In my home hangs a photograph of a rather large and deep hole on the side of an asphalt road. It is the aftermath of an improvised explosive device - or, in more simple terms, a homemade bomb - that went off just as the Humvee in which I was riding passed over it.
As I speak to and email friends, family and business contacts back in England at this time of year, I am reminded that the land of my birth is in the midst of what is still thought of as "The Social Season" or simply "The Season."
The sounds of summer, July 4th, Independence Day - children jumping into pools, burgers sizzling on the grill and fireworks lighting up the darkness as communities celebrate. Sadly, all too often these happy sounds have to compete with emergency sirens or are replaced with the noisy hustle of a local emergency room.
What's a state to do when the federal surface transportation program heads toward its Sept. 1 expiration date with little promise of a new transportation bill, and the Federal Highway Trust Fund's expenditures outpace tax receipts about $1.25 billion a month?
Understanding stormwater pollution actually is quite simple. When it rains, it pours, and when it pours, the storm-water process is set in motion.
A recent Gallup poll which asked 1,027 adult Americans how much confidence they had in 17 of the country's institutions may show what most folks already know.
Mama used to fry biscuits. If you had known Mama, that wouldn't surprise you, because she fried every food possible. In the course of her life, I knew her to fry green beans, corn, grits and cornmeal mush.
I wish toddler enthusiasm was infectious. I love seeing my 2-year-old daughter happy about anything and, to an extent, her elation at simple things does wear off on me. However, it would be nice if I could get as excited about anything in life - anything at all - as Reese does about blowing bubbles. Or sitting in a wading pool in the backyard. Or getting a taste of apple juice that hasn't been cut with water to reduce the sugar content.
I was on my computer the other day - just as I am every day of my life - and I tried to save a project I was working on, but it would not save.
MOULTRIE - I recently tried to make a phone call to a company to address an issue relative to my profession. As I would expect, I got a recording. This is the world we live in today.
Politically speaking, perhaps the biggest news story last week was the historic loss of U.S. House Majority Leader Eric Cantor in a primary election.
I have said it before, but it bears repeating: If I don't qualify for Heaven - a distinct possibility - my preferred alternates are (a) Athens, Georgia, on a crisp fall Saturday afternoon; (b) Athens, Georgia, on a warm spring day or (c) Athens, Georgia, on any day.
There are many things I love about the South. Southerners are fiercely patriotic. We're neighborly. We're storytellers without equal. We're unabashedly and unapologetically faithful. We're proudly hospitable. But here's what I love just a little bit better than all the rest: We believe mightily in courtesy and manners.
Each year, an estimated 5 million older persons are abused, neglected and exploited.
Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. It seems to me that there once was a time - now, this was decades ago, mind you - when, if a father did anything out of the ordinary, he was commended and praised for going above and beyond.
One afternoon, I had a hankering - a primal-like craving - for a supper of pinto beans and cornbread with a tall glass of cold, rich buttermilk thrown in for good measure and extra filling.
I didn't cook Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday. My husband, daughter and I went to a restaurant in Richmond Hill that offered all the traditional holiday fare at a reasonable price. It was the first time in my life I did not eat a home-cooked meal on Thanksgiving.