Daddy used to say that when most people ask, “How’re you doin’?” they don’t really care. It’s just something they say to make conversation.

Hidden somewhere in the newspaper one day – a tiny news blurb used to fill a hole – was the story of a teenage Louisiana beauty queen whose crown had been repossessed by pageant officials after her brush with the law.

When she first brought it up, mentioning it in passing more than anything else, I thought she was joshing, so I shrugged it off with a smile. Fortunately, I did not make any wisecrack that I would now regret.

A while back, my friend, Reita, called and began the conversation with a hasty apology.

Her brother had died unexpectedly so I had baked a cake and carried it over to the family.

Perhaps you’ve seen the t-shirt emblazoned with, “I Was A Millionaire Until Mom Gave Away My Baseball Card Collection.”

To truly appreciate the irony of this story, you must first know that my history with chickens is colorful and much ballyhooed to the point of being family legend. It has never been an easy relationship between me and those feathery foes of mine.

There is something about dirt roads that whistle to me like a siren’s call. A dirt road beckons and I answer. I cannot resist its allure.

Down in Milledgeville, Ga., there is a lovely woman named Sophia who is a fan of this column. In turn, she is a supporter and friend of mine.

When I learned that a friend had decided to plunge himself into the political world and run for office, I thought it prudent to offer two pieces of solid advice.

One night at the supper table, my brother-in-law took a teasing jab at me over a sour business deal. I was plenty aggravated at the people with whom I had dealt and Rodney, who is quick to spot an Achilles heel, had pinched a bit hard.

Louise and Selena, being the genuine Southerners they are, both had a hankering for fried chicken. And I, of course, knew just where to find the perfect recipe.

When Mama, my last surviving parent, died, I was orphaned, so my sister, Louise, stepped up and took charge.

Of course, it could be argued that she had been looking for a way for years to take over and help run my life. That is only partially true. What is completely true and without one iota of fabrication is that she genuinely and sincerely wanted to fill that empty void that I felt so keenly in my life.

It is a tradition on Sundays for my sister to load her table with food and fill her house with family and friends.

We all come spilling in from our various points of origination. Some of us have been to early church and Sunday School, some slept later and made it to Sunday School and late church, while my brother-in-law has been to early church, Sunday School and late church. He is devoted.

One of the things that always excites me about Easter is that it kicks off the spring and summer season so Sundays, until Labor Day weekend, will be the stuff of which memories are made. Especially for kids.

There is a childhood friend who is very dear to me, our lives having been tangled together in one way or another like kudzu clinging to a chain-link fence.

The occasion was an anniversary party, one of those events where you dress a bit fancier than Sunday clothes but not as fancy as Saturday night shindig clothes.

In the sleepy Southern town of Selma, Ala., there is no denying that history has visited in times past and made its memorable mark. To enter into the town from the interstate, it is necessary to cross the Edmund Pettis Bridge, made famous by the march of the civil rights protesters.

Dixie Dew didn’t notice, but I did. She was too busy sniffing grass and prancing her bigger-than-it-should be tail while I was casually observing life during an afternoon walk.

Brandon, the smart young man who has worked for me for years, isn’t impressed by much at all. He’s remarkably level-headed, so fame or celebrity bounces him like one of Penelope Ann’s biscuits bounces off the floor.

I love small-town newspapers. I’m all for hometown journalism that is the core of communities and the heart of their citizens.

It was an interesting brief I saw in a newspaper industry bulletin the other day. A reporter from one of the South’s largest newspapers won the top prize from the Society of Professional Obituary Writers Awards.

Mandatory to my mama’s generation was the ownership of a deep freezer and a sewing machine. These, remember, were people who believed in self-reliance and independence. You grew what you ate, you froze or canned it and you sewed what you wore.

Should the opportunity ever arise for you to deal with a bona fide race car driver on anything having to do with driving a car, you might benefit from lessons I’ve learned. Let me share them.

It all started at the beauty shop. Most of women’s troubles that don’t begin with men begin at the beauty shop. But then you knew that.

When Dixie Dew’s beloved babysitter up and went to heaven, I found myself in a quandary: What was I going to do about childcare when I traveled?

My brother-in-law, Rodney, the wizard of wisecracks in our family, was sitting at the island in my kitchen, watching as I put away food from a Sunday School get-together.

When I was a child and given to daydreaming as children often are, I dreamed of what I would be when I grew up. I wanted to be strong, courageous, glamorous and well-traveled. And more than anything, I wanted to tell stories.

Mississippi was calling my name the other day, beckoning me softly to pay a visit to the land that often comforts me.

Publisher’s Weekly, an industry trade publication for the book publishing industry, is always full of interesting tidbits. Annually, it publishes the number of books sold for each title that sold over 100,000 copies in one year. I am always interested to see how these numbers shape up.

Now, I’ve been telling y’all for a few years about the importance of eating your black-eyed peas and collard greens on New Year’s Day and how by doing so, you’ll have more money in the coming year.