Last week The Boy closed on his first house. He’s all moved in and enjoying home ownership somewhere amongst all the boxes. As he surfaces for air, reality has finally set in. A few must-have things didn’t come with his house. So he does what anyone in his situation would do. He made a phone call. “Dad, we have a problem. What are we going to do about a washer and dryer?”

This week marks the 33rd anniversary of the first and last raid of the Magnificent Seven. The midnight foray on Candi’s house is forever documented on the front pages of old yellowed newspapers tucked safely away in forgotten scrapbooks.

The fourth weekend in June is upon us, and it’s long overdue. Because I’ve been recovering from shoulder surgery, I haven’t been able to climb up on my soapbox this entire year. Five months and 30 trips to physical therapy later, I’ve been rebuilt. Better than ever. Now, perched atop my soapbox once again, my arms are flailing and my back is arched.

It has been seven days since The Wife left me. I truly didn’t think I would survive even this long. The simplest tasks have become incredibly difficult.

The car pulled out of the driveway and headed for downtown with an unsuspecting rider: one green grasshopper asleep on the windshield — if grasshoppers actually sleep. I don’t really know if they do or don’t. I’m not a grasshopper.

Even at 82 when most fathers believe their job is done, my dad is still teaching me. He doesn’t mind my daily phone calls. He listens attentively to all that is going on in my life and hands out advice in his own unique way. In the past I’ve seen it as controlling and prying, but now I know that isn’t what it is. I see it now as love.

Last winter The Wife took me on a walking tour of her alma mater, the University of Virginia. After an hour tour of the grounds, we wondered to the center of the university.

Watch what you say. It can and will be used against you in the Court of Mom.

There is an old saying: “Think before you speak.” And like many old sayings, it provides sage advice. But over the years I’ve learned something extremely important. If you have to think about what you’re about to say, it’s probably in your best interest not to say it.

Okay, I’ll admit it. Other than clicking the mouse when it comes to computers, I’m not only clueless, I’m geekless.

Okay, I’ll admit it. Of the two people in our 10-year marriage, The Wife is the smarter.

What may seem like an astounding realization didn’t just happen overnight. I’ve known for years. I was just too much of a Neanderthal to put it into print.

There are times in a person’s life that are truly defining points, times that will be remembered forever: a first kiss, marriage, and the birth of a child.

The scourge has once again descended upon us all, coating everything with a fine, gritty layer of yellow. My black Lab has magically turned into a yellow Lab. When the wind blows, a cloud of yellow almost blots out the sun. And the simple act of breathing is not so simple anymore.

Without knowing it, without realizing it, something has happened. I’ve matured as a human being.

Trust me — it’s as big of a surprise to me as it is to some of you. The extremely opinionated, often vocal, sometimes confrontational young man is now gone. Replacing him is someone who is much mellower, conciliatory, and actually thinks of the consequences before he speaks.

They live among us, posing as average teenagers. You may have one or two living in your house and not even be aware of them. They have identifiable traits such as rudeness, crudeness, and disrespectful. Some may even smell, but don’t let them fool you.

All the snow is gone, but the freezer in the basement is now full of snowballs.

Growing up on Flamingo Street I learned that the best time to have a snowball fight is in the middle of summer.

Last Sunday morning at 11 o’clock the first snowflake started to fall. Even though I had been raised better, I wasn’t prepared.

There’s been a lot of talk lately about peanuts, most of it concerning salmonella. Being born and raised in this peanut state, I take great offense to it. It’s time to set the record straight – it’s time to fight back! This is war! Those little peanuts can’t defend themselves; it’s up to all of us.

Misplaced, missing, or just lost — they all meant the same thing that fateful night back at 110 Flamingo Street. It was the worst whooping I ever got from my dad.

Paraskevidekatriaphobics – it’s a big word that describes the people who have an irrational fear of Friday the 13th, a day considered throughout history to be the unluckiest day of the year.

It never ceases to amaze me how a perfectly harmonious life can be thrown into disarray in an instant.

A phone call in the middle of the night pulls you out of what was a peaceful sleep and sends you God only know where. A knock at the front door and you open it. There, standing right in front of you, is a police officer or deputy sheriff just doing their job. Trust me when I say they have nothing but bad news to tell you, and if it’s at night, it’s really bad news.

Mom used to say that it was our differences that made us stronger, and with five kids, she had a whole house full of differences to contend with on a daily basis. No wonder she was tired all the time. Of course, she’d usually say those comforting words as she cleaned and bandaged one of us up after yet another after school fight.

He left before we rolled out of bed and rarely returned back home in time for dinner. With a big house, a pretty wife, five kids and a green parakeet that ate hushpuppies off his head, my dad had it all together. I thought he knew all of the answers.

Congratulations! If you’re reading this article, it looks like you made it into the New Year, and since I’m writing it, it looks like I’ve made it as well.

This is the last newspaper column this year and perhaps the last column from me – ever.

By the time you read this, I will have had shoulder surgery. Even though the doctor said it’s just a routine operation, it’s not his shoulder. He may have done a thousand of them, but for me this is my first one. So, if I’m not here next week, then you know what happened.

There was one teacher at Briarwood High School, home of the Mighty Buccaneers, that was disliked more than any other. That teacher was Mr. Mikers, the math teacher. So when I drew the short straw at registration my senior year and ended up in his class, I knew it wasn’t going to be fun.

The High Museum of Art currently has two unique displays until April 2009: the Louvre and China’s Terracotta Army. Last weekend I got dragged to both by The Wife.

Living at 110 Flamingo Street with three brothers and sister was truly a magical time. The five of us were one of the largest families in the neighborhood, and we felt like we could go just about anywhere and do most anything. There was safety in numbers.

It’s the biggest sales day of the year, the one day storeowners hope will send an avalanche of holiday profits their way.

The Boy celebrated his first Thanksgiving in the center of the fire department engine bay.

Still snuggled in the car carry-all I placed on the table, his big blue eyes took in all the festivities of the other firefighters and their families awaiting the Thanksgiving dinner prayer.

The tattered coat was crumpled on the park bench with an old man wrapped inside. His hatless head was matted by dirty, disheveled hair streaked silver and gray. Gnarly fingers pulled the brown coat tighter in a vain attempt to ward off the bite of the November wind.