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It's that time of year again when, following ancient custom, I bare my breast to the slings and arrows and the praise of readers who responded to my offerings for the past year.

I griped a bit about the hoopla over the death of entertainer Michael Jackson and compared it with the much quieter sendoff for Walter Cronkite, the granddaddy of all network news anchors. I recalled a poem by Sam Walter Foss contrasting the flashy achievements of Napoleon with the quiet accomplishments of a farmer named Sam Pasco and quoted the lines:

"And from some star, may each look down/ each stretch his phantom arm/Napoleon toward Austerlitz/Sam Pasco toward his farm."

Replied one reader:

"I feel more sympathy for everything surrounding Michael Jackson's death than you do, and I think life comparisons don't always work so well. And I do feel that Michael also deserves a star and a 'phantom arm,' for much in this world is a matter of chance and luck. ... Yes, Michael's gifts were different (from) Uncle Walter's, but they were gifts."

In a column about South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford's affair with Maria Chapur, his Argentine "soul mate," I commented on South Carolina as the Rodney Dangerfield of states -- the little state that will accept the spotlight even if the glare is harsh. Comparing the Palmetto State with its northern sister, I wrote:

"North Carolina has more land, more mountains, more people, and a cluster of universities and research institutions that places it among the academic and technological elite. We have Clemson."

That may have cost me a reader:

"You have lost a reader with me. I went to the University of South Carolina, and have family at Wofford, Erskine, Winthrop, Furman, Presbyterian and Clemson. Why would you print that? I always thought you were from North Carolina at Cone Mills anyway. You are a jerk."

Another reader chided me (I think) for being too gentle on the ACC. He wrote:

"Your column ... mentions ACC football, which prompts me to inform you that ACC football is a national embarrassment and thus is not worthy of mention by a columnist who has attended U.Ga."

A 17-year-old reader protested that I was a tad too irreverent in my assessment of horse meat for the table. She wrote: "I read your article on horse slaughter ('Slapping Old Dobbin on the Grill: If you can't sell it, why not eat it?) and may have missed the humor in it, if humor was your goal.

"I think there needs to be a humane option for those horses who have reached the end of their productive years or for those who are unwanted. Of course, the best thing would be for owners to do the responsible thing and keep them until they die or euthanize them. In the absence of this responsible ownership, I see humane horse slaughter as a much better option than neglect, starvation or death in Mexico, where there are no people monitoring the condition of the slaughter houses."

Finally comes this communication that seems to be a hybrid between a plum and a rotten tomato:

"My husband thinks you're a bit too 'professional Southerner,' but I think you have exactly the right tone."

Why, thank you ma'am, I think.

If being " professional" means I get paid for being Southern, I can only say that I was born and raised down here, and you couldn't pay me to go anywhere else.

The columns that drew the greatest response from readers were those that dealt with the culture of the Southern textile mills.

As one reader summed it up:

"I am certain God put those of that generation through the Depression and lean times to temper their resolve. Without their hardened lives, many certainly would not have survived the terrible situations they found themselves in throughout the two theaters of war. ... I thank each person that brushed lint out of their hair and washed the dye off their hands. So when someone asks, 'Where did you grow up?' I proudly respond, 'In the mill village and proud of it.'"

Several readers expressed sympathy for Lula Mae Battle, the octogenarian who was arrested for relieving herself behind bushes in a public park in Mobile, Ala. Her bank had refused to allow her to use its restroom and her incontinence overtook her.

"I hope all the people in Mobile who have been so critical of that poor lady end up with prostate problems for the men and early incontinence for the women," wrote a Tennessee reader. (The charges were later dropped.)

My paean to newspapers after some venerable ones folded evoked a number of responses.

"I shall remain old-fashioned enough to want my morning paper with my coffee, even though I may have read every article on the web the night before," wrote a faithful reader. "I need it. That's a pleasure of life that shall continue."

One News & Record subscriber wrote:

"You have the flair of a true Southerner. Your articles are what make me take the paper. It's the best going on the literary front."

And regarding the Sanford piece, a Tar Heel wrote: "Gotta tell you (about) the yaks I got from your irony, satire and play on history. ... This is one of the several things I will miss if the newspapers keep diving into red."

Dog lovers were pleased with the column I wrote on my drive from South Carolina to Texas in the company of Candi, my elderly Peke-a-poo.

"I always enjoy your column," wrote one Greensboro reader, "but never more than today as I sat drinking coffee with my 15-year-old Yorkie and his 6-year-old sister. Like Candi, Nemo is slowing down considerably, sleeps more, sometimes forgets his manners in the house. But his love is huge . . . I join you in raising a glass of watermelon wine ... to old dogs everywhere."

From Gloucester, Va., came approval of the article about Jackson and Cronkite:

"Great article on 'Uncle Walter' and (his) death versus that of the other guy. I need your affirmation of the fact that there are still some of us with a rational approach to life and accomplishments."

And from a reader in Aiken, S.C., the kind of tribute guaranteed to give an old linthead a swelled head:

"You are a historian, sociologist, humorist, sage and judicious observer of significant value to those of us who have the benefit of your articles. Keep up the good work."

I'm gonna try, Good Sir.

Readers may write Gene Owens at 315 Lakeforest Circle, Anderson SC 29625, or e-mail him at WadesDixieco@AOL.com