About the Author

 Ginger Weston


Ginger is a Native of the Gulf South, a Christian and a Proud American.

She's a semi-retired lawyer / broker / salesman / editor / small business owner 

who spends most of her extra time stretched out in the shade, 

wandering around in the great outdoors, 

and experimenting with micro-homesteading and permaculture gardening 

in the little river bottom where she makes her Home.

Ginger believes in capitalizing purely according to a word's importance 

and practicing Loving Kindness in everyday life. 💚

#IChooseMyProperNouns


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Six Degrees of High Pockets

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  Every kid needs a wonderful grandparent, and mine was named John. My Mama called him Daddy, lots of people called him Mr. Craft, and when his friends were trying to raise him on a C.B. radio, they called him High Pockets. For me, he was Papaw. He was a tall man, probably 6’3” with no shoes on, which explains the C.B. handle. On the way back from World War II, he stopped in St. Louis, met a beautiful big city girl in a U.S.O. club, and a few weeks later got on a train home with her, headed for a rural little spot in South Mississippi. He married her when they got there, and eventually he settled his wife and their four young children in a lush river bottom, a couple hundred yards from the shady banks of the Bouie River and about 60 miles north of the Gulf of Mexico. My Mama, his first born, was in her early twenties and working at the Sea Bee base in Biloxi when she met my Daddy. When they found out their first baby (me) would arrive in the spring of 1971, they bought a house across t
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The Courage to Look

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Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington In 1970’s Mississippi, when the average home had no more than one television and none of us had ever seen a TV show in color, there was only one channel—two on a cloudy day, but only if you were lucky enough to have a rooftop antenna and committed enough to keep fiddling with the control knob ‘til you managed to set the angle just right. TV viewing was very much a one-dimensional activity in those days. We didn’t have cable or satellite service or even a remote control, so we’d just walk up to the big cabinet with a screen and a few knobs on it in the living room, press the power button and then sit on the floor to wait for it to warm up. Slowly the scenes playing on that one channel came to life, and it didn’t occur to us to question what would be on. We were delighted to watch, whatever it was. Often that was a John Wayne movie, a frontier story, some classic American tale of westward expansion. John Wayne’s territorial lifestyle was such
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Angels in Plain Clothes

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  At the end of a long July weekend in the woods, surrounded by friends and mostly disconnected from the outside world, late afternoon was approaching, and it was time to start winding up our stay. I wanted to be home and unloaded by dark, so I started gathering my things and packing up to head back to town. I love to escape into spaces where it’s not immediately obvious which decade we’re in, and since I liked phones a lot better when they were attached to the wall, I usually stash my cell phone under the driver’s seat whenever I’m away from home, or with people I care about, or just being purposeful in giving my full attention to something without a screen. Over the course of a long weekend like the one that was ending, I might’ve checked the phone once or twice a day, and maybe I would’ve kept it out for a while to look something up or play some music, but I wouldn’t have kept it handy, and the last time I touched it that weekend I must’ve flaked on putting it back in the truck, bec
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