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Ronda Rich's blog

Florence King, RIP

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On a Sunday morning, tucked into bed on the island of St. Simons, the place where I, at the age of 13, accepted the calling that had haunted me since I was 4 – that of becoming a writer – Tink brought me a copy of the New York Times and coffee loaded with cream.

The new-made mound

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We were driving to the Georgia coast through little towns in which few live and even fewer others know. It was near Appling County, I believe, when Tink remarked on something he saw.

“A funeral,” he said. “They’re all just leaving.”

Earrings and hair

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It happened many years ago when my toddler niece, Nicole, grabbed a gold hoop earring dangling from my ear and gave it a good yank which ripped my pierced ear. When huge, heavy earrings made their debut in the 1990s, I was wore the biggest, heaviest ones I could find.


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We were eating lunch as the American Queen riverboat pulled out of port, having just returned from a morning-long excursion to the Battlefield of Vicksburg. It is even possible that we were in a mild disagreement over the Yankees and the Rebels when a nice couple approached.

Yankee at Vicksburg

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It did not turn out as I intended. Somehow, Tink managed to turn it into what he, with gleeful satisfaction – that is the only way to say it with unvarnished truth though he now says otherwise – called “The Victory Tour.”

Is anyone listening?

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The exact moment it happened was at a large round table in a ballroom of majestic gilt in a grand hotel. Tink and I found ourselves seated next to strangers so we both plunged into jump-starting a conversation because we like the stories of others.

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.


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