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Ronda Rich's blog

When love goes bad

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There wasn’t very much of me back then. I was a tiny girl, just big enough to reach up and grab hold of the wooden counter top in that old country store and lift my chin enough to allow my eyes to peer up in quiet fascination at the man who rang up the items that Mama had laid down.

Dixie Dew finally has her say

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I’m Dixie Dew. If you read my mama’s column weekly then you know that I’m the precious little red-haired dachshund of which she so affectionately writes every week. For the record, and not because I’m a bragger, but I am every bit as cute as she says. If anything, she downplays my cuteness.

Funeral home to training

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It all started at the funeral home. A few other of my misadventures have begun there, too.

For Southerners, though those born outside of the region often fail to understand, the funeral home is normally a gathering place where friendship, stories and even laughter is exchanged.

Here’s how you do it

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My brother-in-law, Rodney, is a farmer of the most admirable kind. He farms, despite the heartbreaks, hard times, hot sun and little pay, because he loves it. Not even the relentless stronghold of healthy kudzu could choke the passion for farming from him.

Ingenious Mama

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Mama wasn’t sentimental. In fact, I never knew of anyone who grew up in the Southern mountains during the Depression who was sentimental. They all said they were trying to forget, not remember.

Going visiting

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One night back in the summer, Louise, Rodney and I stopped to see Russell and Neva, whom we have all known in one way or the other for decades. Yet, we go ages without seeing each other. It’s a crying shame, as Mama would say.

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