There’s nothing like a trip to Hollywood to remind you of the fantasies that grow there as rapidly as kudzu grows in Southern summers. There, I often find people who are not exactly my people.

When Mama died and the remainders and reminders of her life had to be sorted, distributed and, in some rare incidences, disposed of, my sister Louise and I marveled constantly at the historian that Mama was.

Poet and I were having one of our hour-long conversations. I was driving somewhere, with a wireless piece tucked into my ear, catching up on Poet’s stories and sharing a few of mine.

Optimist that I am, I have high hopes that this economic down-turn will make people kinder.

It could happen.

When folks experience set-backs, it’s humbling. Humility, in turn, makes the heart kinder and the spirit gentler. Too many people have become mean. Downright, spirit-crushing mean. It sickens my soul.

No sooner had I proudly written the column about the young boy who had named his new pet chicken after me than Ronda the Chicken proved to be as unpredictable as Ronda the writer.

A dear friend of mine, bless his heart, has to work every major holiday. Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter are days on which he labors while his family celebrates without him.

I’m still laughing about it. Well, kinda. It’s one of those situations that you have to laugh about to keep from crying.

It’s sometimes amazing the coincidences that can bring a person into your life. How they can be plopped down into your life, just like they’ve always belonged there.

One fall afternoon, I was lunching with a close friend of mine at the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville. A man from another table tentatively approached us and explained that he and his wife were fans of this column.

Just this morning, I turned the page of a book and was immediately and delightedly reminded of the power of words on paper.

Early on that Saturday morning, the phone had rung as I puzzled over the recently acquired digital camcorder, wondering why on earth I had purchased such a sophisticated one.

Not long ago, headed down Interstate 20, somewhere near Augusta, Ga., I saw a sight, not particularly unusual but thought-provoking, nonetheless. One detail caught my attention.

Not that I know everything. Not that I even know many things.

But I do know a few things.

And one of the most important things I have come to know in life is the necessity of controlling my thoughts so that destructive thoughts don’t control me. Having discovered a tried-and-true method for doing so, I decided to share it with a couple of friends who were obviously in need of my advice.

Never have I been interested in estate sales or bothered to attend one. But the two-day sale of Miss Henrietta’s life caught my attention when, by chance, I happened to see it in the newspaper classifieds.

Daddy used to say that when most people ask, “How’re you doin’?” they don’t really care. It’s just something they say to make conversation.

Hidden somewhere in the newspaper one day – a tiny news blurb used to fill a hole – was the story of a teenage Louisiana beauty queen whose crown had been repossessed by pageant officials after her brush with the law.

When she first brought it up, mentioning it in passing more than anything else, I thought she was joshing, so I shrugged it off with a smile. Fortunately, I did not make any wisecrack that I would now regret.

A while back, my friend, Reita, called and began the conversation with a hasty apology.

Her brother had died unexpectedly so I had baked a cake and carried it over to the family.

Perhaps you’ve seen the t-shirt emblazoned with, “I Was A Millionaire Until Mom Gave Away My Baseball Card Collection.”

To truly appreciate the irony of this story, you must first know that my history with chickens is colorful and much ballyhooed to the point of being family legend. It has never been an easy relationship between me and those feathery foes of mine.

There is something about dirt roads that whistle to me like a siren’s call. A dirt road beckons and I answer. I cannot resist its allure.

Down in Milledgeville, Ga., there is a lovely woman named Sophia who is a fan of this column. In turn, she is a supporter and friend of mine.

When I learned that a friend had decided to plunge himself into the political world and run for office, I thought it prudent to offer two pieces of solid advice.

One night at the supper table, my brother-in-law took a teasing jab at me over a sour business deal. I was plenty aggravated at the people with whom I had dealt and Rodney, who is quick to spot an Achilles heel, had pinched a bit hard.

Louise and Selena, being the genuine Southerners they are, both had a hankering for fried chicken. And I, of course, knew just where to find the perfect recipe.

When Mama, my last surviving parent, died, I was orphaned, so my sister, Louise, stepped up and took charge.

Of course, it could be argued that she had been looking for a way for years to take over and help run my life. That is only partially true. What is completely true and without one iota of fabrication is that she genuinely and sincerely wanted to fill that empty void that I felt so keenly in my life.

It is a tradition on Sundays for my sister to load her table with food and fill her house with family and friends.

We all come spilling in from our various points of origination. Some of us have been to early church and Sunday School, some slept later and made it to Sunday School and late church, while my brother-in-law has been to early church, Sunday School and late church. He is devoted.

One of the things that always excites me about Easter is that it kicks off the spring and summer season so Sundays, until Labor Day weekend, will be the stuff of which memories are made. Especially for kids.

There is a childhood friend who is very dear to me, our lives having been tangled together in one way or another like kudzu clinging to a chain-link fence.

The occasion was an anniversary party, one of those events where you dress a bit fancier than Sunday clothes but not as fancy as Saturday night shindig clothes.