my garden at 6am, before the heat

sweet tea, real sweet tea, with mint from the yard

my late husband earl, every day

forsyth park in the spring when the azaleas go

a student from 1987 who writes me every christmas

shrimp and grits from my own recipe, which i will never write down

my porch swing

flannery o'connor, who understood this place

my granddaughter celia, who is funnier than anyone on television

to kill a mockingbird, which i've taught forty-one times and cried every time

aretha franklin singing amazing grace

buttermilk biscuits, hot, with honey

the belief that every child can learn if you give them a reason to

a handwritten letter, any handwritten letter

pecan pie, my mother's recipe, with just a pinch of bourbon

rain on a tin roof