Journal of a Living Lady #247

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

Flattery gets you somewhere. Nice people often comment to me that they enjoy reading the Journal of a Living Lady. Sincere encouragement keeps me writing. There is no company paycheck. Haven’t seen one of those in umpteen years.

 

This is column #247 of Journal of a Living Lady which began as Journal of a Dying Lady. Before that, I wrote a computer column for the Sentinel and years before that I wrote a weekly newspaper column for The Henry Herald. To my surprise, one of those columns brought national attention. I got fifteen minutes of fame on television and was the recipient of a prestigious newspaper award. The bait was set and I was hooked on writing for life.

 

Yet, thinking back, I probably should thank a teacher for starting me on the publishing path. My fourth grade teacher bragged bodaciously about my hippopotamus poem and even posted it on the hall bulletin board. I would learn later, in Sunday school, that pride is the cheifest of sins. It brought conflict and still does. It is hard to write and remain humble. Writers thrive on positive feedback.

 

When readers approach me, sometimes they don’t know exactly what to call what I write.  They stammer, trying to come up with the appropriate title. Is it an essay? A piece? An article? A column? The answer is D: column. Let me explain.

 

A columnist, unlike a hard news journalist, has a bit more liberty to colorfully exaggerate when humor is the intent. Poking fun, especially at oneself, is IMHO superior to pointing out the foibles of politicians or crusading for the sake of crusading.

 

A good columnist is a treasured find. He or she can tie common experiences with an engaging, literary rope. Adjectives, suspense, puns, and occasional, intentional misdirection with a “gotcha” ending. These are the working tools of a light-hearted columnist. If readers come back week after week, they are just as hooked as the television soap opera junkies.

 

Blessed is a newspaper which hosts a good columnist. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution was blessed with at least two.

 

Lewis Grizzard wrote in a southern, down-home witty style. I remember how he loved his mama and his dog. Yet, Lewis and marriage clashed head-on. He once wrote: “Instead of getting married again, I'm going to find a woman I don't like and just give her a house.” He died young of heart trouble.

 

Celestine Sibley wrote more than 10,000 columns. She was called the prodigious chronicler of southern life. She wrote about politics, family, food, flowers and even murder. She was inspirational, but not preachy. Though I never met her personally, I always felt that I knew her. Pictured in my mind’s eye is a feisty grandma, rocking on the porch of "Sweet Apple," her rustic mountain cabin north of big A.

 

In Mrs. Sibley’s eulogy, Bo Emerson, also a writer, shared this anecdote: “My personal favorite (column) is one she wrote in 1976 when she joined a team assigned to cover the Democratic Presidential Convention in New York. With no floor pass, and an outsider's sense of the absurd, she strode into the convention hall in her freshly dry-cleaned raincoat and sensible shoes, an oversized "VIP" tag dangling from her lapel. Anyone who took the trouble to check the fine print on her "badge," which didn't look a bit like the press credentials her colleagues wore, would have discovered that it was her dry cleaner's way of apologizing for failing to get a stain out — even though it had received "VIP" treatment. Whether those standing guard at the entrance to the inner sanctum were intimidated by the sheer force of Sibley's determination, or just appreciated a good joke, wasn't clear; but her audacity got her in, and resulted in one of the most hilarious, and memorable, columns of the campaign.”

 

The bond I share with Lewis Grizzard and Celestine Sibley is his heart trouble and her breast cancer. Oh, I am a columnist, but certainly not in that league. Until a better or best comes along again, you are stuck with the Living Lady.

_________

 

 nancyk@alltel.net