Donna Layson was showering before church when she felt wet gobs of blond hair come out in her hands. She put her hands back in her hair and there it was again: two handfuls. After weeks of chemotherapy, her hair was falling out that Sunday morning.

She called for her husband, James, crumpled into his arms, still wet, and cried for her hair, for her kids, and for everything. James cried with her on the bathroom floor.

Every time I get near campus during tailgating, the smoky aromas beckon like a finger in an old cartoon, drawing passersby to float toward them wearing smiles of pure pleasure.

I'm in danger of floating away myself with savory goodies calling out to me from the tables set up under white tents. It's a semi-mystical experience that makes tailgating more than just some tradition. This is nearer religion

Mention hydrangeas and as a Southerner you would naturally think of pink or blue round flower clusters decorating shade gardens in May and June. After a bit, you may think about our native oakleaf or smooth hydrangeas that bloom a little later. But another hydrangea has been a part of American landscapes for one hundred and fifty years.