Easter. Christ is risen.
Throughout my childhood, Good Friday was always the day upon which my daddy would pronounce it safe to plant anything that anyone intended to plant in the North Georgia Piedmont.
I remember the very first time I ever set eyes on Terri Hubbard Cooper. How many people can we say that about in our lives?
I don’t know what it is about these two weeks in April, but I know that they have always led to significant drama in the history of this great country. Some of the most memorable events in the fabric that makes up the tapestry that is the United States of America have occurred on or around the particular dates we are navigating this week or will navigate next.
Remember the television word game, Password? I bet it has been a long time since you’ve thought about that one. I believe the way it worked was that people played in teams and one partner would give clues to try and help the other partner guess the word at hand.
When I was a high school student, way back in the previous century, Fridays were special. In the fall there were football games, which meant that the players on the football team wore their jerseys to school but, more importantly, the cheerleaders wore their uniforms. Short skirts — very short skirts — were the order of the day.
I went to bed Thursday night with a nice and shiny black SUV in my driveway. I woke up with a sickening yellow SUV in my driveway. Like a sneak attack from above, the pollen season is upon us.
The National World War II Museum is tucked away in downtown New Orleans, on the corner of Magazine Street and Andrew Higgins Boulevard.
The Mississippi Delta begins in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Tenn. I indulged myself, and the group that was with me, by having Sunday brunch at the Peabody. Perhaps overindulged would be more correct.
I have spent almost a year now trying to convince myself that I didn’t miss the classroom. Truth be known, there are a lot of things about modern education that I really don’t miss — and I have certainly enjoyed my first 10 months of retirement. Let’s just say that I have found a few ways to keep busy.
I spend a lot of time waxing nostalgic about the good old days, which — truth be told — might or might not have been quite as good as I recall. I do miss those days when we were a kinder and gentler society.
I suppose I am among the majority of Americans, and people in general, who don’t particularly like change. Not only do I not embrace it, I have been known to run away and climb a tree to get away from it.
We buried Lewis Grizzard 20 years ago. It doesn’t seem possible, does it? That it has been that long?
I could write continuously for the next four weeks — not even stopping for meals — and not tell the entire story of my pilgrimage to the Holy Land.
March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. I’m not sure if it realizes that, but one thing is for sure — you never know what might happen once that month arrives.
Last week my lovely wife, Lisa, and I enjoyed a “Throwback Sunday.”
I have often referred to California and Hollywood in particular as Granola Land. You know, because it is home to so many fruits and nuts. I have visited Hollywood and Vine on a few occasions and seen a lot of very strange things that have strengthened my opinion.
All my life I have read about Jesus being led into the wilderness after his baptism, where he fasted for 40 days. I was always amazed by that. Forty days is a long time, y’all.
It was a wise man, indeed, who said, “One should never watch laws or sausage being made.” I assure you, you won’t care for either if you do.
Things have really changed in education since I first entered a classroom in 1958. To my parents, being in school was the most important task I would have for the next 12 years — or 16 years — or 55 years. Being in school was my job and if Tommie and Homer Huckaby passed anything along to their second child it was their work ethic.
The Winter Olympics have come a long way since Squaw Valley, y’all.
I have only known you for about 22 months now, but in that short time I have come to love you. I know that’s a little weird, but it is a solid gold fact. I will never forget the first time I met you. I came to you in tears, actually. I was low on hope and full of anxiety and believed that I was living out the last months of my life. Statistics and all. You know how it is.
In the midst of all the mania surrounding all the hoopla over the historic and catastrophic ice storm of the past week, you might have overlooked the passing of a true American icon. Shirley Temple — America’s Sweetheart — passed away at the age of 85. A little piece of all of us is gone.
If you aren’t from around here, Guy Sharpe was an Atlanta “weatherman” back in the day. He was not a meteorologist, in any way, shape or form. He was just a TV weatherman, back when they stood in front of a national map covered with markings for various fronts and low-pressure systems.
Legend in women’s basketball leaves giant legacy
Believe it or not, but I’ve never been one to get all wrapped up in the college football recruiting wars, at least not since Lewis Grizzard reported that Herschel Walker was going to forgo college football and take a job at Clyde’s Filling Station in Wrightsville.
My daddy used to tell a story about the first time he drove a car with an air-conditioner. It wasn’t his, by the way. It was up in September — a hot sultry day — and he stopped and offered a lift to an old farmer who was walking to town. After a few minutes the farmer asked Daddy to stop and let him out.
If you are a regular reader of this column you are aware that I devote a lot of time and energy to maintaining my Southerness. It’s not an easy thing in today’s society.
It was a really unusual snow day for me.
Finding new enjoyment from old Westerns
Dishes are on my mind today. Yeah, I know. A little strange, huh?
My friends and I seem to have a hard time choosing a movie. Quite often someone will call our little circle together — or just another couple — and ask, “Want to see a movie tonight?”
I quit talking about Newton County basketball 10 years ago, because if you weren’t there to see it in person you wouldn’t believe what I was telling you anyway.
It seems like I have been to a lot of funerals lately, which tells me something about myself.
I sat in my recliner Monday evening, watching the temperature drop through the 20s and into the teens and finally into single digits. My house was warm from basement to attic, a big friendly fire was burning just beyond the hearth and the woodpile on the back porch was filled with good dry, aged wood.
According to Webster — or whoever took Webster’s place on the World Wide Web — the word culture means “the arts and other manifestations of human intellectual achievement regarded collectively.”
OK. I’m fixing to beat a dead horse — again.
January gets its name from the two-faced Roman god Janus, the keeper of gates. He was supposed to be in charge of new beginnings and of closing the door on the past. Good work, I suppose, if you can get it.
Huckaby: To be more like Christ is the most important New Year’s resolution
The year was 1960. We still liked Ike, as a nation, but were on the brink of electing John F. Kennedy to the presidency. I was in the second grade and didn’t know a Roman Catholic form a Ramen noodle.
My apologies to Atlanta and Athens and Porterdale and the North Pole, but ever since I was a child I have thought of New York City as Ground Zero for Christmas. I mean the Santa Claus, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” “Silver bells, silver bells … ” part of Christmas.
She was barely 21 as she stood at the altar at Rockdale Baptist Church, watching me walk toward her in my Confederate gray tuxedo. Yes, I know — but I don’t regret the choice of colors.
If you have seen the Charlie Brown Christmas Special this year, or if you are a fan of Snoopy and Linus and the whole Peanuts gang, you remember the scene where Charlie Brown goes to the mailbox every day, hoping against hope that someone — anyone — has sent him a Christmas card.
Tis the season, once again, for attending holiday gatherings and having to make small talk, often with folks you don’t know that well — or sometimes not at all. I average two a day, it seems. I was at such a gathering last week when the talk turned downright personal.
As Christmas fast approaches children are inundated with television commercials showing all the shiny new toys that all the cool kids will be getting for Christmas. Television specials tout Santa Claus and the magic he performs on Christmas Eve. We used to have the Sears-Roebuck catalogue. Today’s kids have the airwaves, but other than that, little has changed.
I had a lot on my mind last week when I put on my long overcoat and Greek fishermen’s hat and started the long cold trek up my long driveway.
This big blue marble we call Earth has made yet another trip around the sun with yours truly as a passenger. For that I am very thankful, and because of that I have a long, long list of blessings to count — including having the opportunity to do so in this very public forum.
I have just about finished my first half-year of retirement. You have to understand, the last year I hadn’t had school every day was 1957. To tell the truth, it hasn’t been bad. If I had known I was going to enjoy staying at home this much I might have tried it years ago.
Fifty years ago today. I can barely recall what I did last Friday — in fact, I can’t — but I can recall every detail of the events that unfolded on Friday, Nov. 22 in 1963. If you are of my generation, so can you.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in my car lately — especially at night. Nothing is lonelier than a Georgia back road a long way from home.