I’m trying to sell my family on the idea of naming our summer retreat. Before you go thinking I’m getting too big for my britches or putting on airs, give me a minute to explain. Naming a seasonal cottage is not only for the Margaret Posts and their Topridges. I’ve done extensive research (which is to say I paddled up close to many of my neighbors’ shorelines and zoomed in on their camp signs) and discovered that a lot of less imposing structures in my neighborhood have names

I don’t do my kids’ homework. (Did I tell you before about making this decision when in third grade, after I was embarrassed by how my teacher gushed over the totem pole my father built for my Native American project?) I admit it is a temptation to take the helm, especially when we are up late, they are near to tears with frustration, or when I really want to help them shine; but I stick to my guns, put the pencil in their grip, and sit on my hands. But just this once, I’m

When I was three years old, my father was serving in Vietnam, and my mother and I lived with my grandmother in Vernon, Alabama. I was allowed to watch “Captain Kangaroo,” and it was from that program I learned to say the Pledge of Allegiance. In this small town, my grandmother's house was not far from the post office where I got to test my skills on a real flag. Whenever my mother and I made that trip, I would climb up on the railing of the post office steps, place my little

Some people have a knack for growing things. My husband’s granddaddy for example: he could take a cutting of anything, stick it in some potting medium, and plop it into his greenhouse. The next thing I knew, there was an azalea, a rhododendron, or a rose bush. I remember when I was pregnant and fretting with anxiety about keeping a human baby alive, he said, “Children are like plants; give them food, water, and sunshine and they’re sure to thrive.” If only it were that simp

Outside my open classroom windows, an early spring day unfolded, leaves poised to burst with verdant effort. Inside, my third-graders settle into the afternoon session, following recess. They’re still drowsy from their immersion in fresh air when I ask them to get out their reading books. When I discovered the novel unit for The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe in our whole language curriculum, I fell on it like rain in April. Instead of having them read with their groups as

How can it be spring of my son’s kindergarten year already? Since I teach in my children’s school, I’ve encouraged their teachers to ignore me and pretend I’m just another staff member. Despite that, Alex’s wonderful teacher, Mrs. McCloy, has come to me in the hallway suppressing laughter on multiple occasions. He’s a talker. Has been since he was just a baby, surprising his doctor with full sentences. Fortunately, he hasn’t told too many family secrets in class. The worst wa

It’s the final night of our cake decorating class. I’m so happy I convinced my teenage daughter to come with me—I’m storing up every minute of the precious time we have left, trying to find ways to connect before she flies. Here we are with our final exams ready to take home—two one-layer cakes, beautifully decorated and lightly covered with Saran wrap. I’m so proud of us. We graduated from practicing on sugar cookies, to cupcakes, and now each hold our magnum opus: one blue

“Which one should we try?” I ask my friend Julie. After touring a beautiful custom home in a new neighborhood not far from where she lives, we are hungry for another. Down the row of enormous houses, we found two more balloons anchored by open house signs. With only time to look at one of them, should we choose the painted brick on the left, or the stone structure on the right? “Let’s do the one on the right,” she decides. We slide out of her Audi and admire the boxwood hed

“What should we do for New Years Eve?” I fear if I don’t fully embrace the most festive spirit at the chiming of midnight, the rest of the year may be doomed to the same level of dullness. My husband responds with a shrug. I know it’s the last minute to be planning. Most people made reservations or sent party invites long ago. I never seem to think ahead for New Years because at our house, we are under constant party pressure from October 31 to January 10: Dan’s birthday on

My sister Faith and I find ourselves with four or five hours to fill in Tupelo, MS. This historic Southern city is a little over an hour from our Alabama hometown, Vernon. It was an infrequent destination for us growing up, but one that offered a bookstore and a slice of Vanelli’s authentic pizza. Today we are on a different mission; after a couple of errands, we set out to discover the charms of this cute downtown, and play tourists in Elvis’s backyard. The brick building

In first Thessalonians 4:11 Paul urges his readers to “. . . make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody.” This scripture so aptly describes my mother, Jo Seay, one who embodied Paul’s teachings in her quiet, respectful ways through her whole life. As a child, Jo’s life reflected the hea

My “Autumn in New York” has nothing to do with Ella Fitzgerald’s words, but the wistful longing tone she gave her lyrics, mirror my mood....

It is no small feat to fling your leg over a bicycle seat any given day, to strap on a helmet and go for a little ride of, oh say 100...

If only there were a way to perfectly preserve the sights I’ve stored in my mind’s eye these four days in Paris. The beauty of this...

My father affectionately calls our hometown of Vernon, Alabama, “The Little Town that Time Forgot;” an homage to Garrison Keeler’s Lake...

My father was a Marine serving in Vietnam in 1967. I can remember living in Vernon, AL while he was away. I also remember my brother’s...

Is there a dish that defines your upbringing? Your regional identity? One you’re willing to fight for should someone dis your dish’s...

My parents always allowed me full access to their bookshelf. I don’t remember when I started selecting from their collection. Maybe...

Out the living room windows, my eight-year-old eye spies a magical sight. Half-inch flakes float lazily, meandering slightly right and...

I can’t imagine life without indoor running water. When I try to picture myself dependent on an outhouse, a chamber pot, or levering a...