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Ronda Rich's blog

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.

Great-great-grandsons

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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.

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

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