I’ve written about my paternal grandfather (not to be confused with my infamous step-grandfather) before. Pop Pop Boone was a master storyteller with incredibly bad judgment and questionable character. Not surprisingly, we were close. Most Thanksgivings were spent in Toomsboro, where my dad grew up. It wasn’t even a one-stoplight town, and even natives like … Continue reading Thanksgiving in Toomsboro
So completely had Johnson cut himself off from his family and friends that Brevard police would search for five days for someone to claim his body. Well-observed details make Steve Hummer’s account of the tragic life and death of Randy Johnson, Atlanta’s first quarterback, worth your time.
(a rambling anecdote, of no real purpose) When my sister married the rich guy, families from opposite ends of the good fortune chain uncomfortably merged. His was born into inheritance; hers (mine) born in holes, equipped with shovels. The rehearsal dinner was at a navy blue-blooded private club in a Buckhead high rise. I was seated next to … Continue reading my sister’s rehearsal dinner