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Happy Birthday, Sissy
Today is my sister’s birthday. The only human being in all creation who shares my DNA, my memories of our childhood, and the mysterious fabric of what it meant to be raised by our mother. Happy Birthday, Sissy. I love you very much. ~ Bubba
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The Seventh Of October
The older I get, the less patience I have for men who follow their wives around like little dogs, forever gazing up at Her Highness to see if she will drop a crumb of attention or affection or approval. I feel the same about grown men who let their children dominate their lives. Such men seem to be forever grinning. I do not understand the surface appearance of mirth in desperately sad men. That being said, today is a supremely important day because it is my beloved wife’s birthday. While I am not nor have I ever been one of those fawning, submissive husbands, I love my wife deeply and…
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Awareness And The Spirit
I arrived at work this morning like Bob Cratchit, in a post-holiday rush, behind my time, dithered in the head, fumbling with my keys. I spent the morning trying to catch up on backed-up tasks. But busy as I was, something in my spirit was troubled. As the morning wore on, I realized that I felt a crushing sadness in my very bones. What could be making me feel this way? I thought. And then it came to me. Five years ago today, my sister called me at work to tell me that our mother had died. My memory is not what it once was, but my spirit, my internal…
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Red Pebbled Plastic Glass
When I was eight years old, my Aunt Carolyn dropped by for a visit. Aunt Carolyn was not like her older sister, my mother. She was unmarried, an Air Force veteran, working a cushy job for the government. She was a nation-trotter, a quick-laugher. She was the first person I ever knew who possessed and used credit cards. Her life was a bullet, shot far from us. Her red Chrysler pulled up out front on a cool Friday night and she left the car running while she trotted to our front door and shoved it open. I was listening to an Exotic Guitars lp on Mother’s radio/record player and looked…
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June Into July
There he is again, above me, half-watching me as I am half-watching him. As I write this, the hummingbird is on the telephone wire over my head, his tiny feet curled around the wire, his baton of a bill moving left and right, conducting the orchestra only he and his kin can hear. The summer day is hot and still, and much quieter than the summer Sundays of my youth, the sultry days down in the Delta when the reedy drone of locusts and katydids stretched across the hours and surprised you at night when it began to fade. Quieter here, yes, and perhaps not as hot, but hot still.…