Dixie Dew being the adoring dachshund, uh child, that she is, insists on being wherever I am. In the office, she’s on the balcony or sofa beside me. On the back porch, she stands guard to chase away any unwanted critters. In the kitchen, she often tucks into the fourth step on the stair case a few feet away and sleeps, content that I am nearby, working to earn a living.
It is true that I have a nice, comfortable office, arranged with all a writer needs for inspiration, including French doors that open onto a balcony which overlooks the front pasture.
Not too long ago, a friend of mine discovered rather abruptly and rudely that he had dated a crazy woman. Now, in the South, we’re used to such. It’s actually a common practice. But west of the Mississippi, it’s a bit different.
You know how it happens. You go to the funeral home to pay respects and run into people you haven’t seen in ages. Many years have passed, yet y’all begin telling stories –– always the funny ones –– and, there in the midst of grief, you begin to laugh.
Here's a question from a reader like you who's learning how to use coupons to save money at the grocery store: