There are many things I love about the South. We're fiercely patriotic. We're neighborly. We're storytellers without equal. We're unabashedly and unapologetically faithful. We're proudly hospitable. But here's what I love just a little bit better than all the rest: We believe mightily in courtesy and manners.
Having received positive feedback to last month's column, tree questions - part 1, I thought it appropriate to continue the series at least for another month, maybe even for the rest of the summer, as there are lots of questions about trees!
Back in the 1970s, a guy I knew keeled over dead of a heart attack.
Early this week I had an interesting conversation with a downtown Camden businessman. I was walking the area doing our weekly "Sidewalk Survey" feature for Wednesday's paper and I went into this gentleman's store to see if I might find a survey participant. I did find one.
BETHESDA, Md. -- From her perch as head of the National Institute on Drug Abuse, Nora Volkow watches anxiously as the country embarks on what she sees as a risky social experiment in legalizing marijuana.
WASHINGTON -- Some politicians know they want to be in public office and scramble to come up with the reason why. Sen. Elizabeth Warren is an accidental, improbable politician -- a self-described "outsider" -- who knows exactly what she wants to accomplish on the inside.
Romantic comedies tell us that love is often funny. I don't believe in romantic comedies anymore than I believe in the Easter Bunny, but I do agree that love can be very funny at times … not funny as in laugh so hard you wet your pants, but funny in the sense of leaving you scratching your head and wondering what in the world has just happened to you.
Most Americans -- and many Europeans, too -- celebrated the 70th anniversary of D-Day a few weeks ago. I've read some very touching accounts of veterans in their 90s, mostly American and British, getting the chance to visit Normandy one last time. But there is another 70th World War II anniversary to remember: June 15, 1944, a little more than a week after D-Day.
What a shocking headline, but our Attorney General Alan Wilson says it's true – and he's right.
In the tiny country church where I spent most of the first 22 years of my life, where I found the Lord at the age of 11, where, without fail, I had the leading part in every Christmas pageant and where my daddy laid down the law in more ways than one, we sang hymns from a brown songbook and a green one that were filled with the haunting melodies that have penetrated the Appalachians for many decades.
It all really began with the Haile Gold Mine. The Eldredge family of New York – the Hobkirk Inn Eldredges – purchased the mine in 1880. The family owned gold mines in California, Virginia, and Mexico. Son, Frank W. Eldredge, was installed here as manager of the Haile mine. Frank's son, Inman, wrote that the living quarters at the mine "were a bit crude," so when his mother was expecting in 1882 his father bought Pine Flat from Mrs. William Shannon.
It was good to see a decent number of voters turn out for last week's primary election. Percentage-wise, it still could have been much better, but primaries are not known for having long lines to the voting booth, especially in an "off year" such as this one.
Baseball is no longer the national pastime. Football long ago surpassed it in popularity here in the United States.
WASHINGTON -- About that stunning defeat.
I've said it before, but cell phones today make it so we are never alone. I was texting with a friend of mine last weekend and she asked what I was doing. I told her I was going to the pool to swim and sunbathe. She asked if anyone was going with me and I said no. We got into a dialogue about how I often do things alone and how that doesn't seem to bother me as it does others.
I completed my bachelor's degree the first week of August, so I was thrilled to snag a job at the Chronicle-Independent a little more than a week later.
Tax inversions. Double Irish with a Dutch sandwich. Spinning off tangible assets into real estate investment trusts. Son-of-BOSS shelters.
It has become somewhat of an art for me, that of studying Southern culture and deciphering what makes us different from others as well as downright peculiar among ourselves.
Our family has spent many a pleasant summer day with several families from the Dillon area and the experience is always enjoyable and the manner in which they address their friends, neighbors and kinfolk is like taking a step back in the "Old South." Everyone seems to have a prefix or you are a tourist just stopping by.
There is no longer any doubt that America still has a long way to go before it can say that it has grown beyond the prejudices and fear and tragic cycle of action and reaction when it comes to relations between blacks and whites.
The laboratories of democracy are blowing up.
I have admitted in this column many times that I have become a "grumpy old man." Well, folks, here I go again. I often blame technology and the instant sharing of news and opinions on many of society's ills, and that's what I'm doing again today.
I have many colleagues who are of the turf persuasion and we have come to an understanding to agree to disagree. I think grass is a weed, they think a tree is a weed -- in nature the two aren't meant to meet. This is why only grass grows on the Great Plains and only trees grow in the forest. But since we aren't on the Plains or in the forest, we try and get plants to co-exist in arranged landscape designs we like to see.
Last week we spent a few minutes talking about being the best in the world in a particular field.
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