DIGITAL KIDS WORLD

  Despite what your parents may have told you – there is a real Santa Claus. And I should know, because I’ve seen him myself! Now before you think I’m absolutely nuts, let me tell you a little bit about myself. I was born in 1937 deep in the remote mountains of southwestern Virginia. Even as a very young boy, I remember how big and rocky those mountains were. Our tiny, two-room cabin clung to the mountainside like a crow perched on a tree limb. The soil was so hard and barren that nobody could make a decent living growing crops. If you ever saw where we lived, you might wonder why we didn’t just get up and leave. Daddy moved us there for two reasons – to be close to relatives, and to work the coal mines. Daddy’s family had worked in the mines for years, so when he was old enough, he grabbed a shovel and went to work. Of course, back then a lot of the work was done by hand. Daddy would frequently come home and fall fast asleep on the couch from exhaustion. But even though we didn’t have

  Now I’ll just bet that none of you have ever heard the story of Mama Coon Coon and the blue waters of the bayou, have you? Well, we know the story, and I think we need to tell it to you right now. Once upon a time, the waters of the bayou were black – as black as ink. Now, even though these waters were black, they were still filled with lots and lots of fishes, shrimp and crab. And all of the fishermen would wake up early in the morning, long before the sun had even come above the horizon, and they would cast their nets down into the deep, black water. And what a wonderful sight it was at the end of the day to watch those fishermen pulling in their nets overflowing with all kinds of fishes, shrimp and crab. Dulac Louisiana Bayou by  Clem . Licensed under  CC BY-SA 2.0 . Now all the fishermen fished early in the morning, with the exception of one fisherman – or should I say fisherwoman. Her name was Mama Coon Coon. You see, that is the name the local village children gave her because

  I heard this particular story when I was a child. Back then, my parents discovered that it was a better lifestyle for them if they would send me off for the summer to visit kinfolk. And my favorite place to visit was my Aunt Irene and Uncle John’s farm in the mountains of north Georgia, in a county called Habersham. Let me tell you, they were rich farmers. I mean, they had huge fields that went all the way up through the valley. The story I want to tell you is one of the Christmas stories I picked up while visiting their farm during “Old Christmas.” Never heard of “Old Christmas,” huh? Well, let me tell you what it is. You see, we changed the calendar way back in the 1700s so that the 25th of December, which is now Christmas Day, shifted over to the 6th of January. So, a lot of folks continued to celebrate Christmas right on through the 6th of January, which they called “Old Christmas.” Anyhow, the story I heard goes something like this: Now, you remember how Joseph and Mary were rid

  Kristin had always been the “black sheep” of her family. She came from a rural and very conservative Middle Georgia clan, and had fought constantly with her parents since she was a child. Kristin wanted no part of the settled and routine life her parents had lead – she was an impulsive free-spirit who would travel to the far corners of the earth at a moment’s notice, sometimes not even knowing where she was headed, or why. So it came as no surprise when, a few weeks shy of her 30th birthday, Kristin announced that she was leaving her high-paying job at a major corporation to fulfill her life’s dream – to become a professional sculptor. She sold her expensive suburban apartment and moved into an abandoned mill in one of the rougher areas of Atlanta. She planned on converting part of the space into a full-time studio and living area. Her parents were horrified, especially when they learned that her studio was just a few miles down the road from the county jail. And Kristin didn’t see t

  There comes a time in life when we all need a little guidance – a little helpful push to remind us what’s right and wrong. And for some folks, that guidance comes from some good old fashioned, fire and brimstone preaching. Now these days, you can’t turn on the TV without seeing one religious channel after another. But back in the old days when there wasn’t any TV – or cars for that matter – the traveling preacher was the only man of God some country folk got to see. Lorenzo Dow was one of the best-known traveling preachers back in the 1800s. He was a funny looking man from Connecticut – tall and skinny with wild eyes, long stringy hair, a thick beard, and a slight hunchback. But he also had a booming voice that made sinners across the country shake in their boots. “Repent now, my brothers and sisters! Repent!” he would scream in every town he visited, and many people did just that. Lorenzo loved the outdoors, and would rather sleep on cold, hard ground in the woods than the most comf