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When I was growing up, people just showed up at your house. I don’t remember anybody calling first. Half the time they couldn’t have called first because you were already on the telephone and there wasn’t another line. You’d hear tires coming up the driveway, and somebody would look out the window and say, “Well, that’s so-and-so,” like this was a perfectly normal way for company to announce itself. Mama might have her hair rolled up. Daddy might have a lawn mower torn apart

For whatever reason boredom, curiosity, or just being a Southern child left unattended too long, most of us did at least one thing growing up that earned us a whoopin’. Mine involved one of those old green permanent markers. Not the kind they make now with the “low odor” label for civilized people. I’m talking about the old-school kind that could’ve gotten the neighbors high if the wind was blowing right. The Sanford’s Deluxe Edition!! That’s right! The bad part is, I had to

The Tall Kid I was the tall kid. Trust me. It’s not nearly as glamorous as basketball coaches make it sound. Childhood isn’t designed for long-legged people. Take the little blue plastic swimming pool. By the time I sat down, there was just enough water left to wash a beagle. The slide wasn’t much better. It wasn’t a slide. It was more of a speed bump. Then there was my bicycle. I had to learn to ride in a hurry because my knees had already declared war on the handlebars. I d

My grandmother, Rosa Lee Spencer Hargrove, was born during the Great Depression. She practically raised her younger twin brothers. There was another brother somewhere in the mix too, but I don’t think he was entirely her responsibility. My granddaddy cut lumber and worked with wood for a living. They never had much money. Looking back, I don’t reckon we were fancy enough to be sharecroppers. My daddy and his sister learned to sit up as baby’s by being propped in the neck of a

I’ve spent thousands of hours restoring headstones across Mississippi, and somewhere between the lichen, the marble, the fire ants, and the occasional snake with an attitude, I discovered something. Outside the Bible, I don’t know of a better place to learn history. As it turns out, I don’t know of a better place to learn about life either. For years, I judged complete strangers. Dead strangers. Not by the size of their monument. Not by the epitaph. Not by whether they fought

I’ve come to believe there are two kinds of people in this world. The first kind walks into your house looking for a place to sit. The second kind walks in looking for something to criticize. They’ll notice the fingerprints on the refrigerator before they notice the family pictures hanging above it. They’ll spot dust on the television before they see the children laughing in the floor. They’ll leave knowing your chandelier needed dusting, but never know your heart. If that’s

Most people think I restore headstones. I don’t. I introduce people. Sometimes they just happen to be a hundred and sixty years late. I spend enough time in old cemeteries that my family has quit asking where I am. If I’m not home, they assume I’m somewhere in Mississippi talking to dead people with a pressure washer in one hand and a tube of stone epoxy in the other. Truth be told, the dead are easier to get along with than most folks still paying taxes. A while back, a man