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I go back now, back to August 1, 2012. That’s the day the University of South Carolina Press published Save The Last Dance For Me. Strange cir…

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It was 1985 when I spent three days in Reno. I didn’t shoot a man just to watch him die, Johnny, but I conjured up images of Old West gunsling…

Seems the TV weather guys get it wrong more often than right. Nor do they predict the same forecast. As one fellow put it, “If you don’t like …

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Before the photos, Robert Clark had been photographing architecture for ten years. I had been writing scripts for documentaries. Much earlier,…

Mid 1950s, early morning on the farm, it was. Rivers of gold ran down the stack of pancakes on the old oak table. Butter pooled higher and hig…

You cannot raise your ancestors from their grave, but you can appreciate how they lived. Just take a backroad deep into the countryside and pe…

I call it broomstraw. Others broomsedge. Whatever you call it, it doesn’t kill my memories of my grandmother’s homemade brooms. About a yardst…

In Saluda County an old homeplace sits on brick piers. It’s as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar, but that wasn’t always the case. Some refer to …

Why do we need cutlines? Simple. To better serve the reader. A cutline needs to be right. Long after the writer is gone, his work will be ther…