Choctaw people have a story about poison and how it came to be spread across the earth. My great aunt Irma told me the story when I was a little boy. I understand the story better now. I know it isn’t really about poison.
What could be more fun than this? Shooting your sisters and parents with water pistols filled with colored water! Throwing handfuls of corn starch dyed in every color of the rainbow into your brother’s hair. Dancing in the streets wearing rags soaked by the explosion of brightly colored water-filled balloons. Rubbing colored paste into your husband’s cheeks.
We grew up in the country on a dirt road that quit just yards shy of a creek. Occasionally we would ask a parent for permission to go to the creek to play, but we usually just wandered around until... Surprise, we’re at the creek!
No sooner had Lester taken the oath of office as Georgia's governor than he fulfilled a solemn campaign promise—the issuance of an order prohibiting female employees of the governor's office from wearing mini skirts.
The sin of lust. Now there’s a sin I know something about. To my mind, it is the jewel of all sin. It’s a sin of which I’ve been unquestionably guilty, and on more than one occasion. Fact is, when it comes to lusting I’m an unrepentant repeat offender.
Few stories are as universally familiar as the story of Adam and Eve. Of all the Bible stories I learned as a child, few had such immediate or lasting impact on me as this magical story of a treacherous serpent and the forbidden Tree of Knowledge.
I didn't write I Can't Have You in 1968, but when I sing it or listen to the record it feels like I did. It's the kind of song I liked a lot back in those days. It's the kind of song I often wrote while sitting in my bedroom playing my shiny black Hagstrom II guitar— a guitar I bought with twelve easy payments when I was a junior in high school.