Gianetta Palmer

Long before the latest craze in Reality TV I was a lover of yard sales, auctions and flea markets. I like to collect things. I also like to have an idea of what something is worth; no sense paying $50 for something when $5 will do. Antiques Roadshow, Storage Wars, American Pickers and Pawn Stars are the shows I like the best. I keep hoping that one day while I am out looking for new junk to add to my old junk that I will stumble across the Holy Grail of what I collect; a 1909 Honus Wagner baseball card. Yes. I'm a girl. Yes. I collect baseball cards. And yes. I'm very serious about it. Baseball card collecting has taken a real nose dive over the last few years due to over production. Many hobby shops have closed down and collectors have watched the book value of their top cards go from the Stratosphere to Middle Earth in about a ten-year span. Luckily, I hadn't invested too much money in the newer cards. I've always had an appreciation for the older cards; ones that yo

Growing up on the farm on Cherry Fork Road was a lot of fun. We raised tobacco, had a HUGE garden, dabbled in the hog business and had a few cows and chickens. We had a tractor, a wagon, and a manure spreader as well as various lawn mowers, rototillers and chainsaws. My dad loved his chainsaw. I don't remember what the name brand was but it was yellow and matched his pickup truck. Throw in a Kool cigarette dangling out of his mouth and a John Deere hat perched on his head and he was ready to do some sawin'. I remember the year my father got his new chainsaw. It was Father's Day, 1974, and let me tell you, that saw was needed. A late spring thunderstorm had blown through and there were trees everywhere. Trees across the road, trees down in the yard. It was like a tornado had come through. It wasn't that long after the storm had passed when you could hear the roar and the whine of the chainsaws as neighbors up and down the road got to work clearing a path. Dad wasn't

Recently, I spent the afternoon with my mother and watched her prepare a fruit salad. There's nothing extraordinary about that; just two grown adult women enjoying conversation and each other's company. That is--until the child in me begins peppering my mother with one question after another. At times I find myself forgetting that I have reached middle-aged and I am still the baby in the family curled up beside my mom as she read from her latest Harlequin novel. I watched my mother cut and slice the different fruits and didn't comment until she was slicing the strawberries. Mom sliced her berries down and not across. "Why do you cut your strawberries that way?" I asked. "I don't know," she said, "I guess it's so someone doesn't end up with an end piece." How thoughtful. "You know, it's all in the details," she continued. "A simple step now can make a big difference later." I couldn't disagree with that. L