Most readers of my wife’s column know that I am a transplant. Some might say that I’m an interloper or intruder.
Since moving to the South, I’ve encountered only extreme warmth and hospitality. Yet, I still regard myself as the “odd man out” if only in my own home. Or is it just me?
The other day, on the bathroom vanity, beside jars of beauty cream and a tall can o...
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