November 26, 2024

We found love in a Piggly Wiggly parking lot, and this Thanksgiving, that love is who I am beyond grateful for. 

It was February 2011—cold and sunny. My husband and I had been shopping for furniture in Scottsboro. As we drove home, truck bed loaded down with our purchases,  I spotted a feisty little beagle darting between four lanes of traffic.

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“Pull over at the Piggly Wiggly,” I said.

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“Why? Do you want Girl Scout cookies?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with hope. My husband has an insistent sweet tooth.

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A gaggle of Girl Scouts were set up, selling cookies outside the store. All flavors. Their smart, timely sales always arrive just as New Year's resolutions fade.

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“No.” I pointed to the floppy-eared, bounding brown-spotted bundle. “I want that beagle.”

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I wanted to name her Dolly. I tried so hard to make that name stick. It never stuck. A well-meaning friend misspelled beagle on Facebook. “Look at this cute bagel Beth found!”

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Bagel stuck. Just plain Bagel. Let me tell you, this Bagel is anything but plain.

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She is the spiciest dog I’ve ever met. Her dogged determination ensures that she consistently achieves her goals. If you don’t do her bidding within her desired time span, she makes sure you hear about it. Barking. Staring. Toe-tapping that wears a path on the living room floor.

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I have a video of her yanking up grass in the backyard. She was hacked off (to say the least) and wanted inside.  My husband and I were enjoying breakfast on the screened-in back porch. Bagel was tearing up grass and dirt, chucking it over her doggy shoulder, and BARKING. Oh. My. Stars.

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There’s a baby gate mounted to the door frame between our living room and my office because the cats’ food dish is in my office. Bagel loves cat food. She does a drive-by every chance she gets.

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Her teeth marks mark the baby gate bars. Cats in our house do not indulge in canned cat food unless they are old; then it is an earned right. Canned cat food stinks. I’d just fed one of our senior feline citizens when Bagel caught a whiff. It sent her  into a tizzy. That gate rattled beneath her wrath. Her teeth clenched around the bars as she put every ounce of her being into budging that gate. She did not succeed, but her disdain was palpable.

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To Bagel, tomatoes are the fruit of the gods. Her chocolate eyes light up at the sight of summer’s finest delicacy. She inhales tomatoes every chance she gets.

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One time, when my mom came over for lunch, she brought tomatoes to put in a salad. The tomatoes conveniently rolled off the kitchen table and onto the floor. Bagel descended on those tomatoes like a vulture. My mom made me take them away from her.

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“No, Mom!” I yelled. “She’ll bite you!”

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The rule about not putting your hand in an alligator’s cage applies to Bagel and tomatoes. She is my sous chef, waiting faithfully at my side as I cook dinner. She knows without a doubt that if I’m cooking with tomatoes or crunchy cucumbers, she will be getting taste. Tomatoes and cucumbers don’t stand a chance. She catches them mid-air.

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A few summers ago, my mom came up with a new nickname for Bagel. Her alter ego is Agnes. My husband does not like her nickname, but I fondly refer to her as Awesome Agnes. It fits. Remember that dogged determination? That spicy Bagel dog?

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Those traits have served her well over the past year. We almost lost her due to an emergency to remove a tumor. She was diagnosed with cancer. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked out of the veterinarian’s office with her, reassuring the staff that no matter how bleak the outlook is, Bagel is indeed fine. She’s scared me more than a few times.

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But, you know what I told my husband? No one puts Bagel (aka Awesome Agnes) on a timeline. This beagle makes her own timeline. What happens cannot be determined by any human—it is between her and the Man Upstairs. She has a voracious appetite for food and life.

Tonight, when I’m cooking dinner, she’ll be standing right beside me. Her floppy ear will be brushing against my leg as she looks up with desire, waiting for the tomatoes and cucumbers (and any other food—no discrimination here) to hit the floor. Bossy barking beagle. 

A lifetime of love, found in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. As I count our blessings this year, our Bossy Barking Beagle is right at the top of the list.  

November 28, 2025

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My Goddaughter and I rescued two kittens this past September. One evening, they were sitting in the recliner with my husband, and propped up beside him was our 16-year-old beagle, Bagel. I remember telling a coworker (who is also a very close friend and one of the wisest, kindest women I know) about that evening. What a whole circle moment it was, seeing these two barely a month-old kittens sitting next to our beagle.

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“Did you take a picture?” she asked.

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“Oh, no, I didn’t have my camera, but I will next time,” I answered.

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My friend went on to explain that she was not referring to a literal “photograph.” What she meant was—Did I fix that moment in my memory?

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That question came back to me frequently yesterday as I thought back on Thanksgivings of the past. When I was a child, we'd go either up to Chicago or over to Georgia to see my grandma’s sister and her family. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade would be blaring on the TV. I’d be careful not to eat the dressing, especially once I understood that there were giblets in it.

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Other years, we’d go to my auntie’s house. Us kids played outside for hours. When they lived in North Carolina, we’d traipse around the farm, not worrying how far we went (and the adults didn’t worry, either). The scent of woodsmoke wafted in the crisp air. The fields lay fallow, and frost-kissed grasses crunched beneath our shoes. I’m sure it was far less than even a mile, but it felt like an adventure. Other years, they’d come to our house. We’d ride bikes up and down the street and play in the backyard with the dogs.

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Then there was that first Thanksgiving after my granddad died. That year was quiet and bittersweet. The house I grew up in felt strange. The living room was cold and dark; my grandmother and mother had hung a blanket over the doorway, closing it off. A few weeks earlier, my grandfather had passed away in that room. If he had been alive, a football game would be on TV, and he’d have been telling stories.

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Yesterday, I took more pictures. My Goddaughter helped my mother cook up a storm. Pumpkin crunch cake, macaroni and cheese, and two kinds of dressing.

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Over the past few years, my mom has made dressing for the rest of us and a special dish, just for my Goddaughter. She followed the same old-time recipe my Goddaughter’s granny made. Well, it’s not really a recipe. There aren’t any recorded measurements. That’s how you know it’s good.

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My Goddaughter stood at the counter, stirring her bowl of turkey and dressing. “Are you going to take a picture?”  she asked me.

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“No,” I said. I already did. I’ll never forget the first time my mom made that dressing for my Goddaughter—the year her granny died. It’s a tradition they look forward to every year.

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I hope you took pictures yesterday (whoever you are that may be reading this). I hope you take multiple pictures every day—more than you can count. You can take those pictures with you wherever you go. Blessings. Every. Single. One. And if you’re doing it right, they really add up.

February 16, 2026​

A man and his dog came into the veterinarian’s office. Tattoos covered his arms. He wore a plain, white t-shirt and baggy jeans. A grown man, maybe in his late 30s or early 40s, but he regarded the space with the shyness of a youngster. He looked at the floor, the people and their pets, seated and waiting to be called back. A dog and her owner. Or, maybe it was the other way around. She clearly had him wrapped around her paw.

The man went to the counter, his voice miraculously quiet in a large, open waiting room that echoes. The lady at the counter’s voice was far louder than his. She told him that she hadn’t received a call to confirm the appointment.

​“Let me check if he can see you,” she told the man, who was holding the wiggly hound’s leash. “Go ahead and have a seat.”

​The man turned around, scanning the space again. Three benches filled with people and pets.

​The woman sitting on the first bench was listening to a vet tech explain in detail how to give her elderly cat SQ fluids. My cat, Frank, took SQ fluids a few times before he passed away. SQ fluids help the kidneys do their job. This lady’s cat was in renal failure. He was a feral cat she had rescued from the hospital parking lot. He didn’t have long, but she was determined to give him the best life, no matter how short.

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The third bench was occupied by a man and his little seven pound black and white Shih-Tzu mix. He hadn’t spoken since he arrived. Most of the time, animal lovers will talk your ear off about their furbabies, but he was quiet.

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I sat on the second bench, the one smack in the middle. I patted the seat and motioned for the man and his dog to sit beside me.

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“Thank you,” he murmured, sitting down. His movements were stiff. He looked at me from the corner of his eye. His pooch ran her head beneath my hand, insistent on a nice pat. Her little body wiggled with glee. She did not know a stranger.

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“Is she a pitbull?” I asked. Years ago, we had a pitbull named Buddy. He loved the veterinarian’s office. Strange, but true.

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The dog jumped up to sit between us on the bench.

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“Red-nosed,” the man replied.

“She’s beautiful,” I said. “We used to have a red-nosed pit.”

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He stroked the dog’s golden fur. “I had her momma and her daddy.”

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The lady at the counter called the man, but he didn’t seem to hear her voice.

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I pointed to the desk. “She’s calling you.”

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The man practically leapt to his feet and headed to the desk.

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“The vet can see you,” she told him.

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Within seconds, a vet tech arrived to take the dog. “Sugar! How are you today, girl?” Sugar needed an X-ray on her foot. “Is it any better than last time?” s

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“No. The same.”  He was on his feet again as the tech started to lead Sugar back for the X-ray. “I can go back with you.”

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The tech was walking ahead. “No, no. I can’t let you go back. Radiation.”

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He walked right beside Sugar until the techs told him he couldn’t go any further. The x-rays took no time, and before he could fret, Sugar was back in his arms.

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The tech called them into a room. For the second time, the man did not notice the person calling his name—same as with the lady at the desk. I pointed again and said they were calling him. Sugar and her person disappeared behind the door.

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The tech came back out. She leaned close and dropped her voice. “I’m sorry. He’s got a brain injury. I’m really sorry.”

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I shook my head and smiled. “It’s no big deal. He didn’t bother me a bit. No need to apologize.”

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And there wasn’t, because all I saw was a sweet dog and a man who loved her very much, probably more than life itself. Sugar.

February 18, 2026

Growing up, jars packed with pennies lined the top of our kitchen cabinets. My granddad filled them with loose change. Nickels, dimes, and quarters snuck in here and there, but mostly he saved pennies. He used coffee cans or jars. Folgers and Maxwell House, but mostly Folgers. That was his coffee of choice. The jars sat right above the sink, right next to my grandmother’s Chicago Cubs pitcher. Grandma was a die-hard Cubbies fan.​

My grandparents lived through the Great Depression. My grandad, or Hon as I called him, was born two years before the Crash of ‘29. Grandma came along almost ten years later. They grew up in two different, yet similar worlds. The city of Chicago and rural North Alabama. Back then, people lived frugal lives. Nothing was wasted. What’s that old adage? A penny saved is a penny earned.

When the jars got full enough, Hon rolled the pennies. He taught my sister and me how to roll them. There, in the living room, we sorted change into groups of ten. My sister and I sat on the floor, with the scratchy brown carpet against our legs. Hon occupied the couch, equally as scratchy and plaid, with tones of cream, brown, and black. Clusters of copper covered the black-topped coffee table. The clink clink of coins married with Hon’s stories and a baseball game playing in the background. 

Once we had five groups of ten, we stacked the pennies into the rolls. The brown paper was rough against my fingers. Red ink marked the rolls. It read, fifty cents. You had to poke a finger into one end of the roll (the bottom) to hold the change in until it was full, then pinch and fold the ends just right to keep the coins from falling out.

I didn’t think about it at the time, but we were learning. As a teacher, I see all those actions through a different lens. We were learning to count money, subitize amounts—recognize quantities without counting items one by one. The pinching and folding built our hand-eye coordination and dexterity.

One of my elementary students recently told me that she was going to start saving pennies. “They’re rare now,” she said.

“Not quite, yet,” I responded. “But they will be someday.”

That little conversation on a Tuesday afternoon got me thinking about things that used to be, the ever-changing ways of life, and the waning of the slow and simple things. Like, saving loose change in coffee jars and cans and rolling coins to take them to the bank. I recounted that entire story to my students, a fleeting memory that means more than all the money in the world. Counting pennies with my granddad.

 August 16, 2025

Sparked by my interest in the Depression Era and the WPA (Works Progress Administration)—which was in turn sparked by research for my current writing project—this summer, I set my sights on Dora, Alabama. The July heat was tolerable inside the cab of our air-conditioned Tacoma; not so much in the un-airconditioned Alabama Mining Museum.

The Old Dora High School gymnasium houses the Alabama Mining Museum. It’s only open on select days and hours of the week and closes at noon. Though referred to as being on the outskirts of Birmingham, be prepared to travel through the middle-of-nowhere, where the best places are often found.

The WPA built the gym in 1935, along with the library. While the gym remains in use, the library is now a shell. (More on the library in a future post.) Walking on those original, still-painted floors, seeing the massive fans high above, and feeling the stone walls, I felt a tangible connection to the past—imagining the students and the community who filled this space.

My husband and I were the only visitors that entire day. We meandered through the old gym, learning about coal mining tools from the past, the towns that sprung up around those mines, and the lives of the miners and their families. There were cash registers, schoolbooks from the children, furniture and tools from the town doctor’s office, and black and white photographs. More historical items than I can adequately recount in a few hundred words.

Near the center of the gym, on a makeshift wall, is a framed letter written by a coal miner from Fraterville, Tennessee. The worst mining disaster in the history of Tennessee happened there in 1902. In the early morning hours of May 19, a coal dust explosion killed 216 men and boys—190 were killed instantly. Trying to block out the deadly fumes, the remaining men walled themselves deeper into the mine passage. They composed letters to their loved ones as they waited to die.

Fraterville is 307 miles from Dora. I have no idea how that letter ended up at the WPA gymnasium, but I read every word a man named Jacob wrote to the woman he loved, Ellen, and their family. He said to her, “Ellen I want you to live right and come to heaven. Raise the children the best you can…”

Heavens, I cannot imagine his desperation. I cannot imagine her heartbreak. Amid all those historical items, Jacob’s letter to Ellen made a miner’s life very real. He told her where to bury his body and to say goodbye to their children. Logic knows that this man would be long gone today, even if he hadn’t died in 1902. Human frailty evokes emotions of mourning for people who aren’t even my ancestors.

Despite years of seeing pictures of Dora, I had never heard about the mining museum in its old WPA gym until this summer. I’m glad I visited—not because it made me happy, but because I had the chance to read Jacob’s letter to Ellen and honor his memory by experiencing the last words he wrote.

September 14, 2025

My mom and I drove through Blountsville today. If you’re not familiar with Blountsville, it’s a map-dot town along US 231, south of Huntsville and north of Oneonta. For years, Blountsville appeared rather lackluster. Closed up or rundown store-fronts, a dilapidated two-story house (rumored to be an old stagecoach stop), a Jack's, a Lucky’s, and some gas stations. You get the picture—a town that once thrived, that’s now mostly passed through. 

Well, I’ve been passing through Blountsville for some years, but not with tunnel vision. I like to look around, imagine what once was there, and appreciate the otherwise forgotten. Today, looking around as we passed through looked quite different. 

Gigantic, spherical displays of pink wave petunias hung from every post up and down the street. 

As we passed by, we pondered who could be planting and caring for all these flowers. Keeping flowers alive in the southern heat is no small task. Alongside the road,  a gentleman had parked his golf cart and was watering a pot overflowing with other decorative flowers. 

“That’s him,” I said. “That’s got to be the man taking care of these flowers.”

“We’re going to tell him how beautiful his work is,” my mom said. 

She turned onto a side street, prepared to turn around at the library, but we kept going. The decorations extended beyond US 231 (the main drag), along residential streets, in front of the United Methodist Church and graveyard, to the high school. They were eye-catching and simply delightful. 

The man was still tending the blossoms by the time we came back up to the section of the street in front of the pharmacy. Mom parallel parked behind his golf cart, and I got out. 

“Excuse me, sir,” I said. 

The man cut off his humming watering machine. “Yes?” He smiled.

I removed my sunglasses, holding them at my side. “My mom and I were just passing through, and we noticed the flowers. We wanted to stop and tell you how beautiful they are.” 

“Thank you.” His smile widened. 

“I hope you have a lovely Sunday.”

“Well, thank you so much, you too.” He called out another ‘thank you’ as I turned to head back to the car. 

“No thank you,” I returned. “Your work is lovely.” 

It took a few minutes out of our day to stop and show appreciation for work that no doubt has taken this gentleman (and at least a handful of other volunteers) to accomplish and maintain. But, imagine that, a group of people in a small town just doing something nice. Not asking for recognition or anything in return. Just because they want to and probably because love their hometown a whole bunch. 

The moral? A little kindness can bloom and add color to the world, leaving a mark on someone’s day when they least expect it. 

October 26, 2025

If you ever find yourself lost while careening along backroads, look for a church. Church signs are often a reliable indicator of which little town (or more often unincorporated community) you happen to be passing through. Even if decades have passed since the last congregation met, there is bound to be a sign out front telling the name of the church. Hence, noting the name of the “town.” 

It’s worth pointing out that this is not unique to the south. On a recent trip to Upstate New York, a no-longer-in-use church on a county road caught my eye—the Blossvale Union Chapel. 

As with all things historic…abandoned, I’ve searched for information about this church, so far coming up empty-handed, except for a mention in an obituary for a man that had been a member circa the 1940s. But the church’s architecture is stunning, especially the stained glass windows.

 Other than utilizing church signs to orient yourself (if you’re brave enough to venture out without GPS), houses of worship offer a glimpse into the past. In small towns, churches are for praise, fellowship, and community. Once upon a time, far more than now, they were the heart of small towns. 

Country churches are often set in picturesque locations, some tucked so far off the road that you have to slow down to catch a glimpse. 

One of my favorites is located on the Bee Line Highway between Cullman and Birmingham. 

The Bangor United Methodist Church is quite unassuming, no stained glass windows, just a rectangular-shaped building tucked back on a hill, spitting distance from the railroad tracks. Years ago, through rabbit-hole-research I found an application to the Alabama Historical Commission. The description of the inside of this church was eye-catching. 

Built in 1930, the chapel (at least at one time) contained pews held together with horseshoe spikes and pegs. When light streamed through the windows, it bathed the pine floors in a beautiful glow. Ropes to the bell tower came through the ceiling, falling just inside the front door. White sheets hung between the walls, partitioning off the back quarter of the church for children’s Sunday School. 

The church hasn’t been operational for years. A lady living nearby said that efforts to save the building stalled. Bees are the most recent occupants. There’s a hive in the back wall. Oak trees stand sentry on the holy ground. Their limbs hover just above the roof. The first (and only) time I stood in the churchyard, I imagined scenes of those bygone days—Sunday dinners on the ground, hymns filtering through the windows, and the ethereal glow of sunlight cast upon the rough-hewn pine floors. 

Along the Bee Line Highway, there’s a sign that reads, Bangor United Methodist Church. Save for a tire sign and a Baptist church sign, it’s the only indicator that there was a town here. Trains still rumble through, stirring the trees and fallen leaves, as their whistles echo through the gap. It is a place that calls to me time and time again. And, whenever I pass through, I slow down just to catch a glimpse of the little white church cradled in the arms of the oaks. 

The graveyard without a church is located in the hills of Southern Middle Tennessee. Hills that are part of the Southern Appalachians and so sharply sloped that it’s a miracle cows can stay vertical while grazing. An hour or so away from Nashville, city lights are a far-flung idea, and if I had my guess, the people that live ‘round here like it that way.

The road and the graveyard are named for the long-gone church. While it’s a cemetery now, it was once a graveyard: cemeteries are free-standing burial places, while graveyards are next to churches.

The last time I was here, it was late autumn. Scraggly, stubborn brown leaves clung to branches. The ones that had given up littered the ground, crunching beneath my feet. Now, it’s the dead of winter. The ground is soft. There are spots where the ground is sunken, and I can’t help but wonder if those divots are unmarked graves.

Silence hovers, save for a trickling stream and a barking dog. The day started out sunny, but clouds are moving in, dulling the light. Afternoon speeds toward evening faster this time of year. There isn’t time to linger. I wish I had more time and that it wasn’t so chilly, so I could meander among the headstones and read each one. But I know why I’m here. One of my four-times great-grandmothers is buried in this cemetery. Sixteen years have passed since I last visited, but I walk right to her final resting place.

Her name was Ity Adline. Isn’t that an intriguing name? Her grave is surrounded by an iron fence. The ground next to her headstone is dimpled. For years, I thought her husband was buried beside her, though there is no headstone. That’s not true. He’s buried somewhere out in Texas. From what I can find, she’s the only one of her immediate family buried in this place. That fact alone sends questions swirling in my head.

Did she go to church here? Where did she live? What did her home look like? What did the world look like beyond her front porch? She must’ve been a special lady because there’s a rose carved on her headstone. Who was the stonemason who carved that rose and the words below her birth and death dates?

There is no death, the stars go down

To rise upon the same fairer shore.

But bright in heaven’s jeweled crown

They shine forevermore. 

A little poem. Thoughts about this woman, from the people who knew and loved her. An epitaph and carving that are clues about her character, far more telling than rote census records. An inkling of a story…waiting to be discovered…waiting to be told. Hidden in the hills of Tennessee. 

April 29, 2026

I learned a new word. Shibboleth. A word or phrase characteristic to a particular group of people, oftentimes unique to their location and heritage. 

I recently passed through Wytheville, Virginia, on my way to Alexandria for a writing retreat. A series of exits off I-81 leads to Wytheville. Chain restaurants and could-be-anywhere-USA roadside motels. Wytheville makes a good overnight stop, but as is the rule of thumb in discovering good things, you must journey beyond the interstate. 

Wytheville is the county seat of Wythe County; it’s also a shibboleth. When saying the name of the town, don’t make the “y” sound like a long “i.” Wytheville is pronounced “with-ville.” On this trip, I lodged at one of those could-be-anywhere-USA motels, but not before stopping at Snooper’s Antique Mall. 

My grandma loved to stop at Snooper’s, and as my car rumbled across the gravel parking lot, I knew I’d find a treasure. Two Depression Glass sugar and creamer sets rode home with me—green Hazel-Atlas Ribbon Ribbon pattern and pink Anchor-Hocking Old Colony pattern.

The next morning I drove down Main Street in search of coffee with character and breakfast. Beneath the verdant Appalachians, a spring zephyr whispered through town, rustling leaves. Main Street barely buzzed with life. It was early. Dolly Parton and Tammy Wynette tunes drifted from speakers situated on street corners. Not obtrusive. Hidden, so at first one might wonder, “Where is that music coming from?”

I sipped a butter pecan latte at The Grind, a coffee shop next door to the birthplace of First Lady Edith Bolling Wilson. The Bolling Building, which now houses a museum dedicated to the former first lady and her family, is the oldest brick structure in downtown Wytheville. 

A descendant of Pocahontas, and often designated “The Secret President,” Edith Bolling was born October 15, 1872. She grew up to be a First Lady of Firsts. During WWI, she examined important documents, volunteered with the American Red Cross, and even deciphered messages from Allied forces. Later, she became the first Honorary President of the Girl Scouts and was the first First Lady to vote after the passage of the 19th amendment. 

On the other side of the block sat a restaurant dubbed Skeeter’s World Famous Hot Dogs. “Home of the World Famous Skeeter-Dog,” Skeeter’s has been around since 1925. It boasts a signature “Bright Red Hot Dog” with “Chili, Creamy Slaw, Mustard, & Onions.” 

While sipping my coffee at The Grind, I finished the fortieth scene in the rewriting of my novel manuscript, bringing the word count to 80,000 plus. I hope to return to Wytheville before too long. The home of a water tower painted like a hot air balloon. A place that didn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry and pretty proud of its history and future. A little town that left this writer’s heart singing with joy and inspiration.