Yesterday morning, Sunday before Christmas, our pastor told us the Christmas story from Luke 2. This is my six plus decades of winters, so I guess I’d heard the story at least 66 times formally in church services.
I searched the Internet to see when he died. He had been a regular performer on the Magnavox record player my Mom played when she was busy in the house. He shared time with Floyd Cramer, Al Hirt, Roy Clark, Van Cliburn, the Chipmunks (at Christmas) and some guy named Liberace.
With this being my last column before Christmas, I'm going to share with you a few of the random things bouncing through my head as the big day draws near:
I am a middle-age man, college educated, pretty darn savvy — if I say so myself — and I believe in Santa Claus.
I have to. I’ve met him.
You've heard it your whole life: No matter what you think, you never truly know someone.
Imagine walking into work and being handed a form to be filled out for your employer. It has nothing to do with your work, by the way.
Last week I shared that, for multiple reasons, I found myself easily falling into the holiday spirit this season.
Like the western heroes of yesteryear, Thanksgiving has ridden off into the sunset, leaving the bloated bodies of its victims lying strewn about in various states of agony.
"You can either be humbly grateful, or grumbly hateful."
In my family, being a Tennessee Volunteers fan is a tradition.
As a high school junior, I was tasked to interview a person working in the career of our choice.
I went back in time at my grandfather's farm my last visit there. I discovered over 20 large boxes of medical records from the 1950s to 1970s stored in the loft of the barn detailing the medical history of hundreds, if not thousands, of patients in his small town.
On Thursday, something happened in Hollywood that awoke my inner child.
For me, growing up in the country meant there was always a memory being created.
I was scared of my closet as a child. After an addition to our home moved my brother out of our shared bedroom across the hall to mom and dad’s old bedroom, it became a bigger problem.
Writing about death is one of the most difficult things a journalist encounters.
After reading Jeff Farrell’s story on the dog breeding bust for the front page of today’s paper, I was compelled to write an editorial with a personal touch.
True to my Sevier County roots, I have been getting my hair cut by the same stylist for nearly a decade.
“Build a better mousetrap, and the world will beat a path to your door.”
It is becoming routine to read the news and think I am reading a Robin Cook or Tom Clancy book from twenty years ago. An airplane as a weapon of mass murder? Clancy in 1994. An outbreak of a virus that not only kills quickly but in a terrifying manner of hemorrhaging? Robin Cook's "Outbreak" in 1987.
Not to get too romance novel on you, dear reader, but today’s column is about a love affair.
As I’ve expressed many times before, I’m what most people would classify as something of a geek. We always had a computer in my house, starting with a Commodore 64 when I was in kindergarten, and my Dad was always encouraging me to read and buying educational toys.
“When are you going to take your family to Disney World?”
A patient recently asked if the new electronic cigarettes (e-cigarette) really work and are safe. Curiously, the question came from a patient who had broken his habit years ago with a simple decision to quit.