Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Carole’s mother was young. Twenty-two years old. She was married and pregnant with her second child. The year was 1945.
The War was freshly over. The Depression was still a recent memory. Carole’s mother wanted to buy her husband a gift for his birthday. He was turning 25.
Visiting an Appalachian Walmart at 8 o’clock in the evening is unlike any other experience. Rural Appalachian dwellers are unique unto themselves. Cautious of outsiders. Not always friendly. They have trust issues.
I’m saddened that there is a video of me circulating the internet, playing a banjo, with 7 million views, where the majority of commenters are labeling me a racist.
This church is 115 years old. It’s small. Impossibly small, only able to fit 25 people—30 people if they are scrawny. The church is nestled in Appalachia, and looks like a postcard.
The day is Christmas. The era is ancient. The tiny farming village is located 50 miles from the big city, deep within the Apennine foothills. A young shepherd is guiding a flock of sheep down mainstreet. He’s talking to the sheep like they are people.
The Associated Press published an article warning against the health hazards of using fireplaces. Yes, holiday fireplaces are cozy. Yes, they’re festive. Yes, fireplaces have existed within our hominid culture ever since Adam discovered he had no belly button. But…
An American believes in the American Creed, assimilates, and accepts America as a common heritage and a personal trust.
A Dallas area church is lying to its parishioners, and destroying the trust the Christian church needs to tend a flock.
t is said that, when George III learned that General Washington planned to return to farming rather than take a crown, as any European general would presumably do, the defeated king said “If he does that, then he will be the greatest man in the world.”
A supermarket checkout line. Cheesy holiday music is playing overhead. Not the fun kind of cheesy music, but the kind once heard in Kmart á la 1973.
You are special. You are infinitely, unbelievably, once-in-a-septillion-years special. That’s right, I’m talking to you, one of the nine-point-two people reading this.
I’m going to be honest. In our two decades of marriage, I have never known exactly what our roles are. It’s never been clear to me. I’ve always been confused about hierarchy in our household.
It’s hard to choose my favorite Christmas movie. Each time I try to pick one, I’m afraid I’ll shoot my eye out.
Tonight, I am playing with Three On a String for our annual Christmas tour. We will perform four times throughout the state of Alabama, singing Christmas songs, telling stories, and presenting our show to admiring crowds of dozens. Next week is Albertville. The week after that is—I don’t remember.
It all started when Sandra was walking home from work. It was 1969. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” was still in theaters. We landed on the moon. The top-40 hits du jour belonged to the Stones and Neil Diamond.
The snow in West Virginia clings to the world like shaving cream, covering every surface, every automotive hood, every interstate sign. In the distance, the blue Appalachians stand watch over the Mountain State, like mother hens, guarding their young.
I was scared to death. It was my first day of second grade, and I was terrified to the point of regurgitation. “Please don’t make me go to school,” I begged my mother.
All the kids were sitting criss-cross on the floor in a big hotel lobby, some sipping from paper cups of hot chocolate, most wearing pajamas.
She was a foster kid. Grew up in a group home. A place where you basically lived in a bunk. If you were lucky, you got to shower before the other kids drained the hot water tank.
The Christmas season was the busiest time of year for delivery-persons. Drivers saw a major uptick in workload. This did nothing to improve John’s sunny disposition.