I can hardly believe I’m starting my eighth year as religion editor and, in May, will go into my 15th year with The Citizen. Some of you may know that I spent the years 1993 to 1999 as a graphic artist here designing ads. Before that, dating back to 1982, I worked for three other newspapers in Fayette County — the now defunct Fayette Sun and the old Fayette County News and This Week in Peachtree City. This religion editor position was supposed to be temporary as I “phased” into retirement in the fall of 1999. But plans do change and I’m still here. I’ve even added the weekly genealogy column to my duties. Retirement seems to have faded into the sunset.

In a perfect world, everyone would have his dream job. There would be no unemployment. Everyone who wanted to work would be able to. Work would be a pleasure, not a burden. Our jobs would earn us ridiculous amounts of money for the college education we received, an education paid for by our parents.

A few months ago, someone asked me to do a column about estates and appraisals since she " ... just didn't understand it at all." No problem. No one really understands it until they have experienced it first hand. Since this sort of ties in with last week's column on treasures in the court books, I thought it appropriate to continue on the same subject.

A few days before Christmas a clerk at a store said to me, “Is it just me or are people more rude this Christmas than at other Christmas seasons?”

The financial power of black-eyed peas and collard greens

Write this down. Mama was right. That’s right. I said it and I mean it. Mama was right.

We are the Bible belt. Been known for that a long time. Since about 1920 when journalist H. L. Mencken coined the praise to characterize our regional emphasis on the Bible and its importance to daily life.

It’s a good thing this happened last week and I’m writing about it this week. I was so mad then I could hardly utter a word about it without using unladylike language. I’m still mad but a little more rational. And not as mad about “what” was done as “how” it was done.

For much of my Christian experience I was taught and believed that traditions were wrong. Only a few months ago, I read the words of a mega-church pastor, a popular author and speaker, who demeaned tradition and spoke patronizing about those unenlightened people and churches who embraced tradition. The scripture usually cited is Mark 7:8-9, which reads,

It started off as a good idea; take the out of town guest – The Wife’s best friend from California — to Callaway Gardens to see the Christmas lights. The plan was to leave the house around 5, drive to Callaway, eat an early dinner, and then catch the open air trolley for a peaceful hour-long tour of the over 8 million lights. Maybe even have the trolley stop off at Santa’s Village for a mug of hot chocolate and some warm cinnamon cashews or pecans. That was the plan at least. It didn’t quite turn out that way.

I can't praise strongly enough the benefits of researching directly in the old books in the courthouse. The first time I touched a book whose writings were done in the very early 1800s I was awestruck. I thought about the clerk who had sat for hours carefully penning what would later become history books for the counties and the courts. I ran my fingers gently over the now-faded-to-brown words, almost afraid they would fade more and disappear before my very eyes. Even the phrasing and grammar tended to make you feel you were in another place and time.

Where did this Santa Claus come from?

Not from the New England settlers. The Puritans banned any kind of festivities on Christmas – too “Catholic,” they said, and you know that leads to idol worship. In his journal, Thomas Jones, master of the Mayflower, indicates that Dec. 25, 1620 was just another work day.

Last week a certain local publication suggested that Tyrone’s first ever nighttime Christmas parade could very well become the biggest parade in the South, rivaling those seen on television even.

Let’s see where this Christmas story begins. Oh, yes. Now, I remember. It started with my godmother, Mary Nell, who was shopping with me back in the summer.

God’s special envoy told Joseph, “They shall call him Emmanuel, meaning ‘God is with us.’” From that birth onward — the birth of Jesus — there has been no doubt, only proclamation, that we are not alone on this planet. God is with us!

The call came about 10:30 p.m. last Friday night. It had been a full evening with a wedding and reception following a full day. I was just about to head to bed when the phone rang.

For some, it’s the smell of pine in the house. For others, it’s the smell of red and white peppermint sticks. Still others believe Christmas smells like cinnamon, eggnog, Honey Baked ham, hot apple cider or the dampness of snow-covered shoes in front of a roaring fire.

There haven't been any outstanding new developments on the situation with possibly bringing Haywood Thornton, a Confederate soldier, home to Georgia from Illinois, but I have received two e-mails representing opinions from three people.

Do you know of any kids out there who are making mud pies? Have you seen any kids lately with stained hands, dirty fingernails or a smudge of wet dirt across their shirts or faces?

We dream of a white Christmas. Santa’s outfit must be red and white. The wise men gave gifts including gold. We want to hear those silver bells. But the color that stands out the most and gives the most is green. It’s the only color that we not only can see but also can smell. Take a deep breath the next time you walk by your green Christmas tree.

“Did you see The Lockhorns this morning?”

“You mean, ‘If you really loved me, Leroy, you’d buy me a riding vacuum cleaner’?”

Give Michael Vick a break. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most civilized or politic thing to do, giving a “double-bird” to Falcons fans following the 31-13 drubbing the New Orleans Saints administered to the Atlanta team a couple of weeks ago.

“Sorry, my foot was in your way,” I yelled out after the large black suitcase that just ran over my little toe. Trailing behind the tall lady in the Armani suit was an overstuffed behemoth on two wheels. The Samsonite suitcase was pushing her at breakneck speed helplessly in its grasp along the concourse. The beastly bag seemed to have a will of its own.

I wanted to follow up on the situation of bringing Haywood Thornton home from the Rock Island Cemetery in Illinois and give you another contact in case you are a descendant and want to get involved. The wheels are definitely turning on this project but they are turning very slowly. It may be a year or more before it is completed.

As a parent, I have left many of my old haunts behind and picked up a new set of stomping grounds. Gone are the days when I could pop in to a bookstore for a long, leisurely browse and maybe enjoy one of those phenomenal gingerbread lattes at Starbucks.

Life is wearing me out. Nothing is simple anymore. And despite what some may think, I am just a simple girl at heart.

How do you choose a doctor? Most of the readers of this column have made moves from one city to another, and have had to line up a new doc for the family. It’s not an easy task.

In last week’s column, I asked my fellow Christians not to have a heart attack if some department store employee wished them a “Happy Holiday” rather than a “Merry Christmas” because we all know from where the cha-ching of the cash registers comes: the birth of Jesus Christ.

Years ago, I was a young student at East Tennessee State University. My American History professor, whose name, sadly, I cannot now remember, said, “You can tell the greatness of a nation by the ‘open gate’ indicator. That is, when the gate is left open, do people flood into a country or do they flood out? The more the people flood into a country, the greater the nation.”

The Boy called home last week and asked, “Dad, what do you think I should give Mom for Christmas?”

Being the great dad that I am, I had the perfect answer: “Son, all she wants is to spend some time with you. That will be the perfect gift, and it won’t cost you anything.”

We’re going to leave the Byrams and Tidwells temporarily and move southeast from Fairburn into northern Fayette County. Heading toward Fayetteville on what is now Ga. Highway 92, we find the Hopeful Community and the home of the Thornton family of the early 1800s.