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Ronda Rich's blog

Liberation by pick-up truck

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On a plane once headed out west to Phoenix, I sat beside a very nice man who was flying to a job interview. It was for a bank job, I remember.

Over the course of four hours, we became friendly enough for him to talk of the mother who, alone, raised him and how close they were.

Coming out even in the end

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There is only one thing that scares me about dying. It is so momentous that it rocks my heart with grief whenever I think of it. It is a tumultuous rocking that resembles the Mississippi River in New Orleans when the ocean is signaling that a vicious hurricane is headed that way.

A name and a story

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In the South, everyone has a story. Every name is followed by a few sentences or paragraphs. No one is known by name alone.

It was perhaps the first thing I warned Tink when he moved here, “Be careful what you say about anyone at church because you never know who’s related to who.”

The proper Southerner

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It takes a lot of time to be the proper Southerner, the kind respected for thoughtfulness and kindness. In fact, it takes so much time that it’s looking like I may have to give up my job, just to act like Mama raised me and Daddy expected me to do.

Collecting stories

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Southerners tend to collect stories. And, we tend to talk to anyone who will talk to us. The latter tends to lead to the first.

“In New England, we don’t strike up conversations with strangers,” Tink pointed out. “We mind our own business.”


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