He was called Bear because he looked like a bear.
tweet thisFiled under: Deep South, education, Everyday, family, food, language, life, theatre, writing
I figured something out yesterday: The closer I get to someone, the more of my name I lose. It's not the first time, I admit, that I've had this thought. I’ve often been concerned with the apparent fluid boundaries of what constitutes Identity, especially where names are involved. I got it naturally; after all, I’m no average Chris…I’m Kris…with a K. I even wrote a song about it once. It was always a delicious fantasy for me, though, in grade school, to change the spelling of my name on my homework assignments. I mean, Chris (with the “Ch”) was as foreign a person to...
Faith for five dollars…and Tennessee Williams.
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, faith, family, life, theatre, writing
I did something nearly unforgiveable, today: I cried in class. Don't worry, no one saw me. The lights were off, and most were, I'm happy to say, engrossed in the video documentary I was showing on Tennessee Williams. I counted three sleeping students, but I only heard two of them...so I let them rest. They're athletes and all, you know. I've seen this A&E video on Williams a hundred thousand and six times, but today, today, the story resonated in a deep and tragic way, wholly new to me. I suppose it's the stress, I'm saying it's the stress, but whatever it was, it touched...
But, wait, let me back up and come at this like a drill.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, family, food, health, life, writing
If you don't mind, I'd like to tell you about my weekend. And what I learned. I have to say, I'm very glad that there are a wealth of good people in the State of Mississippi. It never ceases to amaze me, as long as I've lived here, how innately good so many of them are. And get this: I'm talking about the younger generation. Not just my Aunt Zora's quilting bee. The human spirit is alive, well, and brilliantly resilient in this state. Key word here: resilient. That's important to note because I'm fairly sure I was the Sword of Damocles from Friday, around...
The Parable of the Good Alcoholic.
I figure there are two ways to burn a bridge: whiskey, and everything else. I admit it: There's something beautiful in a martini glass; something so achingly elegant in the way a champagne flute plays its score. And I know it must be in my blood because I wasn't brought up to drink, it was never glorified, and certainly not encouraged, not in a Baptist household. (At least the Jews in my family drank wine, but I didn't know them very well, and they always seemed to be committing suicide or losing a few children in Oklahoma or some such dramatic thing...
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