Instead of red velvet trimmed with fur, ours came with a sporty stripe. But what matters most is what’s inside, and ours stretched to hold more joy.
Recent Posts By Rick Bragg
A few months ago, I asked readers for advice on how to grovel. The alternative—to do right in the first place—I rejected from self-awareness. Well, proving that people have too much time on their hands, I actually got some tips. I now know three indelible things: one, the Southern man knows more about groveling than he ought to admit; two, […]
I remember a quiet so complete a lone cricket was a cacophony, a single drop of water boomed like a stick hammering a bass drum. I remember space, vast and long, remember cotton that stretched to the end of everything, interrupted only by ribbons of blacktop that led to exotic places like Leesburg, Piedmont, and Rome. I remember a dark […]
They say we Southerners live in the past. That, they say, is our problem; the past is dead, Faulkner or no Faulkner. I guess I could try to explain, to tell them that for us memory is not an inventory, not a catalog of events, but a time machine. It lifts us off the dull treadmill of grown-up responsibilities to […]
The boy has gone off to college now. And here I am, left with all the peace and quiet I have learned not to miss.