WARNING: this story is very timely, but it’s far from being funny. Funny will return next week; serious is here this week.

Mom was used to the sight of blood, but this time it was different. There was more than usual.

The day started like most school days on Flamingo Street. Some kids caught the school bus; other kids rode their bikes; us Ryckeley boys, we just walked.

To say that I was tired after finishing my 24-hour shift at the fire station last Friday would be an understatement.

First thing Thursday morning we attended a special class, took a test, then it was outside pulling hose and drafting water out of lakes. We trained for almost four hours.

Our elementary school bus driver, Mr. Holcomb, sported a salt and pepper handle-bar mustache that curled so far up on the ends, it almost touched the top of his ears. His bushy, gray eyebrows stuck straight out like little fingers from his forehead and shot up whenever he got excited. Other than the end of school, March 31st was the day his eyebrows shot up the most. It was the start of spring break, and Mister Holcomb knew the perfect way to start the week-long vacation.

The Wife asked me yesterday what I’d like for my birthday. Seems I have another one coming up next month. I only had to think for an instant and knew what I wanted more than anything else. Framing her face with my hands, I drew her close, kissing her lightly on her lips, and told her my desire: to have an entire day spent just with her.

How old do you have to be to run away from home? It’s been a long time since I’ve had to ask myself that question.

Most every husband out there has one thing in common. No, not that. While the female in our society has evolved into a beautiful, sensitive, thinking human being, able to remember just about everything, her male counterpart has somehow de-evolved. Over the years we have become lumbering, uncouth Neanderthals that have developed the unique ability to forget just about anything at any given time. No matter how important the event - soccer games, birthdays, or anniversaries - you name it, there’s a Neanderthal out there that’s forgotten it.

The Dad was rustled from his sleep by a phone call, one he never thought he’d receive. The call came from a hospital. The son they had dropped off at college alive and well not six months previously was now occupying a bed in the cold room of a hospital somewhere in Alabama. Suffering from a concussion and possibly a collapsed lung, the boy had asked his doctor in the emergency room to make the call right before he lost consciousness.

The Wife and I went to a party the other night with some friends. Now I know that may surprise you that after almost five years of writing a weekly newspaper article we still have a few friends who wouldn’t mind being seen out in public with us, but have no fear. The good friends were hers – I just went along for the ride.

As far back as I can remember – no pun intended – I’ve had trouble remembering things. Take, for instance, Colonel Baker’s tenth-grade chemistry class. He spent an entire school year teaching us about the periodic table, electrons, neutrons, and atoms. Don’t remember learning much chemistry back then, but thanks to my selective memories they are a few things from that year and his class that I’ll never be able to forget.

I’ve tried to save money all of my life, and to date I’m ashamed to say I’ve utterly and completely failed. Not that I haven’t tried, though. Oh, I’ve tried. I’ve clipped coupons, which I forget about, leave on the kitchen table, and go grocery shopping without. The coupons finally end up in the trashcan long after they expire. I’ll go behind The Boy and cut off light switches in an effort to save energy – only to leave the hall light on at night because, well, some big fireman in our house is a little afraid of the dark. But now with The Boy off at school, it’s more important than ever for us to save money.

It’s not fair, I tell you, it’s just not fair. No matter what we do, we can’t change it. Oh, I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. But no amount of ranting or raving has worked. When I found out, I stomped around the house for days — didn’t change a darn thing, just scared the cats. Despite all my efforts to stop it, they went ahead and did it anyway. Why didn’t they just leave things alone? Right when we were getting use to the old ones, they go and change, messing everything up.

Like most kids, growing up we had to do a lot of listening. Some of us did it better than the others. Mom used to say we needed to listen twice as much as we talked. “That’s why God gave you two ears and one mouth. You can’t learn anything if you’re talking.”

Lately I’ve been told that I live in my own little world. That the way I view stuff is totally different than the way most people do. For instance, some see the glass of water and say it’s half full; others see the glass of water and say it’s half empty. I see the glass of water and wonder why it’s not chocolate milk. Strange, I know, but then again so am I.

As I look back on my relatively short lifespan on this Earth, there have a few days that have stuck out like a sore thumb - days that I would rather forget. Moving into our new house last month was probably the worst of these days. And how did that day end, you might ask? Well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you – I will, though. But you’re gonna have to wait. Before my tale of moving woe begins, let us take a look-see at other not-so-stellar days in the life of yours truly.

'Twas the night before Christmas, and everyone knew
The kids gobbled dinner; sweet tea and hot stew.
Smoke detectors hung on the ceilings with care,

A child lives in his own wondrous little world, a world most of us grownups have long ago forgotten. But it’s something about the holidays and Christmas, the sights, the sounds, and the smells which pull at even the hardest of hearts and helps us recall distant, long-forgotten memories. Memories which help us to go back — back to that time long ago when Christmas had a whole different meaning for most of us. It was a time when we saw Christmas through the eyes of a child.

There’re two types of people in the world - those who like real ones and those who like fake ones.

Sure, an argument can be made for fake ones. They’re more symmetrical than natural ones. You can get them as small as you like or so big they hardly fit through the front door! Personally, I like the real ones. To me there’s no substitute for what grows naturally. Besides, how can you improve on what’s already perfect?

They say reality is stranger than fiction. How did the Egyptians build such perfect structures as the pyramids without the use of modern tools? How did a ship end up on top of one of the highest mountains in Europe? Who drew those giant drawings in South America carved in rock that go on for miles in every direction - the ones that while undecipherable from ground are clearly seen from a plane? Strange, indeed. But there is something stranger out there.

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.

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.

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.

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!

When I got that F on my English paper, I wanted to run away. I was in the fourth grade, and Old Mrs. Crabtree had just handed back our first paper of the year. If you’d asked me before the red F showed up on it, I would’ve told you it was rather good.

It’s fall once again in Georgia. Gone are the high temperatures and humidity of the long Dog Days of August. They are replaced with cool, romantic moonlit evenings and even cooler mornings. Fall brings with it certain rituals unlike any other season. Rituals like driving to the North Georgia Mountains to view the rainbow of colors splashed across the mountain landscape, cleaning out gutters, and of course raking leaves. But every fall brings something else — something unwelcome around our house.  Those cursed little sweet gum balls.