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Ronda Rich's blog

Acting like a stereotype

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It happened last summer. I had been telling Tink about an adorable town a few hours away. This column runs in the newspaper there. In fact, that little town was the one of the first to sign up when I syndicated this column 12 years ago. I cherish that and the wonderful people there.

Hallmark at last!

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As a child, I was captivated by emotional stories and how words strung together had the power to make me feel happy, touched, sad, or inspired. The rudiments of my education came around the kitchen table or in the car as I listened to Mama’s and Daddy’s storytelling.

Reactin’ takes time

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It is with earnest intention and optimism that I arise each day and assemble my “to do” list. Somewhere between coffee and barn chores, the day claims its independence, thumbs its nose at my list and shows me that the day will rule. Not me.

The iron bed

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When I was a child and we visited my grandparents, both sets who lived up in the mountains in small, humble houses which we accessed by a car that crawled slowly around inclining, twisting roads, I knew their standard of living was different from ours.

Cream of mushroom soup

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It would be, I decided, a nice gesture of Southern thoughtfulness if I made a dish of my famous macaroni and cheese. I call it “famous” because Duke’s mayonnaise once put the recipe on its label along with my name and my Aunt Ozelle’s from whom I stole it.

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.

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