This is the house that Jack built.

This is the roof that covers the house that Jack built.

These are the leaves that clutter the roof that covers the house that Jack built.

Mary has moved again, this time to Mannheim, near Heidelberg. She still considers her primary residence the apartment she shares with Rainer in Gelsenkirchen, near Dusseldorf.

This has not been one of my better weeks. And as they say in the South, if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. Perhaps including Mama’s son-in-law, a.k.a. the guru-in-law.

Nature tosses us a surprise just often enough to keep life spicy, doesn’t she? Several years ago it was a black swan near Tinsley Mill, and at about the same time, a rufous hummingbird in the Peachtree City backyard of Charles and Sandy Davis. (This one’s ba-a-ack, and she’s brought a friend.)

Since Eve shook her head at Cain and Abel, as they squabbled over a toy on the tent floor, mothers have said the same: How can brothers be so different?

When Mary Jane went to see a doctor about a misaligned toe, he said it would need surgery. She laughed and said, “No, thank you,” that she was 68 and probably wouldn’t need it for more than about 20 more years anyhow.

Funny, when we were kids, Virginia was “down south.” From where we are this morning, in the western Virginia mountains, it has a decidedly “up north” appearance. And feel.

Where did this Santa Claus come from?

Not from the New England settlers. The Puritans banned any kind of festivities on Christmas – too “Catholic,” they said, and you know that leads to idol worship. In his journal, Thomas Jones, master of the Mayflower, indicates that Dec. 25, 1620 was just another work day.

“Did you see The Lockhorns this morning?”

“You mean, ‘If you really loved me, Leroy, you’d buy me a riding vacuum cleaner’?”

How do you choose a doctor? Most of the readers of this column have made moves from one city to another, and have had to line up a new doc for the family. It’s not an easy task.

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.

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 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.”)

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.

You never know when you accept an invitation to tell people about your hometown just what kind of questions they’ll lob your way.

Now and then I catch myself writing such long, winding sentences that by the time I’ve stopped it with a period, I have to look at the beginning to see if both ends are relevant to each other. If not, I start hacking into them mercilessly. Few are the paragraphs that would not benefit from a thorough pruning. My best guide is how it sounds when read aloud.

Isaac says he doesn’t remember anything at all about his mother. He was only 4 when she died. His older sisters, Abigail and Esther, were well aware of the worry surrounding their mom’s illness.

A Grandma’s gotta do what she’s gotta do. It had been too long, since July, since I had seen the grandbabies.

Found a couple of weeks without too many obligations in them, cleared out what were there, then got online to see which airline had the best sale.

Samuel, born a bit premature in 2003, recently turned 3. Along the way to that illustrious age he caught on to nearly every ability appropriate to his age. He crawled, although in a lopsided way, pulled himself up, took his first steps, learned his first words - mostly in what child development experts consider “normal” progression.

The pun is horrific, but I’ll write it anyway: Ferrell Mowell’s moving story is very moving.

On August 30, the old house in which he grew up was pushed, shoved, and pulled from its foundation on North Jeff Davis Dr., Fayetteville, to a rescued-house office park about a mile away on Ga. Highway 85 South. I hope you read Ferrell’s narrative.

Grandparents’ Day?

I wouldn’t have thought of it had not the ladies at Curves invited all the grandmas in the place to bring pictures of their grandchildren.

Last week we visited the history of Haralson in Coweta County, and a little church there.

Over the years, as any homeowner knows, buildings need updating and expansion. The people of Mt. Pilgrim Lutheran added a fellowship hall, a kitchen, and restrooms. In recent years, central heat and air have been installed. Floors have been refurbished, a new roof put on, and a handicapped ramp built. Most striking to a visitor are the classic stained glass windows in each wall.

The beauty of living in Fayette County is that the county has one foot in the big city and the other in the country; one foot in the here and now, the other in the past.

Mary’s in the opera business, in case you came in late. She is a pianist for the Dortmund Opera in the Ruhr Valley of Germany. She’s been in Germany since 1984, thanks to winning Fulbright grants two years in a row, after which she was hired to accompany rehearsals and coach singers.

It was the kind of faux pas you can’t believe actually happened.

I was accustomed to seeing John shopping at Kroger alone - it was an arrangement that worked for him and Betty. And when I saw him Wednesday morning, it was very easy to tell him he was looking good, because he was. He looked healthier and more cheerful than I’d seen him in ages.

Oh, what a world we live in….

I tried to doze on Flight 640 heading for Atlanta, but did not succeed.

Couldn’t unwind. And I knew that flying west to east was going to inflict worse jet lag than east to west.

My sandal came off and I thought I’d never get out of the car to hug the Big Guy.

“That’s it,” I thought. “What else can possibly mess up this year?”

If Miss Manners doesn't deal with camera protocol before vacation season gets further underway, I may have to write her myself.

When, a couple of Christmases back, Dave gave me my very own copy of the OED – the Oxford English Dictionary, considered by lexicographers to be the last word in words – I thought I’d curl up with it and just browse to my heart’s content.

Let me draw you a picture with words. I’m sure you’ll recognize it from those on calendars and Christmas cards. I think they call it American primitive.