Ever wondered where all those inconsiderate people that infest our county come from? You know the ones: people who use the 10 items or less check-out lanes when they have 20 items or more and scowl if you dare to point out their mistake.

This one could possibly get me kicked out of the Men’s Club. At the very least it will certainly be the source of constant ribbing for years to come. The guys at the fire department will never let me live it down, but I’m not ashamed to admit it.

At age 7, my time had finally come. The years of waiting and anticipating were over. The day of passage from just being a little brother to — well, someone important — was now at hand. My dad had chosen me to pick out the Fourth of July Watermelon.

Old Mrs. Crabtree lived in the dilapidated, two-story house at the end of Flamingo Street. It was the only one in the cul-de-sac; the rest of the lots were in a flood plain and couldn’t be built on.

Let’s get one thing out in the open. I’m a hugger — have been all my life. I’m proud to say I come from a long line of huggers. My dad is 80, and he still hugs. Grandpa Jed died at age 92; the last thing he did was give Grandma a hug.

In a brightly lit washroom at Underground Atlanta, there is one lonely attendant, an old man, somewhat hunched over with age. When I saw him he was holding a fresh towel with one hand — a small broom and a dust pan on the end of a stick in the other. With eyes fixed on the ground directly in front of his tattered shoes, in his mind he was someplace else. It was Father’s Day.

Like most people, I’ve had many more good days than bad. So why are the bad days so prevalent in my memory than the good ones? And why can’t I forget them?

A person much smarter than me once said, “A man is not measured on how he starts things. He is measured on how he finishes them.”

The operation to repair a torn tendon in my left arm was Day one. To be honest, I don’t really remember a lot about that day other than when I woke up, there was no pain.

In this day and age of incredible technical advancements, it has become increasingly difficult to separate the real word from that of fantasy and fairytales. We watch movies made up entirely of actors generated by computers. Computer graphics are so powerful they actually have us believing that animals can talk, actors can fly through the air by swinging on spider webbing and gunshots wounds can heal in days with no long term disabilities.

“Son, live in the here and now where the ghosts of yesterday don’t apply.” That was some good advice for a father to give to his son. I just couldn’t believe it was coming from me.

Looking down from the top of my ladder, I saw a black cat with big yellow eyes lying underneath, staring back up at me. Right then, I should have known things were going to go awry. Moments later, the lights shorted out and The Wife heard a loud thud reverberating from upstairs. The thud was me falling off the ladder after shocking myself and shorting out the lights.

Birthdays only come around once a year. Thank goodness. Each year I lose a little bit more hair and gain a bunch more weight. If things keep going the way they are, by the time I die, I’ll be completely bald and weigh well over a 1,000 pounds.

In springtime, flowers push up from the ground and explode into color, and baby blue tail lizards try to scamper away from the grasp of excited, barefoot little boys. The fine yellow mist of pollen coats everything while big black bumble bees hover lazily, watching as you work out in the yard and daring you to reach out and swat them with the little souvenir baseball bat bought at the Braves game last fall. And it’s kite-flying time.

There’s a certain time in your life when you have to put your foot down. You gotta draw a line in the sand and dare the other person to step over it. And sometimes, to keep a smidgen of self-respect, you have to do something drastic. Monday was one of those times.

With its buying power diminished, a quarter many not seem important to most, but with tax time right around the corner, every quarter is really important to the government.

My mama was born in the great state of Alabama. She lived there all her life, until she married my dad, that is, then she moved to Georgia. I guess that makes her about as Southern as one can git.

Men and women are different – plain and simple. We look different; we talk different; we listen to the same conversation, but yet hear things differently.

The sun dipped below the horizon of 110 Flamingo Street as the orange and purple hues of dusk crept across the night sky. Thirty minutes later, I climbed the last hill before turning down our street, knowing that I was in trouble for being late.

Last week, million of viewers watched the rain-soaked Super Bowl on new flat screen plasma televisions. I was supposed to be one of them. The key word in the previous sentence: Was. The Wife had other ideas.

I really never gave it much thought. Growing old, that is. I figured I didn’t have to. The way I saw it, I only had two options: grow older or die.

What’s big, red and white and has a bunch of hoses, more equipment than your granddaddy’s toolbox, and a 75-foot mechanical ladder on top?

Four years ago I told The Wife that Hillary Clinton would run for president in 2008, and win. She has told me that it would never happen.

It’s the third week of January, and I’m officially off my diet. That’s a new record for me. But, like most things in life, it’s all in how you look at it. Three weeks is 21 days, but for a dog that’s two months. And I think we’ll all agree — two months is a really long time to stay on a diet.

The magic wallet made its first appearance at the county fair when I was only 7. That summer, we all piled into the back of the green station wagon with brown faux wood panels, and after a short drive, we stood at the gates of the Lakewood Fair Grounds.

I saw a Traveler the other day. He wore a tattered tweed coat. Bent with age and time, he sat on the edge of a rusty park bench in downtown Asheville. With jerky motions from age-spotted hands that long ago stopped obeying the commands made of them, he tossed seeds onto the ground.

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.

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.

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.

“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.