On cold, winter days, my mother and I love a good shoot-‘em-up Western. ‘Now wait a minute, Shep. We don’t want to kill us no ol’ ladies, ’cause I like ol’ ladies’ — The actor Dennis Hopper, on Gunsmoke, just before shooting the train conductor My mother is not a panicky woman; she is a Southern one. She was born […]
Recent Posts By Rick Bragg
It was long before Katrina, in those hot, sticky, normal years when people complained how dry things had been. The drought made the already insubstantial dirt weak and powdery, and the piers of the shotgun houses sank into the earth. It is not unusual in New Orleans for an old house to lean, drunkenly. My favorite story was about […]
I’ve been peeling labels off my mother for years. First through the words inside the books. And now from their covers.
Sung late into the night, the words stayed with the boy who didn’t think he was listening. I have reached a place in life where I do not think clearly about the present, or the future. What I do, mostly, is remember, my thoughts triggered by some flyer flapping on a telephone pole, or a scrap of a song.
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.