I’m going to have to make a serious apology. Late last spring/early summer, when I was totally caught up in the families at Bethany, I received an e-mail from Carol Garrett of Chamblee who responded to a column I did last year on the Stamps and Johnson families. I had to put a lot of letters on hold back then so as not to break the flow of the stories.

I don’t watch too much Christian television these days. It’s not that I’m against it and I know that thousands of people are helped and ministered to by the different programs. I do watch the EWTN network some (the Eternal Word Television Network, a Roman Catholic broadcast) and I watch some of the local Atlanta-based church services once in a while. In general, though, I’ve become disillusioned with much of the offerings.

No one knows where the people in the woods actually came from or how long they had lived behind the vacant, dilapidated house on the corner of Flamingo Street and Beacher Hills. They had been there as long as any of us could remember – and Slow Moe could remember way back to the first grade. Some said they would always be among us.

In the throes of covering Peachtree City’s mayoral campaign, and this being Thanksgiving Eve, constituents in Cart Path town should thank their lucky stars I can’t run for mayor.

Happy birthday, dear Thanksgiving.
My, you look good for your age.
Has it been 384 years already?
Well, time has made you more sage.

Maybe you aren’t surprised that a grump like me is irritated that every day or week or month is named after some stupid special interest. But November is Adoption Awareness Month, and that shuts me up because this is my special interest.

I’m scaling back on Thanksgiving. Not on the giving of thanks for my many blessings but on the giving of food to people who have already had way too much to eat before they get to my house.

A recent article from the anthropology department said that human beings, and only human beings, do good things for others who will never know from whom the largesse came.

I happened to be at conference at Emory in 1977 to present a paper on the impact of “belief” on human consciousness. Also presenting that day was another Georgia State student. Her paper held that Science qualified as a “belief system.” She was not the first or the last to put forward that thesis. A belief system, according to Webster, is a fixed, coherent set of beliefs prevalent in a community or a society. It is also defined as faith based on a series of beliefs but not formalized into a religion. Once a little known term from Anthropology, the term “belief system” is much more widely used today, including as an often-used substitute for the word “religion.” This is because, by its very nature, a belief system explains the origin and existence of life and the Earth, the nature and origin of the universe and so on.

Before you start getting all excited at the names in the title, I should advise you that I have found no connection of these families to the Harps and Norrises in Fayette (except for one teeny tiny clue), although the author of the letter I received does live in Fayetteville.

While it’s fresh in my mind, I thought I’d share a few comments about the movie “Jarhead.”

The term “jarhead” refers to members of the United States Marine Corps and comes from the idea that the “high and tight” haircuts of the Corps (spelled “corps,” never “corp”) look like the lids on a mason jar; hence “jarhead.”

Early in the morning is usually when it happens. Before the first yellow, orange finger rays of sunlight reach across the sky and screens its way through the blinds, there is but a moment. A special moment in time when dreams and reality mix before the fine line between them slowly ebbs away in the cool morning light.

The Kaiser Family Foundation looks into sexual content on television programs every two years and their recent findings have made national headlines.

I have a sister who breezes into town two or three times a year and freely dispenses advice. This, of course, is akin to going to the Graduate School of Mama.

A recent article from the anthropology department said that human beings, and only human beings, do good things for others who will never know from whom the largesse came.

I received this off the Internet and I can’t improve on it. I print it here in the form I received it.

The other day, my nine-year-old son wanted to know why we were at war. My husband looked at our son and then looked at me. My husband and I were in the Army during the Gulf War and we would be honored to serve and defend our country again today. I knew that my husband would give him a good explanation.

I received an e-mail recently from Fran Gillich, who believes she is connected to the Bennetts of Fayette County. However, proof of the connection has eluded her for years.

My wife and I have this ongoing disagreement. I have come to grips with the realization that this disagreement will never be settled and, at the end of our days, she will still hold her position and I will hold mine. The subject is “nurses’ caps,” or the lack thereof.

After reading the title of this article, you might be expecting some thoughtful insight into a happy married life. Perhaps you think that after over four years of writing a weekly newspaper article, somehow I’ve been able to come up with some tidbit of knowledge that maybe you haven’t been able to grasp which will lead to marital bliss. Nope – sorry - I ain’t that good. But read on, it’s still a funny story. And like the other stories I write, it’s all true. Well, most of it, anyway.

So *this* is how political rumors get started.
Heard one yesterday about Peachtree City's code enforcement department yanking up numerous Steve Brown for Mayor signs because they were in city right of way, running afoul of the city's sign ordinance.

By the time this publishes, the local election will be history. While I’m not embarrassed to say I’m voting against rather than for, I don’t feel particularly passionate about any of this year’s candidates. At least not in a positive way.

Sometimes you just know. You can actually feel the knowledge crawling around in the marrow of your bones, so deep is the way you know it.

As Veterans Day approaches, think about this. 2000 Census data says 66 percent of Americans over 65 are veterans while less than 8 percent of those under age 65 are veterans. About one-half of 1 percent of our citizens are on active duty in the Armed Forces.

I am writing this column as fast as I can.

I am at home, the baby is awake and so, like everything that my wife and I do now, it has to be done in five-minute increments.

As many of you may know, I love history, all kinds of history. I love history because I love people, and am serious about the way we treat each other. History is very useful because when you overlay that with Christian thought, and the words and practice of Jesus, you have quite a different approach to life.

One of the easiest things for some people to find is fault. There's a lot of criticism and fault-finding out there. In fact, criticism is the one thing many think is more blessed to give than to receive.

This week I’ll give you a little more on the third family mentioned by Tim Turner in his letter a few weeks ago, and that is another family of Boyds who ended up in our area. As far as I can determine, these Boyds are not related to the Boyds at Bethany or the Boyds of Meriwether and Cleburne (Ala.)

"Where are you from?" he asked. The question came from a businessman in Peachtree City not long after I moved to the area during the summer of 1983.

Gas can kill! Trust me. I know. After Twin Brother Mark ate broccoli at dinner, by bedtime he was deadly. When I was young, I thought that was the worst gas one could possible smell, but as a firefighter, I know that’s not the case. There’s one gas even more deadly than what was produced by Mom’s broccoli cheese casserole and Mark at bedtime. A gas you can’t even smell. Carbon monoxide!

I live in Peachtree City, work in Fayetteville and buy lime slushes in Tyrone. If I could vote in each of these two cities and one town, here’s how I would cast my ballots.