I left the South many years ago as a young man, yet still on long winter nights I ask myself why. The Northern Lights are beautiful with their cold and alien glow, but I surely miss sticky summers in the Ohio River Valley, honeysuckle vine on the back fence, and the soft lilting way that Laura is pronounced Laahrah.
The son of two Yankee carpetbaggers, I was raised in Louisville, Kentucky, a border town where the residents, Lou-uh-villians, brag about the fact that they don’t live in Indiana. In fifth grade, when Jim Rife asked me if I were a Yank or a Reb, I was confused because of my alien parentage, and replied “Well, the North won, so that makes us all Yankees now, right?” Wrong! But now that I live in the land of perpetual snow, I miss the dogwoods and magnolias in springtime, tubing through the Red River Gorge in summer, cross-country meets at Seneca Park in the fall, and UL and UK basketball in the winter (go Cards!). I can tell you exactly where I was when Christian Laettner hit that turn-around buzzer-beater over two Wildcat defenders to lead Duke to the Final Four. And my favorite breakfast is the cheese eggs, raisin toast, grits and black coffee at—where else?—Waffle House.Read more
The Dead Mule School
Online since 1996. "No good Southern fiction, poetry, essays, cornbread, coon mule jumping competition, swamp dance or pig pickin' is complete without a dead mule..."