Meeting Rheta

Rheta Grimsley Johnson has been sweetening my Sunday morning coffee for as long as the mind recollects.

Writing from her home in Fishtrap Hollow, Miss., or at various ports of call throughout the South, she finds wisdom in Williams (Hank, that is), joy in the morning, peace in a Louisiana parish. She makes me laugh. She makes me cry.

She is a graduate course in good writing.

I guess you could call me a fan. And, it's funny, whenever I finally meet those whose work I've long admired, I tend to tie my tongue. Did it to Tom Selleck in New York in 2001. Almost did it to Robinella in Michigan a few years ago.

But yesterday, when I met this Southern voice that has sweetened many Sundays, I found comfort in her genteel kindness, and managed to talk. She recognized my name from a letter I sent her after her husband Don passed away earlier this year. She was gracious. She was everything I had pictured her to be.

I don't know if you read her column or not. If you don't, you should. If it isn't carried in your local paper, you can find it online through King Features Syndicate.

She has written two books. One is a delightful biography of "Peanuts" cartoonist Charles M. Schulz. The other, "Poor Man's Provence," tells the tale of her decision to purchase a second home in Henderson, La., down in the Atchafalaya Swamp.

Among the million reasons I love to read Rheta is the fact that her words flow like a mountain stream, natural and calm. I sometimes disagree with her politics, but she often gives me points to ponder.

Later tonight I will go hear a speech she's giving for a fundraiser to promote literacy. Come Sunday, her column will be the first thing for which I'll reach after brewing a pot of JFG.

But, I will forever carry with me the crystal clear fall Wednesday afternoon that I met a favorite writer, a Southern poet, a kind woman with a gentle voice.

Much like reading her columns, meeting Rheta Grimsley Johnson warmed my heart.

At least I had the weekend...

It's easy to make it through a rainy Monday when you've got such a great life.

Friday night found me on Norris Lake, eating shrimp and watching baseball. The rain ran us inside, but that was OK. The Yankees beat the Twins. Boston lost.

Listened to Marvin West, the sportswriter with no equal, tell tales. Good ones, too. Like the time John Majors kept calling his hotel room in Lexington. John was angry because Marvin found out about a coaching change and put it in the paper before the coach had told the assistant. Oops.

Marvin said Majors called him back about seven times. The next time they saw each other it was as if the incident never happened. Which is the way it should be if you think about it.

Was under the weather Saturday. So, I stayed home and rooted the Vols to victory over the Dawgs. The boys looked good. I'm thinking I need to get sick and stay home more if they keep playing like that without me.

I started Sunday, like always, reading Rheta Grimsley Johnson. Her column is a graduate course in great writing. This week's piece was about the too-short month of October. Poignant.

She's coming to town, by the way. I'll get to hear her at a lecture on Oct. 29. Can't wait.

Enjoyed breakfast at Amber with my dear friend Jaci Spicer. It was so good to see her again. And, as it always does, two hours flew by like a house at the side of the road. It was a nice treat. (In case you're wondering: two eggs, medium, sausage, biscuits and gravy, regular coffee.)

Singing practice was canceled, so I plopped down in the recliner and watched a "Gunsmoke" marathon for most of the afternoon. Doesn't get much better than that.

Last night, I headed out to Oak Ridge, to hang out with Mike and Judy Finn awhile. We have to re-create our Barley's experience now.

So, Mike put on a few Robinella bootlegs, we downed some cold ones and chatted about the songs, and the Detroit Tigers, and Napoleon's Waterloo and how the weather was. Mike and I caught a little bit of football and baseball on the tube before time to go home.

Then, to top it all off, Dean Harned called to say that Dean, his wife Allison and I are going to see Glen Campbell this Friday night in North Carolina. He's always been one of our favorite singers. After all, Glen's the Rhinestone Cowboy. He even played opposite John Wayne in "True Grit"!

So, yeah. If I can't have a pretty Monday, at least I had the weekend...

My weekly treat

I like to begin Sunday mornings with an orange juice or some form of caffeine, Charles Osgood's velvet voice on the television, and read the paper.

The highlight of it, the one piece of work I savor, is Rheta Grimsley Johnson's syndicated column.

Which is funny because for years her political views drove me nuts. Seems like I wrote a letter to the editor of the News Sentinel years ago asking why they didn't run her on the editorial page. But, time and philosophical evolution give you a different perspective.

Besides, even when she caused my blood pressure to skyrocket, I knew Rheta could write.

A friend told me a story once, about taking her to an Olympic games as part of a national wire service's coverage team. And how adept she was at hunting down a story.

Rheta now leads one of those charmed lives about which a writer dreams, saying what she wants, for one column a week, from her base of operations way down South. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Rheta has a new book about falling in love with Louisiana. It is on its way to the Halls Branch Library in my name. I will tell you about it sometime.

Meanwhile, the rest of us lose ourselves in the minutiae of life, seek beauty where we can find it, toil at our vocation the best we can, do whatever it takes to make it through the wee small hours.

Me? Well, I laugh a lot, forget about the screams by cranking up the music, love and despise everything about small-town life, and curse the school board three times a month for keeping me from watching a good black-and-white movie on Turner Classics. (Just kiddin'. I love you guys. You're my free entertainment for the month.)

And, after waking up on Sunday mornings, I drink my coffee, halfway listen to CBS, read a crafter at the top of her game, and dream of what could be, and what might have been.