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Ronda Rich's blog

Daddy’s shed ... and altar

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Behind the little house in which I spent a happy childhood, where I toted books from one room to another, where I knelt by my bed nightly to pray, where homemade biscuits buttered and sprinkled with sugar were a favorite treat, is a little shed that, to the outside world, is noted for its uglines

The little house . . . again

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The little house in which I was privileged to be raised, the same one I wrote of recently, needed its annual deep cleaning. This involves polishing furniture, mopping floors, scrubbing the outside doors, cleaning out the window sills and wiping down Mama’s cracked, ceramic canister set.

The little house

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It was with remarkable bravery that Daddy plunked down $1,000 of hard-earned, long-saved money in 1956 to buy a few acres of pasture land with a tree-shaded large creek that twisted through it.

“Always buy land with water on it,” he always said. And that is what he always did.

The two Bibles

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There are two Bibles that sit, always untouched, on the fireplace mantle in our living room. They are delicate and old, yellowed pages are falling from them, the black tabs denoting the different books mostly gone.

Tombstone talk

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When he asked it, I answered, then I laughed. The question proved that my husband, a New England bred Yankee with many years of Los Angeles influence, was morphing into a true Southerner.

I don’t want to

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As the years of Mama’s life grew long into the shadows of age, she managed to squeeze every bit of good out of growing old. She used it to get both what she wanted and to shun that which she did not want.

Hospital waiting rooms

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Over the course of many years, I have spent a lot of time in hospital waiting rooms, hoping for good news and, at the same time, dreading the bad. I can remember clearly moments of time suspended by a pounding fear resounding in my ears like a thunderous cannon firing relentlessly.

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