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Ronda Rich

Yarns of life are threads that never break

Something the other day took me back to a time, many years ago, when I followed the tight, winding roads of the mountains to present myself at the door of my maternal grandmother’s house.

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Mama B was a mother we will all remember

It was at lunch after a morning revival service last summer that a few of us sat around, munching on Southern casseroles and talking about one of the most memorable mothers any of us had ever known.

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The liberation wrought by a pickup truck

On a plane headed out west to Phoenix once, I sat beside a very nice man who was flying to a job interview. It was for a bank job, I remember.

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Remembering the great ones from sports days

In those days, I was too young to fully grasp the education I was receiving. That’s typical of most teenagers I suppose. At the age of 19, insight, wisdom and knowledge rolled off me like a well- cooked egg slides easily over Teflon but somewhere it deposited itself so that it bubbled up later.

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