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Miss Etta and the Lord
Ronda Rich
The steam of a Mississippi Delta morning was starting to take hold as I sat under a magnolia tree in front of the grand, old courthouse in Greenwood. Fifteen yards away was the muddy Tallahatchie River. The cars hummed over the bridge as I sat quietly reading the works of Miss Eudora Welty. “Anybody sittin’ there?” I looked up to see a woman with ebony skin shimmering with dew on her face. She motioned to the seat beside me.

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