There’s something enchanting about the way Michelle Burke introduces herself on social media. The descriptors tug on something deep inside of you, twisting what you view as something old back into something new, beckoning you to remember a past time, awakening your grass roots spirit and calling it to create again. . . . Spoiler alert: a visit to @burke_meadows on Instagram will make you want to plunge your hands in the dirt or bake something oozing with buttery sweetness.
My friend was sitting with his head bowed toward his lap. He could have been reading or praying. I touched his shoulder gently and his eyes lit up in greeting. I knelt down beside him, lowered my mask, and looked into his dark face.
It would be impossible to talk about land values in 2019 without talking about Hurricane Michael; and it’s just as impossible to talk about projections for this year without talking about COVID-19.
Four men are gathered in the middle of a cow pasture near Whigham, Georgia. It’s midmorning on a Tuesday in early June and Tom, a rescue dog, is nearby. He’s panting heavily, his broad pink tongue a built-in climate control.
I usually found them sitting on the edge of the dresser positioned perfectly, so as not to be lost as I breezed through my bedroom in a hurry to be someplace else. My name, just the first, would be written on a bulging envelope in the unmistakable hand of Mother.
We joked that the title of the book should have been, “Eerie Encounters with Rikki.” During the five years of writing about therapy dog Rikki, Chuck Mitchell and I marveled at the “coincidental” discoveries. He’d call while driving home after a visit and say, “You aren’t going to believe what just happened . . .”