My Daddy Joe was killed by a train when I was three years old. My older sister was four, and my mother was newly pregnant with my little sister. After the baby was born, my mother had what we would now call postpartum depression, complicated, of course, by the death. She thought to herself, Well, I’ve had this baby. The two older girls can take...
Over on Facebook on my author page—Ellen Morris Prewitt: My Very Southern Voice— since the beginning of Advent, I’ve been putting into practice the concept I mused upon in this blog post about A Different Kind of Christmas.
Feel free to mosey on over to the page and enjoy the posts.
Here’s a free sample. Well, they’re all free....
When I was in high school, I favored the library located in the small strip center that also held the hardware store where I bought tomato plants, thinking them to be flowers . . . but that’s another story. The library was cozy, the line of shelves beginning as soon as you walked in the door. From my weird spatial perspective, the books...
For 15 years, we’ve avoided the St. Jude Marathon. With over 20,000 people running to end childhood cancer, the race clogs the Memphis streets. More than once my husband and I’ve been trapped by the blocked roads and orange cones, no way out. This morning, of all things, we joined the throngs. Having a friend whose child is battling...