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Number of posts: 5
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By Alice Murray:
Life often has a way of bringing us full circle. When my daughter was tiny, her father and I helped one of our tenants fulfill his dream of opening a restaurant in the old Decatur depot. I painted light fixtures while she napped, and I lugged her along in her car seat as I helped set up for the grand opening party 29 years ago this month.
Describing the events leading up to the first AJC Decatur Book Festival is a bit like blindfolding several people and putting them in an enclosure with an elephant. Each will accurately describe what he or she touches, but each description will be different because no one can describe the whole elephant.
Let’s just say you own a restaurant in a tiny South Carolina hamlet beside a salt marsh. And outside your window is a lovely island with a few trees on the north side and marsh grass around the edges. Your patrons enjoy the view of fishing boats heading out to sea from the nearby docks, and you want them to linger for dessert and after dinner drinks on your patio. One summer afternoon, you notice some local teenagers pulling up to the island in a johnboat. Something about the look on their faces makes you think they are up to no good. After they leave you hop in your boat and motor over to the island to check things out. “Ah ha,” you murmur as you walk up to a healthy stand of marijuana plants poking up behind the marsh grass. “Not good, not good at all.” You weigh your […]
Every July, the crepe myrtles make me, well, if not melancholy, at least pensive. Their blossoms, in pink, purple, and stark, clean white, brave the Georgia heat and provide a clear contrast to the deep green of high summer in the South. Even the hardy day lilies, in their myriad of colors that open each day to the light and close each evening, don’t offer the impact of a 20-foot-tall crepe myrtle shouting summertime from yards, curbsides and highway medians across the state. Having grown up with few flowering plants other than a lonely bed of petunias, I didn’t get to know a crepe myrtle until I bought my first house. Moving in November, all I saw were naked branches in the island between the sidewalk and the curb. “What in the world is that ugly cluster of sticks?” I thought to myself and proceeded to clip them to the […]
My mom’s middle name is Marie. So is mine. So is my daughter’s. While we’re all very different, our middle name links our three generations.
When my mom was growing up, her parents claimed her middle name was actually “Go.” For most of her life, she was always ready to pack her bags for a trip, anytime, anywhere.
Although she was born in 1915, and her early trips didn’t take her far from the dairy farm in East Tennessee where she was born, she always longed to go. Books offered her the first adventures in travel, and she devoured each and every “dime novel” her dad would bring her from his Saturday trips to town
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