It’s late afternoon, and heat lies over Oxford with heavy, thick, impenetrable indolence. Earlier, girls in Daisy Dukes and baby doll dresses, armed with Estée Lauder bags and the confidence of youth, rambled along Courthouse Square like Confederate roses, shopping while their boyfriends — suitably attired in seersucker shorts, pastel polos, and loafers — lolled on benches, consulting iPhone itineraries and watches with enough dials to command a small flotilla.… Read more
If I had known about the panther, I might have reconsidered.
It’s late afternoon, and the sun is already dropping low behind the tree line when I arrive in French Camp, Mississippi.… Read more
I felt happy the minute I saw the first rectangle of hand-painted plywood promising “Ruston peaches ahead” in Pass Christian, Mississippi.… Read more
It’s the high lonesome of a freight train’s whistle on a cold night. It’s the low-down gut growl of homegrown blues wafting through a breezeway, mingling with the scent of fried green tomatoes and collard greens.… Read more
Greenwood is pitch dark tonight. The kind of dark where you can almost hear the cotton stirring in its bolls and the corn straining to reach the heavens.… Read more