In an old-fashioned diner in Staunton, Virginia, the four of us sat in a leather booth against a wall of windows. Over eggs and biscuits, we were having the kind of conversation that close friends enjoy between sips of coffee.

There is a photo that I discovered a couple of years ago and immediately I put it on the refrigerator, so I’d never forget who I am. Who I really am.

Over the past few years, I’ve lost too many loved ones who meandered out of this life and crossed the River Jordan.

Three river birch trees surround our home. I planted them three years after I built this house. River birches are pretty trees. They grow long, toward the sky, and spread a beautiful canopy of shade. The trunks are interesting and artistic as the bark is constantly curling into pieces. The mint-colored leaves are smallish and they flitter lovely in the light breezes of Spring.

From the car, I toted in bags of heavy groceries. I have become my mama.

Most of the best stories I’ve heard come forth from the South. The most memorable people I have met, by far, are Southerners.

no,” I said. “No.

When I was child and even through my teenage years, Christmas night and the following day were the saddest time of the year. The anticipation of presents, church pageants and holiday cheer were swooped away in such a short time.

Rodney, my brother- in-law, is one of the South’s best storytellers. He doesn’t tell stories in the typical Southern manner of embellishment, lyrical phrasing, or extreme expression.

Sentiment is not something I was taught. It was born in me.