Sorry, Jeff Sessions. I bought pot. That doesn’t indict me as a reprobate or criminal, just a customer at an upscale medical and recreational marijuana dispensary in the tony LoDo district of Denver, where my wife was attending a work conference. Everything was legal. And, to be honest, I didn’t buy mere pot. Read the full story
Let’s agree on something: It’s a rotten idea to leave a pet in a hot car. You wouldn’t stash your toddler in the back seat while shopping at Target, so why do that to a dog or cat? There’s suffering all the same.
Sorry, Jeff Sessions. I bought pot. That doesn’t indict me as a reprobate or criminal, just a customer at an upscale medical and recreational marijuana dispensary in the tony LoDo district of Denver, where my wife was attending a work conference. Everything was legal. And, to be honest, I didn’t buy mere pot.
Just after 8 o’clock Thursday morning, I called Eli Henderson, Calhoun County’s unofficial mayor. He was at home, sitting outside, watching it rain. I figured he’d be fishing.
You know that vacant block of Quintard Avenue, the one between 9th and 10th streets, that by now was to feature fast-casual restaurants and retail shops?
Between now and November, Kay Ivey and Walt Maddox will criss-cross Alabama, boring us with speeches, attending rallies and acquiescing to interviews. They’ll make promises, sincere or not. Maddox will rail on Ivey’s leadership as replacement governor. Ivey will label Maddox as a Democratic …
Frances Wingard, an Oxford woman, saw the Equal Rights Amendment as legislative evil that wouldn’t protect American women. It was a snake in the grass, hidden and menacing.
Late March in Texas, news of JSU’s plight reached TCU. Wheels turned. A TCU administrator asked her colleagues if their campus could help, and if so, how?
Anniston, James Pietragallo and Jimmie Whisman say, is “pretty much in the middle of nowhere. It’s so rural in itself, it’s not like it’s a suburb of another town. That’s all that’s out there.”
Seaborn J. Crook was the town marshall in Jacksonville. His father was a Calhoun County circuit court clerk. His cousin was an Alabama state railroad commissioner. His killer was a probate judge, county treasurer, Census enumerator and colonel in the Confederacy’s 73rd Alabama.
Down south of here, after the turnoff to Munford High School, through the traffic of Talladega and past the scantness of Winterboro is a place that never fails to invoke the old Anniston, the one that’s as much myth as it is historical lore.
The pain never really subsides. It’s always there, all these years later, Dennis Lachut says, lingering and haunting. Pain in his back, migraines in his head, dreams in his fitful sleep. Time offers scant relief. He’s tried to forget, to heal.
I’ve searched for Dennis Lachut for several years. He became my journalistic obsession. I knew he was a soldier, he’d been stationed at Fort Lewis, Wash., he was married and he’d survived a commuter plane crash in Anniston back in the summer of 1992.
Calhoun County’s column is engraved with the names of John Brooks (1882), Jack Brownlee (1894) and an unknown lynching from 1892. (It does not list the six blacks and their white teacher whose 1870 lynchings in Cross Plains, now Piedmont, are well documented.)
There’s a new Burger King going up in Golden Springs, Anniston’s over-the-mountain suburb. Everyone’s seen it. There’s a giant playground. There are trees and landscaping. I suspect there’s room inside for stacks of Whoppers. But what’s the deal with those signs?
Alabama’s new schools superintendent grew up in Sand Rock, accepted an academic scholarship to Jacksonville State University — where he met his wife at a Christmas party — taught at Saks and Pleasant Valley and sat in the principal’s chair at Kitty Stone Elementary before piloting Jacksonville’s schools.
America’s teachers are in open rebellion. They’re walking out of schools, marching on state Capitols, disrupting school calendars and demanding change. It is an astonishing sight. And it is glorious.