Ronda Rich

Ronda Rich/Columnist

Ronda Rich/Columnist

Rich: The river birch trees

Three river birch trees surround our home. I planted them three years after I built this house. River birches are pretty trees. They grow long, toward the sky, and spread a beautiful canopy of shade. The trunks are interesting and artistic as the bark is constantly curling into pieces.
Ronda Rich/Columnist

Ronda Rich/Columnist

Rich: The South I’ve met

Most of the best stories I’ve heard come forth from the South. The most memorable people I have met, by far, are Southerners. I’m a Yankee and moved here by way of California.
Ronda Rich/Columnist

Ronda Rich/Columnist

Rich: Facing the new year

A new year has arrived and a half-ragged one lies behind, reduced now to memories. It seemed, at times, I couldn’t enjoy the wonderful things popping around because of such bone-deep sorrow brought on by the home-going of loved ones.
Ronda Rich/Columnist

Ronda Rich/Columnist

Rich: Looking back at Christmases past

When I was a child and even through my teenage years, Christmas night and the following day were the saddest times of the year. The anticipation of presents, church pageants, and holiday cheer was swooped away in such a short time.
Ronda Rich/Columnist

Ronda Rich/Columnist

Rich: The dried flowers

Sentiment is not something I was taught. It was born in me. Both my parents were hardscrabble Appalachian folks where sentimentality was a luxury that could be afforded no more than new, wool coats for the entire family or a simple, gold wedding band for my grandmother. But me?
Ronda Rich/Columnist

Ronda Rich/Columnist

Rich: Nicole’s wisdom

“In so much as it is within your control in a situation, be kind.” My niece, Nicole, was telling me about a family meeting that she and her husband, Jay, had recently conducted with their five children. That commandment was the meeting’s foundation.
Ronda Rich/Columnist

Ronda Rich/Columnist

Rich: The photo and the Bible

It happened 15 years ago, yet the memory sticks to me like cotton candy to a child’s hand. I still puzzle over it. Paducah, Kentucky, was a stop on a Mississippi riverboat cruise for which I had been hired as a storyteller. When the boat docked, I strolled down the picturesque streets.