a foretaste of glory divine yet to come - Artist, writer, and athlete Bill Gramley of Winston-Salem, North Carolina, recounts his discoveries of Southern cooking and describes the delectables offered up from the table set by his mother-in-law on a 1950s North Carolina farm.

– “Sweetheart, wake up! Santa’s here!”   “But what I really want, Santa, is a flashlight.”

“Do you like the gift ya got, girlfriend?” Wanting to get rid of the proof, I tried to give the chocolates to my family for dessert.

I should have developed emotional armor, but I’d gone the other way. Stunned, I leaned hard on the doorjamb, knuckles white on suitcase handle, nerves frozen as they did when gut feelings proved true.

We all know our mothers have magical powers In Mom’s day, if you were not bleeding and could walk, you were perfectly fine.

The wind is the sculptor that shapes the shoreline. Vince poked holes, and I scuttered along crab-like, planting sprigs one by one.

Wires dangled from under the dash leaving only silence and an emptiness of spirit It was a time of meaningful conversations. George rode with me every day offering words of encouragement.

I had "sent a message out into the universe" asking for help. This unexpected path began bearing fruit and I was happy.

I did not want to be alone … so I looked for connections beyond the local. Call it meant-to-be, fate, kismet, benign coincidence, or just plain good luck, I do not care. I did not want to be alone … so I looked for connections beyond the local. Call it meant-to-be, fate, kismet, benign coincidence, or just plain good luck, I do not care.

“What’s that at the end of the other bed?” Sometimes we say to our adult selves, “Did this really happen? What did we see?

A shadowy man with a blurry face motioned for me to come down. In the dim light, I saw a large room containing mountains of frayed furniture, dishes, rusty hardware, and tattered cardboard boxes overflowing with yellowed papers.

“Who told you that?” Mom asked, horrified. “Nobody goes to the attic!” I asserted. I crossed my four-year-old arms defiantly.

“I’m coming, Mom. Hang on. I love you IloveyouIloveyou.” It would match the electric energy inside as we bumbled and fumbled with new information gathering as furiously and ominously as the roiling storm.

The music and togetherness created a happy space. A preaching wrapped into a folk song, circling lessons with rhythm and life.

My mother disliked going into debt. Self-sufficiency remained her ideal. He rendered our family homeless and forced my mother to find shelter in abhorrent shacks.

Anything that can go wrong, it will go wrong. The police reported it an accident; with anguish I added the word stupid.

Something had happened and the farm knew it. Rooster Cogburn was a burly, jewel-toned arrogance of teals, reds, deeper reds, and blues shot through with lances of yellow and purple.

I still feel the chills run down my spine. After all, D-O-G is truly the perfect reflection of G-O-D.

– “The inmates here are an army of forgotten men.” He accepted the rejections and focused on making a successful transition from his rogue, racketeering life.

– “This isn’t a timeshare. Our program’s based on points.” A presentation by a Dolly Parton doppelganger, so charming she could sell a bald man a comb!