Rich: My David (part one)

Over the bathroom tub hangs a small painting of a turn-of-the-20th-century high society woman in an orange silk off-the-shoulder dress, which matches the room's orange accents.Tink came out of the bathroom recently, shaking his head. “Every time I see that painting, I have to laugh.

Rich: The once incredible friend

There was once a friend I had who was incredible.Remarkable. Exciting.It's too splendid for any adjective in the English language.She is still my friend.But she no longer fits any description above.What she is now is what most of us are – ordinary.Normal. And, too often, downright ho-hum.But once?

Rich: The post card

When Tink walked in with the mail, I was working at the kitchen table, where I often write if I’m not on the back porch.Normally, he only opens “green” envelopes, which hold residuals from television shows he has written. Sometimes, the checks are for as much as $2.34.

Rich: The art of cursive

It happens frequently. A young person will ask me to sign a book I’ve written and then look at it in awe for a few seconds before saying, “Wow. You know calligraphy!”No. Although I did it once rather well, I addressed wedding invitations for friends.Perhaps I’ll take it back up again.

Rich: The non-nomination

Perhaps it was two years into our marriage when my reality sank in. I, a country girl born of the purest of Appalachian folks, had married into one of America’s most admired, most well-known television families.

Rich: George Harrison

Tink and I have disagreed a couple of times. Not an argument, mind you. But a half-joking, half-serious disagreement.Upfront, know that it concerns former Beatle George Harrison and his only child, Dhani. We’ll be listening to Beatles music or watching a documentary, and the subject will come up.

Rich: The man who was

It is an inherited family trait, like stubbornness, oddness, and humor.We cannot miss reading the obituaries.Firstly, we want to ascertain that we knew someone who didn’t die and needed to pay our respects.

Rich: A childhood without books

Please forgive me if you’ve heard this story on the page or in person. I tend to tell it two or three times a year.Because I cannot get my head around such nonsense.People often approach me, wanting to write a book. Only twice in 20 years has anyone ever inquired about writing a newspaper column.

Rich: With their shoes on

Make no doubt about it: I was raised in a household of two of the most righteous people who ever lived.Both were mountain people who never gave a moment’s thought to looking back at the mountain poverty they had escaped. Both came down, out of the hills, and built a better life for themselves.

Rich: With their shoes on

It was the summer of my 12th year of life. I remember that clearly because I was in that awkward stage of having too many freckles, too many pounds, and long, wavy hair.All my life, I had heard talk of the first mountain church that had called Daddy as their Pastor: Mill Creek Baptist.