Random Connect Points:
Reba's Stories

  Waxing nostalgic today over a post I wrote two years ago. The date April 8 always stands out in my mind as the anniversary of my family moving into our home on Roslyn Drive. It’s a bit more bittersweet this year after my dad’s death in October. I recently found the deed and the contract he signed to buy the land for the house from his old friend, Jay McKay . This post I wrote two years ago on the 50th anniversary includes so many happy memories and a few cringe-worthy photos that I'm sure many of my childhood friends will remember. After I originally posted this two years ago, I received several photos from the young family now living in the house - with their daughter posing in the same place in the living room in front of a similarly situated blue chair.    

In anticipating seeing Clint Black in concert in Charleston this week, I tripped down memory lane remembering the first time I saw - and met - him. You can read that story here. Thirty-something years ago, I had the cool experience of visiting the White House with an up-and-coming young country singer named Clint Black and his band. My friend, Rhonda Keenum, had already finagled the tickets qnd backstage passes for us because of her unique position as assistant to, and gatekeeper for, the late Lee Atwater. People called him all the time for favors. She was the one who made them happen most of the time. In this case, Clint Black's "people" had called to see if Lee Atwater could arrange a White House tour prior to the DC-area concert. Rhonda told the "people" she felt sure it could be arranged - if she and her friend (me) could come along. On a warm September Saturday morning, we met Clint's bus out front of the White House - this was before all the crazy secu

Today is National Word Nerd Day. I see it as a chance to  make good grammar relevant again.  Not sure who should be in charge of this movement, so I’m stepping up to lead the parade. For some people, writing is just a way to communicate. For me, it's more of a passion for how words fit together. I see writing as an intersection of creativity, experience, knowledge and connection. It's an art and a science where clarity and crisp communication converge with inspiration and flow. For me, writing, editing and proofing are a fun puzzle, not a dreaded chore. I love reading anything connected to words and language. The day the new @APStylebook comes out is always reason for celebration. And doesn't everyone still have their high school grammar book? Like any good word nerd, I have several grammar rules that are not negotiable (which translate into my pet peeve editing issues). 1  –  “She is going with Mary and I” will never be correct. Ever. For any reason.  2 – Dangling part

Thanks Midlands Biz for sharing  my pre-holiday post  about tackling the perfection gremlins that are so rampant at this time of year.  Now that I can look at the past couple of weeks in hindsight, I see everything was perfectly imperfect . Over the holidays, we fed 32 people - from childhood buddies to brand new friends - around our cobbled- together expanded dining room table and hosted another 20 uke players around the fire on the patio. We pulled off a perfectly imperfect Christmas day with "framily" (that's friends who are family) honoring my dad's memory while trying a couple of new things. Our kitchen was in constant motion and our fridge remained jammed.  The mini-Charlie Brown tree sparkled mightily from the sunroom window while a second one toppled over daily in the yard as part of the neighborhood lights. The red reindeer head adorning the sparkly white wreath took a few tumbles off the front door, but nothing a little plastic surgery (or superglue) can'

I hate to think how many gatherings I didn’t host over the years because I worried that my house wasn’t _______ enough. Fill in the blank - clean enough, straight enough, decorated enough. Too much dog hair and too many fuzz bunnies. Too many magazines stacked on the hearth and too many guitar cases crammed behind the sofa. Finally, after years of struggling with this, I think I’ve finally beaten the house perfection gremlins into submission. This week, I hosted my annual holiday “soup supper” for a group of girls I’ve known for well over 40 years. It’s a simple affair. Chili and two soups. Some years, I’ve made all three. Some years, I’ve ordered in all three. This year, my cook-of-a-husband made the soups, and I made the chili. I wasn’t sure I was up for hosting this year. One friend offered to pinch hit at her house knowing the holidays might be dicey after my father’s death in October. I considered it. My house is still a mess from moving in furniture from my parents’ recently-shut

This wonderful lady took a piece of my heart with her when she left us last week. She’s been part of my life since she and my mother got Katherine and me together as two-year-old little girls in smocked dresses and red Mary Janes. It wasn’t until the past couple of years that I felt like I could call her anything other than “Mrs. DuBose” -   we finally settled on “Big Katherine” a few years ago. My growing up years were shaped by her grace, kindness and elegance.  When I was too scared to spend the night out as a little girl, she made sure I felt comfortable and safe in their house. When I stayed with her family at the lake, she always remembered I couldn’t stand tomatoes. When I got married, she hosted my bridesmaid lunch. My mother has always said that she knew when she sent me to the DuBose’s house to play, her rules were our rules. In more recent years, with her living in the same Still Hopes building as my parents, I loved seeing her deftly navigate around the campus on her mo

We lost our dad yesterday afternoon. I thought I’d have words for an elegant post when the time came. And I will. But I just can’t yet today. In the meantime, you can read his obit here. I know he’s enjoying his scotch and soda in a short glass, ribbing with the angels, reeling in a salmon and seeing his golf buddies again.