It was a surreal sight, those first images I saw of the neighborhood in Blakely, down in the heart of Southwest Georgia where I grew up. It looked like a bomb had gone off. It didn’t look real. But it was.
A friend and I were talking the other day about how much breakfast has changed in our lives. Breakfast used to be simple. My mother would break out the Rice Krispies or the Frosted Flakes and put them on the table.
It seems like it was just yesterday when I was sitting in the Rose Bowl — the ROSE BOWL, y’all! — with a knot in my stomach the size of a Buick. There were a lot of us Georgia fans there, and all of us were silently praying for a miracle.