There they were, this little bunch of raucous church members, carrying signs that proclaimed “hate” and preaching judgment at the funeral of a soldier killed in the war in Iraq.

Everything about Blinks Mooney was average. He was five-foot-10, an average height for a grown man. He had a round, pudgy face and a somewhat pudgy body, average for someone who loved eating sweets but didn’t like to exercise. He had thinning brown hair and laugh lines around his eyes, all average for his age.

In the spring of 1971, we were about to move our family to Georgia. I was charged with house-hunting while Dave was already at work at Owens Corning in Fairburn. Driving through southside towns and neighborhoods I thought we could afford, I saw a mishmash of faulty or no zoning which allowed an unseemly mix of small houses and convenience stores, shopping centers and apartment complexes, jammed and seedy neighborhoods.

It is a conversation I’ve had to have regularly with Barclay, the wonderful man who is my accountant.

Though I adore him, I will tell you that he needs to study the rules of Southern womanhood more closely when it comes to delivering dreaded news or criticisms.

It’s not often I find myself on the side of the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), but today is one of those days.

A lone red and black ladybug slowly made its way across the top of the bedroom door frame. The full glass French door showed a magnificent view of the spring day. A cloudless blue sky and a forest of oak trees covered in florescent green baby leaves, being blown gently against a back drop of brown twigs. There, just beyond its reach, crawled another lady bug on the outside of the glass. Both were unaware that, just inches away, was the comfort of another one of its kind.

A couple of friends and I were having lunch in St. Louis, alternating between gazing out the window toward the historic arch at the river’s edge and talking about recent rude encounters we had each experienced.

Note to newcomers:
Try not to get tired of your neighbors’ remarks about how unusual this spring has been. It’s just been so pretty this year we don’t want you to be disappointed when next year contradicts us.

Has it really been 40 years since 1966? Lyndon Johnson was president. A first class stamp cost five cents. Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass won a Grammy for their record, A Taste of Honey. The first Star Trek episode aired. Walt Disney died.

From time to time, some people will suggest that all the world’s religions are of equal value and accomplish the same end. “All roads lead to God,” these folks say. “Whatever name you call him (or her), it’s still the same God,” others proclaim.

WARNING: this story is very timely, but it’s far from being funny. Funny will return next week; serious is here this week.

Yet, another queen has sprung up to reign in my family.

My mama has ascended to the royal throne to preside as Green Bean Queen. Over the summer, she earned this title by paying prodigious attention to her little garden, which consisted solely of green beans, tomatoes and a few cucumbers that weren’t planted but popped up anyway. The poor tomatoes got little attention because the green beans got the royal share of love and nurturing.

On Tuesday April 22, of this past week, I went to our monthly meeting of the Sons of the American Revolution (SAR) in Fayetteville. This is a wonderful organization of men who have traced their lineage back to those who were a part of America’s very birth as a nation. I am proud in the best sense to be a part of them.

It’s late Sunday evening and I just received a phone call from my son James who is with his wife at Lovelace Women’s Health Center in Albuquerque.

Mom was used to the sight of blood, but this time it was different. There was more than usual.

The day started like most school days on Flamingo Street. Some kids caught the school bus; other kids rode their bikes; us Ryckeley boys, we just walked.

Last week my oldest daughter Melanie turned 9 years old. Her little sister Kristen is still 4.

I’m 57, and if you said I’m too old for kids that age, you wouldn’t be the first. Both girls were born in China, both joined our family by adoption.

In the South, Easter is as big a holiday as Christmas. And, we all know that Southern women spend months getting ready for Christmas.

In the early 1950s, when I was barely in grammar school, my father got religion like a case of the flu. And not just any religion. He caught the Chattanooga-Tennessee-Born-Again-

It’s late Tuesday night and I’m paying the price to go boating with Dave tomorrow. I had some “Fayette Woman” stories to finish, and I’m working late.

I love this time of year! Spring means warmer temperatures, baseball season, pretty flowers and the celebration of Easter. Easter is a big time for us pastors! I love to see a pew-packing Sunday.

It’s not often that we get to be in the presence of heroes, but that is just what I get to do today.

A few of definitions of “hero” are, “an illustrious warrior; a man admired for his achievements and noble qualities; one that shows great courage.”

To say that I was tired after finishing my 24-hour shift at the fire station last Friday would be an understatement.

First thing Thursday morning we attended a special class, took a test, then it was outside pulling hose and drafting water out of lakes. We trained for almost four hours.

You may have witnessed a two-year-old throwing a good old-fashioned tantrum at Braelinn Kroger a couple of weeks ago? The boy with spun-gold hair? Right in the check-out lane? Face red and tears soaking his shirt?

“Bodacious! That’s what’ll it be!” proclaimed Rudy.

I smiled and nodded. Exactly what I had in mind. Bodacious. It’s such a delicious Southern word, one that only Southern women truly understand and use regularly. Bodacious means bold, showy and outstandingly Southern in the best, unique kind of way.

STORY NUMBER ONE

Many years ago, Al Capone virtually owned Chicago. Capone wasn't famous for anything heroic. He was notorious for enmeshing the windy city in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder.

Those who say that democracy is dead need only to look to Coweta County, Ga., to see that active citizen participation and a responsive governing body can still work well together.

Our elementary school bus driver, Mr. Holcomb, sported a salt and pepper handle-bar mustache that curled so far up on the ends, it almost touched the top of his ears. His bushy, gray eyebrows stuck straight out like little fingers from his forehead and shot up whenever he got excited. Other than the end of school, March 31st was the day his eyebrows shot up the most. It was the start of spring break, and Mister Holcomb knew the perfect way to start the week-long vacation.

War is such a dangerous business that the mistakes which come from kindness are the very worst.
— Carl von Clausewitz, “On War,” 1832

It is fair to say or so I believe that I am the only Dixie Diva who has ever gargled with moonshine.

This is probably one of the safest assumptions of my life. Especially knowing the propriety and ladylikeness of the others. Particularly in remembering that many of them are Baptists.