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Ronda Rich's blog

Working preachers

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In the months before we married, I sought to show Tink the Southern mountains of my raising. On a colorful autumn afternoon, I was driving him around the curvy backroads and pointing out spots of various interest such as family farms, cemeteries, and birthplaces.

Thanksgiving 2016

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It is a solid friendship of two like-minded Southerners that started in, of all places, a high-end restaurant in Beverly Hills. This was several years before I would meet my future husband who was working in an office a couple of miles up the street.

Buying a tractor

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It was time for spring cleaning around the Rondarosa, which seems to always start with a ton of limbs, twigs and branches that have fallen during the winter. For the past several years as the climate varies between too much rain and drought conditions, the trees have suffered terribly.

Unknown heroes

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History’s full of people who made a difference, who took a stand or voiced an opinion against injustice when it cost them plenty. Either it wasn’t known at the time or time covers their boldness in cobwebs and chokes away the memory.

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.


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