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.

Richard Jewell was honored by the governor of Georgia last week. It’s been 10 full years since that terrible day in Atlanta when a bomb exploded in Centennial Olympic Park during the 1996 Olympic Games.

One man can only stand so much. I must speak out and have my say. The Wife says, “Don’t do it.” She thinks I’ve lost my mind. I’ve got news for her — done already lost it a long time ago. (For a job, I crawl into burning buildings.)

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?”

There are a few things that I miss about my old house now that I’m gone and settled in the new one.

The big oak tree near the garage door, for one. The tree that offered much appreciated shade in the summer then gloriously presented beautiful color in the fall. The one from which acorns fall with loud plops then crunch noisily when tires roll over them.

Way back when I started first grade — these were the days before parents packed their kids off to day care, preschool, pre-kindergarten, or kindergarten — I recall needing a 3-ring binder, a few pencils, and notebook paper. We didn’t even need a pencil holder for the notebook, but my mom made sure I had one anyway. That was it.

The Wife graduated from the University of Virginia, home of the Wahoos – a fish that can drink twice its body weight in water.

Occasionally, albeit rarely, a man will ask me how to properly romance and court a woman.

These are wise men.

So far I have been unable, though, to put three of them together. That leaves me to think that those legendary three wise men were just another Biblical miracle.

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

Heard any good fishin’ stories lately? I’ve run across two that sound fishy to me, but are supposedly real life happenings in the “truth is stranger than fiction” category.

If the devastation of a major city, the massive loss of life, and the unimaginable heartache and misery brought about by Hurricane Katrina were not enough, it appears that medical personnel at Memorial Medical Center in New Orleans may have murdered as many as four patients in the days following the catastrophe.

The Wife, she is counting down the days. Summer break is almost over, and teachers must all go back to school. Bummer, especially if you’re married to a teacher.

One of the most popular columns I’ve written had to do with Mama and her longing to get more mail. There was an outpouring of response from readers, many of whom asked for Mama’s address so they could send cards and others who promised to pay more mail attention to their older relatives and friends.

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.

One Friday night, during a wedding rehearsal, the couple and I were examining the vows they would make on the following day.

My friend at the fire department just had his first baby, and my buddy in the real estate business, did too.

Both had little girls. The babies and moms are doing fine. To say the new dads don’t have a clue would be an understatement.

Busy-ness, appointments, and the heat conspired to keep us home from the lake this spring and summer.

The heat was the real villain. It?s tolerable while the boat is moving, since we’re inside. We get a little breeze while under way, and the tinted windows reflect heat and sunlight.

When Hamas terrorists tunneled from Gaza into southern Israel, killed two Israeli soldiers and abducted Corporal Galid Shalit, that probably put the nail in the coffin of any prospect for a peaceful settlement between Israel and the Hamas-controlled Palestinian Authority.

Who would have ever thought it?

But there it was. On the menu of a diner located in New York City’s Upper West Side: Grits — $3.50.

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.

Claudette, one of my favorite divas, summoned me to lunch. “We have something to discuss,” she announced firmly.

Dutifully, I showed up and was in great hopes that Claudette’s irrepressible in-laws had been up to their usual nonsense because I had a column to write and needed some material. Of course, it would be hard to top some of the things they’ve done such as the cousin who got tired of cutting grass so he just had the entire front lawn asphalted.

Heard any good fishin’ stories lately? I’ve run across two that sound fishy to me, but are supposedly real life happenings in the “truth is stranger than fiction” category.

At one time in our nation’s history, there was a great deal of denominational loyalty. If a person was born a Methodist or a Baptist, he or she tended to stay a Methodist or a Baptist and so did the children. That day is no more.

For the last four days, while rocking on the back porch of the lodge, I’ve watched the light as it danced on the water. Late each afternoon, in a flash of orange and yellow, the sun dipped below the horizon. Beneath the clear summer sky, the water shimmered like diamonds as the moon rose.

Stella Parton, my longtime friend, arrived for lunch in Nashville one day with a handful of presents.

This, by the way, is a very Southern woman thing to do. We always bring gifts to a gathering and most certainly will slip one in a visitor’s hand as she’s leaving our home. I, too, had a couple of gifts for her. We hugged, squealed like school girls who haven’t seen each other in a long time then excitedly exchanged our gifts

When my youngest son, James, enlisted for a six-year hitch in the United States Air Force on his 18th birthday, he received a “Certificate of Enlistment.” Some days later, his recruiter called to talk to him and, after a few minutes, James called out, “Hey, Dad! My recruiter wants to know what you thought about my Certificate of Enlistment.”

Mom was right. I should have listened to her. She told us she didn’t want us to go. She had a feeling someone was going to get hurt — she was right. That night, I lost my best friend in the cave-in.

Randy Dewberry, a retired nuclear engineer, and his wife are down to the wire. He writes:

It was now 2 o’clock and the puppies were to be there by 3. I reached into the pen with the idea I would choose the first one that came to me. They all came at the same time. Grab one, any one, I told myself.

This is an open letter to Billy Payne, who succeeds Hootie Johnson as president and chairman of Augusta National Golf Club in Augusta, Ga.:

Recently, I wrote an article about the sacred vows that many ministers make at their ordination to the ministry or to the priesthood. I remarked that, all too often, those vows get broken.