"Naught Naught Seven has got the world by the tail! "

If my mother hadn't ripped a new palette hole in a Famous Artist Person from the Famous Artists School back in the '60s, I might be a Famous Fashion Designer instead of a journalist today.

See, after years of doodling, I applied at age 8 to what we almost-alums call FAS, only to have my mother snatch the phone from me when the call came -- the call alerting my family to the news that I had drawn a perfect dog head and had been accepted to what I'm sure would have been a challenge- and pirate-face-filled program. My mom, a "Kilroy Was Here"-style artist who was obviously jealous of my ability to sketch something other than a big nose and clubby hands hanging over a fence, relayed the bulletin that I was an 8-year-old without enough money for a box of Twinkies, much less $300 payable in 24 easy, monthly installments.

Taking a cue from Jethro Bodine of "The Beverly Hillbillies," who segued smartly from plans to be a brain surgeon to a stint as a double naught spy, I fell back on the only trick I had left in my bookbag - writing. I pulled out "Sharing and Caring," a book of poetry I wrote at 7, and spent the next few weeks honing a piece about a dapple apple that took a napple. In college, I learned a few more words and was told I'd never make it in TV, following that up with several years of writing for independent publications, many cans of soup and a too-long turn as a person who carried big trays on her arm while wearing a Holly Hobbie-style dress. In 1989, I became a newspaper reporter. Twenty years and 5,000 newspaper and magazine articles later, I know that:

• Writing is a lot more fun than carrying food to strangers and watching them eat, which I did for many years before much-stranger people started paying me decent money to string nouns and verbs together.
• Folks are folks are folks, and most everyone - even if they swear they don't - has a good story to tell. Everyone I write about changes my day and my life. In 1994, Waylon Jennings told me that he beat a cocaine habit, had earned his GED in his 50s and was making plans to help establish a children's hospital in Fresno, Calif. I loved spending time with that sexy, swaggering guy, but I had just as much fun with a man who collected feed sacks and was traveling the country in search of a special cloth bag from the 1800s. Maxine Hayes of Greensburg, Ind., who played music on hand saws, was every bit as fascinating as violinist Yehudi Menuhin. Seriously. C'mon. Menuhin was charming and an amazing musician, but Maxine could play "I'm Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover" on a $70 Sandvik Stradivarius. And I got to write, "She came, she sawed, she was a hit."
• I am always thrilled when people tell me I made them laugh or cry or think. I also have a huge folder full of letters from people who did not want to laugh or cry or think but wanted to tell me what I should think before I insulted motherhood and apple pie and everything they hold sacred. A reader once took me to task for writing a list of fun uses for fruitcake. A sweet chunk of her note: "Dear Mr. Macho Man (I guess I used manly adjectives): You have a lot of nerve talking about fruitcake. A lot of us treasure it. Next you'll be tearing down Santy and the children. I'm going to write to your editor. You should get a job digging ditches, because a writer, you're not." That letter hangs on my office wall, next to the one which states: "I called to cancel the paper after September since I have paid for it, but if you can get my $12.50 back to me, I will gladly cancel for the month of October as well since I do not care to support a paper with a homosexual agenda. You have a very pro-homosexual columnist in Britt Kennerly." Aw. I still go to my happy place when I think of those two letter writers hanging out together, shaking their fists at kids in their yards and calling my mother to ask what happened to her fruitcake daughter.

Double Naught 7 Digest, then, is a place for the stories I didn't have time to dig up as a full-time reporter - the countless stories I heard along back roads, in grocery stores and through a friend of a friend's ex-wife's cousin-in-law. It is a place where pop culture meets what's left of Mom and Pop stores; a place where I am likely to erect a soapbox big enough for all of us - ask my husband about my soapbox-building skills - or plan a road trip that takes me to places where news is being made, people don't agree and everyone, Santy haters included, gets a say. It's a place where I'm inspired by the legacy of Jethro Bodine, who tackled being a fry cook and a double naught spy with the same joie de vivre, wore nifty shoes that spit knives and told Uncle Jed, "Naught Naught Seven has got the world by the tail! "

I can't wait to get started. I can't wait to meet you. Daily updates and two new profiles each week are in the works. And if this doesn't pan out, no worries: I still have brain surgeon, Hollywood producer, swinging playgirl and ditch digger on my could-so-do-that career list. Fire up the spy car, Bessie. I'm outta here.

Peace!

Britt