham and Coca Cola ads painted onto brick and old Camel cigarette signs don’t bother me at all.

I understand and affirm that black lives matter. Some of my dearest friends are black people. I love them and they matter.

Last week’s column included an amusing tale on a northerner’s introduction to boiled peanuts, the Caviar of the South. It was followed by a short commentary on personal distaste for the mushy legumes. Not to my surprise, many were mildly offended at my av

An old friend of mine once told me a story about his first encounter with the southern delicacy known as boiled peanuts. A Yankee by birth, Joe had made his way to North Carolina from his hometown of Johnston, N.J. He lived in the tiny town of Tar Heel, n