In the times in which my parents grew to be adults, they had what they would hither forth, until the day they died, refer to as “the home place.”

In the latest of many cynical and highly political moves, the House of Representatives last week passed a measure that would transform the District of Columbia and make it the 51st state.

Here we all are on the cusp of the strangest summer in my memory, which is, of course, following the strangest spring in my memory. 

Most of us slept through at least a few high school history classes. If you had a teacher who could make history more interesting than a shopping list or the back of a cereal box, then you were one of the lucky ones. 

Two years before Mama died and awhile before Tink, she and I were having breakfast for supper one night at a Waffle House.

President Trump's speech Saturday night in Tulsa, Oklahoma, was a toxic stream of consciousness that ignored a great opportunity to speak words of healing and unity to a divided nation.

My father’s mission was to tame the stupidity out of me – a powerful blessing too few children are experiencing now.

Missing the Beach, the Buffet, and the Braves

My first-grade teacher, Miss Ruby Jordon, taught me that “history” means “his story,” the story of mankind — and even though this was 1958, she assured the girls that by “mankind” women were included, too.

President Trump on Tuesday unveiled a plan to make reforms in police departments and acknowledged for the first time the existence of "systemic racism." He also promised to meet with some African American families whose relatives have been killed by police officers.

Police were called about John Mahone, a black man, having an argument with his wife. A cop shot and killed him because he thought Mahone had a knife. Mahone had a can opener.

When I was 13, I begged Mama to let me have a Tupperware party. It took some work but finally she agreed.

It is a gift, as Robert Burns wrote, to see ourselves as others see us.

Almost 40 years passed without Dwain Easley and his friends ever mentioning to each other what they had experienced in that Mississippi swamp on Oct. 20, 1977.

The Minneapolis City Council has passed a measure to dismantle the city's police department and replace it with what Council President Lisa Bender calls "a transformative new model of public safety." This is supposed to better protect people in the aftermath of the murder of George Floyd by a now-former Minneapolis police officer.

These thoughts on the current upheaval in our country come courtesy of an unusual array of sources: The late Sen. Robert F. Kennedy; Larry Savage, a candidate for chairman of the Cobb County Commission; and Hayden, Cayden and Jamaya (more on them later).

The world has totally lost its collective mind.

Like many of you, I have worked from home for the past three months, and it has given me a chance to familiarize myself with my new surroundings. It turns out that this place I’ve slept and watched ballgames on weekends for thirty years needed a few repairs. My wife says she has informed me about these problems in the past, but I was apparently distracted by the Braves and SEC football.

The man probably just wants to retire and be close to his son.

When Donald Trump issued an executive order intent on eliminating legal protections enjoyed by social media platforms last week, he reignited debate over the most precious of American political rights: the freedom of speech.

What is important in this continuing debate is not each "side" getting in its talking points but listening to how the other reached the conclusions that created their worldview.

This is the third of a four part series on the plane crash of the Lynyrd Skynyrd band.

Mary Thornton, a critical care nurse at Southwest Mississippi Regional hospital in McComb, where Lynyrd Skynyrd band members were taken following a crash in nearby Gillsburg, and Lisa Dickerson hurried from the car we were exiting, toward a friend standing at the band’s tribute site.

It was a night I shall never forget.

Presumptive Democratic presidential nominee Joe Biden told an African American talk show host last week: "If you have a problem figuring out whether you're for me or Trump, then you ain't black." It was not a one-off remark.

I also know that two wrongs will never equal a right. My mama taught me that a long time ago, and in Minneapolis, protests over George Floyd’s death have turned violent, as is so often the case.

Two months ago, in a remarkable show of unity, Americans obeyed the onerous request to give up their livelihood and quarantine themselves in their homes.

Lisa and Randy Dickerson were being hospitable when they invited us to lunch and/or church in McComb, Miss.

Have you noticed that people often don’t say what they really mean? Maybe that’s a good thing. We’ve seen the consequences. Many TV shows and movies have featured characters who have no edit switch between their mouth and their brain. They were either “struck by lighting,” or were born with the condition, like Dr. Sheldon Cooper, the brutally honest scientist in “The Big Bang Theory.”

My children never knew a vacation without frequent stops at historic markers. Other dads were taking their kids to the beach and the mountains and Disney World. I did, too. But we stopped at a lot of cemeteries and memorials along the way.

Piedmont Henry Hospital admitted its first COVID-19 positive patient in the middle of March. In just over two months, the hospital, like nearly every other organization in the world, has made some significant changes in order to operate safely during this pandemic

An autumn morning’s sun was creeping upward while I was snuggled comfortably in bed, my face mashed into the pillow and my floral pink chiffon bedspread pulled to my chin.

For much of my adult life, I have tried to return to my alma mater, the University of Georgia, a portion of what the institution has given me. I say “a portion” because I can never totally repay the debt I owe UGA for the honor of being a Georgia Bulldog. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try. After all, to whom much is given, much will be required. (Luke 12:48).

I’ve been praying for weeks that the sunshine would arrive and help us all soldier through this nightmare we are choosing to call the COVID Crisis.

OK, I will admit it. I am from the typewriter generation. Those were the days when you had to use some gunk called whiteout to cover your typos, except it didn’t work on the carbon copies hidden beneath the originals. Enough smudges on the carbons and you had to start over. It was usually at this time the typewriter ribbon would jump the traces and get all snarled up, requiring you replace it. That is where the term “ink-stained wretch” originated. My hands would be stained with ink and I would feel wretched about it.

The choice before us seems to be no choice at all: Stay inside and have no human contact with another soul, keep businesses closed, denying a livelihood to millions, or step outside and risk death. Though I believe the risk is small when comparing the number of people who have been diagnosed with COVID-19 and have recovered with the number who have died, fear may be the greater threat.

For three years former National Security Adviser Michael Flynn was put through a legal and financial wringer by top officials within the FBI, including its then-director James Comey. 

The destruction of the Berlin Wall in 1989 and the subsequent demise of the Soviet Union two years later lulled the West into a false sense of security.