It Was A Good Moment, The Kind

I Began Reading Harper Lee's Novel In The Skimpy Shade Of A Pine Outside My Grandmother's House, Fat Beagles Pressing Against Me, Begging For Attention, Ignored. At Dark, I Kept Reading, First On The Couch, A Bologna Sandwich In One Hand, Then In My Bed, By The Light Of A 60-watt Bulb Hanging From The Ceiling On An Orange Drop Cord. When My Mother Came In From Her Job As A Maid And Unplugged My Chandelier, I Replayed The Story In My Head Until It Was Crowded Out By Dreams. I Woke The Next Morning, Smelling Biscuits, And Reached For The Book Again.

I Made Some Friends For Life, The Way I Usually Make Them. Any Jackass Can Be Pleasant Company, But If People Help You When You're At Your Worst, That's A Friend.

It Wasn't That I Had Gotten It Right . . . But That I Had Gotten True.

People Who Think There Is Something Pedestrian About Journalism Are Just Ignorant.

Every Life Deserves A Certain Amount Of Dignity, No Matter How Poor Or Damaged The Shell That Carries It.