The day starts with the sound of blue jays mobbing a crow. When the crow gets tired of being the mobbee, he spies a Cooper’s hawk, calls the rest of his family in, and becomes the mobber.

I admit it, I am one of the few remaining holdouts who despise rap, or hip-hop, which seem the same to me. I won’t even concede the point of calling it music.

After all the trouble I got into over last year’s Mother’s Day column, I won’t be writing about my own mother this year.

Several years ago, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution ran a story about Los Angeles juror number 2386. This man had faithfully reported for jury duty, but had been sitting in the courtroom for two days, waiting to be interviewed by lawyers.

An Associated Press release has reported that Gordon Wayne Wright, age 57, is accused of distributing sexually explicit fliers that included images of his two ex-wives. Evansville, Ind., police arrested Wright and charged him with distributing obscene matter and invasion of privacy

Anybody want a set of encyclopedias? They’re yours for the asking, in near-perfect condition. They’ve taken up space in a small side table for, gee, I don’t know how many years, and if you think they’re useless in the 21st century, you just might be right.

Along the winding garden path of my life, I have discovered that F. Scott Fitzgerald was basically correct when he remarked, “The very rich ... are different from you and me.”

There is a move afoot to have the state of Georgia, following the lead of some other Southern states, through its representatives, apologize for its role in slavery.

“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.

What’s the difference between cartoons and comics? No, this is not a trick question.

Comics, according to one source, “are a series of drawings that tell the sequences of a story or an incident in picture form.” These are what we used to call “funnies,” because they were originally meant to be funny.

Is there anything more essential to true Southern womanhood than a cast iron skillet? One that has been perfectly seasoned and whose weight feels just right in a woman’s hand?

It’s true that you can tell a lot about a person from their friends. Especially when the person has friends who tell a lot.

Here we were, on a beautiful Saturday morning, doing what we do best: sipping coffee, reading the paper, putting off reality as long as possible. Haven’t cleaned the porches and decks, and we’re staying indoors out of the pine pollen.

Nearly all of us have experienced those dark moments when we seem abandoned to cruel and undeserved fates. It is then we cry, “My God, my God! Why have you forsaken 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.

It just goes to show how big Easter is to the women of the South.

Our group of Dixie Divas, which has about 25 members, voted a couple of years ago to choose a meeting date and stick with it. No changes allowed. That was the firm mandate. So we selected the first Saturday of every other month. Since that time, nothing has been big enough or important enough to change the date.

A remarkable story emerged from the mists of history recently, all the more timely to be told at Yom Hashoah, the annual remembrance of the Holocaust.

Last week I participated in two meaningful events. The first was a “Renewal of Vows of Holy Matrimony” for seven couples at our church who completed a course designed to strengthen marriages.

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.

This will probably be a series in several parts since I have so much information on Preston and Nell O'Shields has shared so much of his story not found in the record books. There are still a few questions which I need to pursue through those records, but there is still plenty to tell before we get there.

Stony, I remember writing a piece about you when you became chief. I asked you if you had a brief bio because I knew there would be a lot of military references in it, and I don’t speak militarese. I can’t find it now, nor the story I wrote, but I well remember, it was several tightly typed pages long.

By CAL THOMAS

Belfast, Northern Ireland — Twenty-five years ago, British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher forcefully and decisively ordered British troops to the Falkland Islands to liberate them from an invading Argentine force. It was a military and political triumph widely supported by the public, leading to conservative victories at the polls for another 15 years.

Mama said the most wonderful thing recently. What she said is something I wish I could hear from the mouths of everyone I care about.

“Have you ever done something that you regretted?” a lady said to me some time ago. Of course, I responded that I had done, or in some cases, not done, things that had caused me a great deal of regret. I don’t talk about those instances very much because there is little value in asking “what if” all the days of one’s life. For one thing, there are no “do-overs” and for another we can only compound our regrets by dwelling endlessly on lost opportunities or poor decisions.

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.

Spring has sprung. The grass has riz. I wonder where the birdies is.

Is it just me, or did this spring kinda pounce on us when our backs were turned? From freezing to fabulous in a matter of hours. Honestly, it is no exaggeration to say that some of the trees, the Bradford pears especially, bloomed overnight.

Dixie Divas

The new washer and dryer set that arrived to take up residence in my laundry room looks like it was sent over from George and Jane Jetson’s home in the outer galaxy.

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.

There seems to be a trend among politicians to name public properties after notable citizens who have not yet left this earth. I believe it is a grave mistake.

There’s going to be a wedding in our family. Abigail, the eldest of our daughter Jean’s bunch, will be getting married on July 14, in Leesburg, Va. The lad she’s marrying is tall, good-looking and has a good job. He has also fended off the urging of his would-be father-in-law, Brian, who met him at the door whenever he came calling, with questions: “What are your intentions toward my daughter?” “What’s the status of this courtship?” and, “Have you set a date yet?”