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by Emme Gannon @GannonEmme In the south, we always have meat and two vegetables for supper, one green and one yellow. Potatoes don�t count. Of course, no meal would be complete without something sour. Pickled beets, peaches, or watermelon rind will do nicely. On Thanksgiving, however, our repertoire expands like our bellies. On that grand day diets are ignored along with my brother�s corny jokes and Uncle Ferd�s unpopular political views. Memories arise of the army of relatives that would somehow squeeze around my grandmother�s dining room table to partake of the Thanksgiving meal. We knew not to touch a morsel of food until we bowed our heads, folded our hands and blessed the meal.  Sumptuous aromas of turkey, gravy, dressing, and homemade yeast rolls wafted in harmonious circles and tantalized our taste buds as we listened to my grandmother�s prayer of thanksgiving, going all the way back to her gratitude for family members who, it seemed, settled in the original Virginia colony....

by Emme Gannon @GannonEmme I�m a big fan of southern storyteller Rick Bragg. His narrative style of writing brings notoriety to the common man�the living and the dead and the trembling membrane in between. He takes us back to a day when computers and cell phones didn�t rule the day and the heart of each small town was the church, where God and country were worshipped and honored, in that order.  Reading Rick transports me to my grandmother�s front porch swing, where I sipped sweet tea, and ancestors came to life as real as if we were reunited at the rapture. I become a kid again, staying up late in summer so I can catch flickering fireflies in the old mason jar kept under the back porch, just waiting for the thrill of the hunt. Then the release, when the sky explodes with the twinkling light of a handful of fireflies escaping into the night. Bragg�s writing has a beat that is hauntingly beautiful�a beat so rhythmic that something inside of me wants to continue the song. But, Rick�s...

by Emme Gannon @GannonEmme �Oh Agnes, oh my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life indeed; so may I, when realities are melting from me, like the shadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward.�  Charles Dickens penned these poignant words in what some say was his veiled autobiography, David Copperfield. The character Agnes was based on the love of his life, Mary Hogarth, who died at age seventeen in Dickens�s arms. His lost love plagued his dreams and thoughts his entire life and sought restitution in his writing. Dickens drew from the tragedies of his life to portray a cast of unforgettable characters.  As a result of his father�s irresponsibility and lavish lifestyle, the family was cast into debtor�s prison. The job to earn enough money to obtain their release fell to twelve-year-old Charles. His world crashed, as well as his hopes for a proper education. Humiliated beyond reproach, he clawed his way to such success that he ultimately ea...

by Emme Gannon @GannonEmme The writing life is often one of solitude as we barricade ourselves behind closed doors and weave words into story. If we stay in our writing cave too long without social interaction, we run the risk of what I call the hibernation syndrome. We grow inactive and our mind turns to mush. We�ve used our stored energy and need to escape to enjoy a meal of sumptuous literary food. A few weeks ago I broke free from my writing room and attended a writer�s weekend at the home of one of my favorite authors. There were nine other writers who gathered to fellowship, dine on chef-created meals, and listen to workshops from those whom I believe to be giants in the industry. In addition to their wealth of information, I was struck by the humility of the faculty. While their experiences and credentials would seem to give them permission to do so, not one masqueraded as a celebrity. Instead, they invested themselves in the lives of others devoted to the craft of writing. ...

by Emme Gannon @GannonEmme The ringing phone woke me from a sound sleep. The caller ID flashed bright in the darkness. It was from the memory care assisted-living, where my husband had been for three months. The voice on the other end was somber. �Your husband has collapsed and is unresponsive. We�ve called EMS.� After a pause she added, �But he�s breathing.�  Strength drained from my legs as I jumped from bed. Steadying myself, I threw on a dress and sandals and ran upstairs to wake my visiting granddaughter. �Wake up. Pop�s on his way to the hospital.� Like a loyal soldier, she obeyed my command and met me in the car, strength and comfort pouring from her tender heart. We drove out into the darkness. Into the unknown.   The ER was crowded, with doctors and nurses swiftly appearing in and out of the walled cubicles. Emergency codes blared intermittently over the intercom, followed by the sound of hurried feet. The air carried the antiseptic scent of bleach and alcohol. ...