Rheta Grimsley Johnson is retiring. Her final column will appear in the TimesDaily on June 23.
Do elected public officials, egged on by the sophomoric rhetoric of President Donald Trump, really think they can attack reporters asking honest questions and get away with it?
I once knew a rather milquetoast editor, not an extraordinary wag like many editors I've known, so it's strange that I quote this otherwise forgettable man every time I get melancholy about the news business.
Brother Dave Haffly is the only man who ever really wanted to dance with me. On long ago weekends the two of us would link arms on the stone hearth at my first old cabin, crank up Aretha's "Respect" and spend hours in a private line dance, socking it to anyone who'd listen.
Lera Johnson was competent and strong, dark-eyed, slender and beautiful. She ran her own business, an Alabama beauty parlor, and reared two boys. She was devoted to her husband, Harold, and let actions instead of sanctimonious words illustrate her beliefs.
From the computer this morning I learned that taking too many "selfies" can be detrimental to your love life, which leaves me in good stead. Not only do I not take photographs of myself, I hide whenever anyone produces a camera.
I tap along the brick floors that sold me on this old house in Pass Christian, Mississippi, so opposite of the spongy ones in my North Mississippi hollow home, these never subject to rot, maintenance-free. My shoe soles have each captured a shell from the driveway and make a nice rhythmic so…
They are dangling from a fence next to the Mockingbird Cafe in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, where, yes, healthy sandwiches are named for Scout and Atticus. Clothespins are holding a string of postcards, each of them fronted by different artists' whimsical renditions of animals.
In one sleepy motion, I hit a snooze button on the hotel's clock that chums up the sound of breaking waves in Pensacola, Florida. Ah, a soundtrack from the past. Comfort noise.
A short woman strutted in an enormous sombrero with a brick wall painted beneath the wide brim. A trio with shower caps and clear umbrellas pranced as "The Golden Showers," carrying signs that read "We're all being 'hissed' on." Except the word was not "hissed."
Scott was trouble, even as a baby. He cried hot, wild tears in a car if it was going more than a few blocks, and could keep the banshee ruckus cranked up without relief for hours. I once backed into a red Mustang in a parking lot while trying to ignore his screams.