It’s been an interesting week, hasn’t it? I was looking for a way to describe it in last week’s Citizen and settled for “interesting.” Now “momentous” seems better.

Ants. Ants everywhere. Teeny, tiny little ants that don’t bite, but nonetheless ants.

We first noticed them on the galley sink and the stove, down in one of the food bins, across the top edge of the fridge.

Except for the dog bite and the Friday night rainstorm, it was the loveliest lakeside camping weekend we’ve ever had in the half-dozen or so years we’ve been doing this. We started with just a couple of families, then twice a year, in April and October, the prettiest times in southern Georgia.

Until recently, I found autumn to be the most depressing time of the year, colorful leaves and wildflowers notwithstanding.

They laid him to rest in the earth he loved so well, the earth he tilled and planted, the earth in which his ancestors lie, the quiet earth beside the church he loved.

It was one of those tiny instants in life, one that should be forgotten at once – except that I’ve stuffed it into one corner of my brain, convenient for mulling over during otherwise down time.

Oh, the irony of the body betrayed….

The meals I prepare for the two of us at home are basically vegetarian. Even when we go out to eat or to a reception or banquet, we usually stick with the salmon and lots of salad (hold the dressing).

If Peachtree City were Camelot, seeking a royal family, it had but to look within. Until the deaths last year of King James Jr. and last week of Queen Miriam, 86, there were three princes in the House of Fulton, who added three daughters-in-law, seven grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren to the royal court.

She is one of the most organized women I know. She calls a meeting at 10 a.m. and it starts at 10 a.m. She may stop and repeat all the points already discussed to a latecomer, but she never gets ruffled when a meeting goes off course. She brings it back on-track in no time, and finishes exactly at the moment she said we’d be finished.

In an effort to be good citizens and reduce our country’s energy dependence, we’re using our golf cart for almost every errand: church, choir practice, shopping, working out and doctor’s visits. We often congratulate ourselves for living in a town where we can get just about anything we need, by foot or bicycle, or by our trusty little buggy. That is, as long as our destination is in the north end of Ga. Highway 74 South.

Sometimes I think I’m drafting new chapters in the book our daughter Mary will surely write some day. Others have made a living out of writing about adventures like hers. Why not us?

Years ago a reader scolded me for writing a column that made her sad. I promised her I’d warn her at the top if a column might get teary.

One of the fun things about having a column like this is that I can float ideas for local governments to handle without having to invest my own blood, sweat and tears.

It took awhile. You start with small steps. First I got Terri-at-the-Waffle House to give me a tall glass filled with ice, into which I poured my coffee. Then I got her to skip the cup and start pouring the coffee right over the ice.

It rained last night, and the trees are sparkling as I turn into our friends’ driveway. I take note of the warning sign: “Beware of playing cocker spaniel,” and sure enough, here she comes, bouncing toward the green area in the middle of the turn-around. “Buttercup!” calls her boss, and the little dog turns in mid-bounce.

Allow me to sweep up the crumbs and snippets that seem to collect on my worktable or my hard drive. I try to keep them in tidy stacks, but, sooner or later, they mix in with the only slightly more professional detritus: notes, newspaper clippings, business cards and “_____ for Dummies” books.

With the reality of Pastor John Weber’s retirement finally sinking in, I know I have to seek my usual therapy of writing about it. No one could possibly deserve the rewards of his good life more than Weber.

“You’re where? Why on earth would you be in San Francisco? It’s 10 o’clock here. That makes it the crack of dawn there.”

Dave’s story about the lightning strike at the family beach house sounds the same every time he tells it – and that’s been for more than 70 years. He was about 5 when he witnessed something few people ever see and live to talk about.

It’s looking as though Vacation 2008 will meet the same fate as Vacation 2007. Despite research that has our mouths watering, it never seems quite the right time to start packing bags. I went ahead and scheduled knee surgery in the middle of last summer, figuring I wasn’t going anywhere anyhow because of pain, whether arthritis or rehab.

Gonna miss Dubya when he leaves office in January.

Never thought I’d say such a thing about the worst president I’ve ever lived under, did you?

The boat has not been out of its slip much this year. The weather, of course, gets some of the blame, and low water, but that’s not the whole story. For most of the spring, Lake Eufaula actually has had plenty of water, although one must remain watchful and keep the speed down.

The congregation of Christ Our Shepherd Lutheran Church in Peachtree City is dealing with joy and sorrow as their senior pastor, the Rev. John Martin Weber, 62, retires from 34 years of service to the community, both through the church and through Peachtree City’s fire and police departments as chaplain. He is believed to have the longest tenure among clergy in Peachtree City.

Except for the fire in the trash can, our visit with the grandbabies was uneventful.

OK, I have to admit to behavior not becoming a mature person. Dave puts it best. “You just can’t accept a compliment, can you?”

The folders on the window bench next to my work table are full of on-going projects. Here lie ideas not yet ready for germination but too promising to entomb in the file cabinet.

We've been down to Lake West Point, camping at R. Shaefer Heard Park with about 25 friends, as we do twice a year.

“It doesn’t matter who gets the credit as long as the job gets done.”

Someone told me either Harry Truman or Ralph Waldo Emerson said that, but Bartlett’s Quotations does not confirm it.

When I was a little girl, living in Harrisburg, Pa., two of my playmates were Jewish. I didn’t know what that meant so I watched what they did and listened to what they said to see if I could figure out what “being Jewish” meant.

Her plans were specific, but we kept warning my oldest friend Carol Dannettell that the distances are longer than she remembered. She planned to visit a former college roommate in Marietta, then to Peachtree City, then to cousins in Greenwood, SC, Parkersburg, WV, and New Cumberland, PA, with a stop to see a grandson in Washington, DC, before flying home to San Diego from Baltimore.