A belated Mother’s Day (1930s)
By Bill Shepard “Only One Mother” Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn, Hundreds of bees in the purple clover, Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn, But only one mother the wide world over. – George Cooper Only one Mother! Only one and I suppose that every boy and girl believes his or hers is the best! That is the way it should be. Good mothers leave beautiful memories that keep on speaking, long after their departure. I had a good...
The pull of beauty
By Tom Poland Over the last five years, I’ve developed two traditions I plan to never break. Come March and come May, I drop everything and head to three places so beautiful they compel me to visit them. Hence, the title of this column. I hope the beauty of the outdoors pulls on you and that you have similar traditions. If you don’t I encourage you to study the calendar, pay attention to nature, and make it a tradition to see this...
LETTER TO THE EDITOR: Cotton Mill memorial should be completed
I’m left to wonder why the Pearl Street site for the memorial park honoring the workers of the Darlington Manufacturing Co. (the Cotton Mill) still stands barren and unfinished after much effort. The mill and surrounding villages provided a way of life that deserves this recognition in the history of Darlington. Virginia S. Howell, Darlington
LETTER TO THE EDITOR: In this COVID-19 crisis, we have to protect ourselves and others
Protests to eliminate all “stay at home” orders are growing. No government has the right or the authority to make them stay at home. Their lives have become chaos, confusion, anxiety and frustration. They can’t provide food or shelter for their families. They are angry and fighting to survive. They want and demand their freedom. They can’t rage at the invisible killer, coronavirus; they can only rage at government. Are the “stay at...
Living on the West End: The Old Mill
Editor’s note: This is a reprint of a Bill Shepard column that was published last year. By Bill Shepard I remember the old mill! How could I forget? For as long as I have a mind to remember, I will remember the Old Giant and the part it played in my life. I remember the sound, early in the morning, coming from the old mill. It was like a fog-horn on a ship, lost at sea! It was so loud that it rattled the window panes in our small...
Had Harry sat here
By Tom Poland Rain, rain and more rain. It hasn’t been a biblical 40 days and 40 nights but sure seems like it. A record sopping-wet winter has creeks running high, swift and heavy with silt. Pockmarks dapple a drift of rain-pelted sand, and more rain’s coming but that old fisherman’s chair refuses to be swept downstream. It holds wayward limbs and leaves, and for me, memories of a youth spent fishing. This creek would have suited a...