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.

Yarbrough: When going to the dogs is a good thing

You’ve heard the old saying that things are going to the dogs. After talking to Jennifer Arnold, we should be so lucky. Ms.

Crane: The Rematch no one wants

At nearing 300 pounds in this corner, resembling an Oompa Loompa in lifts, with a cotton candy-esque coiffure, and leaning slightly forward, surrounded by lawyers instead of trainers ... The Teflon Don!

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.

Crane: Free speech, hate speech and the first amendment

Among the many lessons I learned from my maternal grandmother, Mary L. Crane, was that it can be tough to hate up close. Mary was an Irish-Catholic carpetbagger who moved her family south from upstate New York in 1949.

Yarbrough: A sense of closure

The mystery is solved. I now know what happened to my fraternity brother, Maj. Paschal Boggs, USMC, was declared Missing in Action in 1967. Finally, there is a sense of closure. Pat Boggs and I were from the same town, East Point, and we were both undergrads at the University of Georgia.

Crane: I really hate E-tickets

Though not always an early adapter, I tend to roll with and learn the latest technologies as they become readily and widely available. With few exceptions, I do consider technology to be a friend of productivity.

Yarbrough: Awakening on sleep deprivation

You never know what you are going to discover in the process of churning out columns.

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?

Rich: Southern Gothic Murder (Final Installment)

Seton Tucker is the reason that I all a sudden packed a suitcase on Sunday night and said, casually, to Tink, “I’m going to South Carolina for the Murdaugh trial tomorrow.” He chuckled. “Be safe.” He is used to my spontaneous ideas. He never interferes or tries to make sense.