It may come as a surprise to you that America’s most successful planned city has never been written up in the region’s prestigious urban glossy, Atlanta Magazine.

The mid-afternoon sun of a waning Saturday streamed through the sparkling windows of the soda shop and cast its spotlight on quite a sight to behold.

This year the calendar allows for the first Sunday in December to be the first Sunday in Advent, the church’s official celebration of the birth of Jesus and the church’s anticipatory reflection of the coming again of Jesus — that time which will be the culmination of time and history, according to Christian doctrine.

A little boy came home from a birthday party and his mom met him at the door.

“How was it?” she asked.

He showed her all of his candy and souvenirs, and the mom said, “Wow! You hit the jackpot! Did you say 'thank you?'”

For once, a television network and a book publisher appear to have made a good, ethical choice. O. J. Simpson, acquitted of the murder of ex-wife Nicole Brown-Simpson and waiter Ron Goldman in criminal court and found liable for the same in a civil court, was to have been featured in an upcoming Fox two-part series which detailed how Simpson would have committed the murders “if he did it.”

For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for better or worse were the marriage vows I took. No one said anything about becoming a minimalist. If they did, I would have remembered it. Don’t know what a minimalist is? Me neither — had to look it up.

This little gal has really had me stumped for a long time. With John Byram’s book, “Byrams in America” open beside my computer night and day, I have been sitting here looking at her name at the top of his list of children for weeks and weeks, wondering where in the world she fit in and if, indeed, she was a child of James and Hannah Byram. After all, John also listed Turner Byram as a child of James and Hannah and I’m certain he was not. I have some interesting observations about Turner Byram and his Coweta connections which I will save for another day.

As far back as the 19th century coal miners used canaries as an early warning system and a life insurance policy. The reason was simple.

Just a few critical days before the recent election, John Kerry spoke these fateful words at Pasadena City College: “You know, education, if you make the most of it, you study hard, you do your homework and you make an effort to be smart, you can do well. If you don’t, you get stuck in Iraq.”

Every year as crisp cold weather approaches, I find myself thinking back on the Thanksgiving days of my childhood.

On the first morning following a night’s hard frost that arrived to kill the kudzu and finish off the raggedy remains of summer gardens, Daddy would step out on the porch, fiddle with the zipper on his jacket, and then when fastened into his coat, gaze out on the glimmering frost. He’d draw in a lung’s worth of the nippy air and then smile, his green eyes twinkling brightly.

Thanksgiving 1963 was no fun. No amount of turkey and pumpkin pie could remove the deep, down empty feeling many people felt, especially me, after the assassination of President John Kennedy. He was gunned down on Friday, Nov. 22, while parading through Dallas, Texas on a motorcade.

Today let those wiser than I lend us their expressions of thanksgiving.

No matter what your faith, something here might inspire the most important part of the celebration: gratitude to God who has provided us with everything. Hoping that the younger members of your household could do the honors, I include some that children can read easily.

It took a few minutes before I realized there was a problem. It had been a hectic week already. On Monday, I had flown to Illinois and met with several people throughout the day before holding services that evening in the town of Tolono where we are planting a new mission church. On Tuesday, I had an early lunch with three people from the new church prior to the one-hour drive to the Bloomington airport and the return flight to Atlanta.

At first I thought it was hoodlums. Every neighborhood has them, regardless of how affluent. Kids that follow no rules, have no manners, and seem like they have no parenting. No matter if I left one light on or all of them, the results in the morning were always the same. My expensive landscaping was quickly being destroyed.

The Westmoreland ancestry question last week drew a response from one of my main contributors on that family — Robert E. (Bob) Johnston of California.

The future story of the rise and fall of Peachtree City will surely feature the flawed human urge to heap layer after layer of improvements on a good thing until it collapses of its own weight.

Karen and I were meeting up on a secret beauty mission. En route to the appointment, I talked to two other friends on my cell phone.

It will surprise no one who knows me that I seldom like change. It scares me. I feel so much more comfortable when things stay the same (not to be mistaken for “staying the course.”)

My home church, Bethel Baptist Church, located on the outskirts of Columbus, (Midland, Ga.), always observed Thanksgiving the Wednesday before with a home-cooked pot-luck supper. No, Kentucky Fried Chicken for these women.

I believe in free speech. I practice it, encourage it, and attempt to enable others in enjoying it. I greatly desire the members of my council to be honest and to be frank — especially if they believe I am missing the mark. I hope that the members of my congregation always feel free to share any insight or criticism they may need to offer.

As a kid of 6, I thought Thanksgiving to be an odd little holiday. No one got any presents. No one got a cake with candles. There were no trees, no multi-colored lights, no Easter egg hunts, bunny rabbits, fireworks, reindeers, or even Santa.

I received an interesting e-mail last week from David Hancock (davidbhancock@yahoo.co.uk), a Westmoreland researcher who questioned some of the information included in Ettie Tidwell McCall’s book, “McCall, Tidwell and Allied Families,” written in 1931. Mrs. McCall’s book has been the basis for many of my columns published during the last year on the Westmorelands, Tidwells and Moodys (and many other allied families) who settled in our area of Fayette, Coweta, Campbell, Spalding, Pike, and Meriwether counties.

In all my autumns on this little planet, I don’t remember one as pretty as this.

It began for us in early October when we drove through western North Carolina and Virginia, noting that the color had just begun in the higher reaches. When we returned home, this time through part of Tennessee, the sourwoods and dogwood proclaimed their importance in shades of burgundy.

The 1960s was nirvana for American liberalism. From the day John F. Kennedy inspired a new generation of Americans to the time that newest of the new generations, my generation, now entering our sixties, rebelled against the war in Vietnam, it was both the best and worst of times.

Years ago, when my friend’s Aunt Belle quit her husband, the news spread through their small Alabama town like kudzu growing on a hot summer day.

I read recently that one of the most favored secular Christmas songs, “Jingle Bells,” is actually a Thanksgiving song. If you sing it through, you’ll find no reference to Christmas. It was composed to be sung for a Thanksgiving program in 1857 at a Savannah, Ga., church. Today it’s recognized as one of the most popular songs in the world. Children and adults from around the world love to sing “Jingle Bells” and it all started in Georgia.

I have already voted in next Tuesday’s election. I will be in Illinois on Monday and Tuesday so I cast an absentee ballot.

All right, all you politicians out there, listen up. My vote counts – unless of course it’s in Florida. If you want it, you’ll have to earn it.

Except for tying up a loose end on a Tidwell family member, I’m going to forego a specific family story this time and tell you about two upcoming events in our area which some may be interested in attending (including me).

I saw the film “Running With Scissors” before ever reading anything written by Augusten Burroughs, whose memoir the film is based upon. After watching the film, I was so intrigued by Burroughs’ wacky childhood experiences that I immediately went to the Fayette County Public Library to check it out and read it. After all, books are always superior to the film versions that try to duplicate them.