Sanctuary

Business name:

Sanctuary

Address:

1009 Taylor Street

City:

Corinth

State:

Mississippi

Zip Code:

38834

Phone number:

(662) 287-3770

if this is your business: ( update info) (delete this listing)

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Florists in Corinth MS and Nearby Cities

Flowers and Gifts News

Transitions announces 7th winner in '12 Days of Christmas' event

If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation, the old is gone, the new has come." — I Corinthians 5:17. (State Gazette)

Transitions' 12 Days of Christmas comes to an end

Galleria, Clayton Hayes Photography, and Frazier Roofing. "If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation, the old is gone, the new has come." -- I Corinthians 5:17. (State Gazette)

Winner of Wednesday's '12 Days of Christmas' drawing announced

If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation, the old is gone, the new has come." — I Corinthians 5:17. (State Gazette)

Transitions announces first winner of '12 Days of Christmas' event

If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation, the old is gone, the new has come." — I Corinthians 5:17. (State Gazette)

Holiday Events

W. Oak St. 6:30 to 9 p.m. — Community Christmas Concert benefiting the nonprofit Lake Cities Spirit of Christmas, at First Baptist Church of Corinth, 3033 Meadowview Drive. Featuring the Lake Dallas High School Choir and Jazz Band; First B... (Denton Record Chronicle)

Something You Can't Live Without

Anthem, but he hadn’t been there in seven weeks. He was deep into the summer swing through the highland counties, all the way up to Job and Corinth, the old towns once called Salt Creek and Beartown until their rechristening in a religious fervor. Cartwright glanced at the crate jostling under the tarp. He said, “Damn, boys. I’d almost buy it myself to get shut of this situation.” He swabbed his face with his tie. Soon, the sun burned off the fog and hoisted itself into the sky. “Horses, it’s hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock. I tell you that much.” He took another little drink. Bottleflies turned their emerald carapaces in the sun. Young monarchs gathered to tongue the green horseshit and clap their wings. Before the Company hired him, Cartwright had sold funeral insurance, apprenticed himself to a farrier, and, in his youth, worked his father’s acres. To hear his father tell it, Anthem was a profane place, and they would do well to keep ground between their children and such ways. But a month after she buried her husband, Cartwright’s mother had closed the deed on their land and moved them to Anthem without debate. Her sister lived by the railroad depot. Though it had been years since he’d swung a scythe or sheathed his arms in the hot blood of stock, Cartwright’s boyhood helped him build a quick rapport, or so he said, with the farmers who bought his wares. Truthfully, he bullied them into buying the tools, or, if they would not be bullied, he casually insulted the farmers’ methods in front of their wives. “That’s one way of doing things,” he said to the hard sells. “Gets it done sure as any other. Yessir. Hard labor! Of course, you don’t see many men doing it that way anymore. Last season, I found bluegums down in Greenbrier County working like that.” “You don’t say.” “No, excuse me. Season before last. And they might have been Melungeons. Ma’am, you spare some water for a wayfaring traveler?” Cartwright would bid them goodnight and retreat to the hayloft, and, as often as not, be greeted in the morning by the farmer with a fistful of wrinkled dollars and watery, red­rimmed eyes, having been flayed the night long for stubborn habits that clashed with the progressive spirit of the times. Like his own father, the people Cartwright sold to worked rocky mountain acres, wresting little more than subsistence from the ground. None had owned slaves. Some abstained from the practice out of moral doctrine; all abstained for lack of money. They carded their own wool, cured their own tobacco, and died young or back-bent, withered and brown as ginseng roots twisted from the soil. A handful of affluent farmers in the river bottoms owned early Ford tractors, odd and exoskeletal, but most still worked mules and single-footed plows. Cartwright had seen acres of corn that grew on hillsides canting more than forty-five degrees. But even to the humblest farmers, Cartwright managed to sell a few harrow teeth or ax-heads. It also ensnared him: The more success he found, the more desolate the places the Company sent him, and the higher the profits they came to expect. He was the rare man who could wring dollars from these scanty places, but he’d grown tired of the counties they cast him farther and farther into like a bass plug. A man couldn’t even buy a fresh newspaper where he roamed. Cartwright brought them the first word of the laws and statutes that a young state government was trying to filigree over the backcountry. Cartwright should have said no, but the Company representative had appealed to his vanity: ‘‘I’ll be straight with you. We’re in the middle of a recession and” —the man was a veteran of the Spanish War—“we need our best on the ramparts. We know you can make quota, buddy. You’ve proved yourself.” The praise had flooded Cartwright’s belly with a singing warmth, sure as a shot of clean bourbon. Only now did he realize the Company had taken advantage of his loyalty. As soon as he hit Anthem, he’d demand a promotion. Cartwright took the last hit of whiskey and licked his lips. “My ass hurts,” he said to the horses, with a sly sidelong grin. “Do your feet hurt? Huh now?” Now there ... (Oxford American)