As “Ike’s Bluff” reveals, Eisenhower’s great ability to properly read his adversaries and make unexpected allies of them, is one of the great under-told stories of our time and the reason you should put Evan Thomas’ fabulous book on your bedside reading table this noisy and disappointing political season.
As the lights of home came into view, I couldn’t help but wonder, though, if the Beanpole would remember this night, the night he made such a brilliant catch over the shoulder and a glorious run to the end zone. The night he was briefly immortal in a world that is still falling apart at the seams.
It was the kind of small but endearing gesture of acknowledgement he’s made to adoring galleries for nigh on seven decades, and the reason Arnold Palmer’s the closest thing golf — for that matter, America itself — will ever have to a king.
“A long life may not be good enough,” wrote Benjamin Franklin as the autumn of his days approached. “But a good life is long enough.”
Down here, having resumed a Southern life once so familiar, it’s cooler weather and college football that makes these shortening September days so sweet.
Welcome to the world of the lonely Sunday columnist.
Half an hour before sunrise one morning last week, I was coming back from an hour’s hike along the beach when I glanced up and saw a shooting star, my first in decades, passing just above a very bright Venus and below a serene waning moon.
The games of the London Summer Olympics end today, and already all some people can do is say, “Crikey, what a relief!”
The last time we tried a family beach gathering in August, it worked reasonably well though ended rather horribly.
There has to be a place in the world, after all, for an aging prude to creatively express his or her utter and complete contempt for certain events and circumstances.
Swirling winds, stinging rain, waving hayfields and friendly ruddy-faced natives greeting you like a lost brother as you hoof along a narrow path.
For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part, I hail from a clan of serious Southern cooks and consumers.
Not long ago, my friend Ron Crow dropped into the PineStraw world headquarters with something in a bag.
My son and his girlfriend came for a surprise overnight visit this week. It was a bittersweet goodbye of sorts, the kind a parent both dreads and looks forward to.
Over my lengthy journalism career, there are only three famous folks I secretly hoped to someday meet and get to know. One was Arnold Palmer, my boyhood sports idol.