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.

Like every Vietnam veteran I know, one of the lessons I learned in that war was that young Americans who do their duty in grave danger, and struggle mightily to bring one another home alive, have earned our admiration.

It is amazing to me how many people can’t carry on a conversation. Especially when introduced to new people.

To be downright honest with you, it’s wearing me out.

Randy Dewberry of Baxley, Ga., tells about the negotiations, phone calls, and, yes, chicanery, it took to secure the future of nine puppies orphaned when only about two weeks old.

Jean belongs to an online baking circle and has learned more than just how to make her own sourdough. We both believe that the Internet “used with caution” offers community in a world in which community is sometimes found wanting.

In a brightly lit washroom at Underground Atlanta, there is one lonely attendant, an old man, somewhat hunched over with age.

When I was ordained into the priesthood, I was required to make certain vows. I had to declare that “I do believe the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments to be the Word of God,” and I vowed that I would “solemnly engage to conform to the doctrine, discipline, and worship” of my denomination.

One day while we were lunching, Merri Grace and I ran into an acquaintance who, at the age of 36, had just gotten married.

A pack of young thugs, armed with a shotgun and a pistol, picked on the wrong victim recently in Atlanta.

Thomas Autry, 36, was walking home after completing his shift as a waiter. According to an article in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, “Autry had left his job at the Jocks & Jills restaurant in Midtown and was walking along Penn Avenue when a blue Cadillac pulled alongside and three men and a woman, one armed with a shotgun, and the woman jumped from the car.

Well, it finally happened. After seven years of what I thought was a blissful marriage, The Wife kicked me out.

Monday night, she threw me and The Boy out on the curb like yesterday’s trash. Not because of any of my faults. I have none. Like most husbands, I’m perfect. No, The Boy and I had to leave for the evening because SHE was coming: the Bunco Queen.

This is a true story. I swear on my favorite pair of Manolos (the hot pink stilettos) that it is.

Mama, despite a somewhat vigorous existence, had been feeling puny for a few months and, to be brutally honest, wasn’t looking her best. It’s probably a certainty that the suffering of her beauty, not the suffering of her body, was what got her, at long last, to go to Dr. Jeff Marshall, her beloved heart doctor.

The correct number for Tree Climbing USA is 770-487-6929.

For publishing the wrong number in the May 24 column, my apologies to Abram Winters – and to an unknown telephone subscriber who may be wondering why people are calling him or her about climbing trees.

English was not my best subject in high school. Neither was anything else, actually, unless you count Physical Education.

The first sign that summertime had arrived to Flamingo Street started with the last ringing of the school bell. We were finally released from the prison that the grownups called Mt. Olive Elementary school.

Have you noticed there are an awful lot of men who own cats now?

When did that start?

Did the feminist movement back-fire on us? I mean we all know the point of the movement was to take and not give. But it looks like men just got tired of us taking and taking, pushing our way onto their turf so, when we weren’t looking, they turned around on us and took something that belonged to exclusively to womanhood.

Got this little note from my credit card company recently, when they decided to change their contract rules: “We may amend this Agreement at any time. We may amend it by adding, deleting, or changing provisions of this Agreement.”

It was about 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning recently when I stopped at a local convenience store to purchase a bottle of water. I approached the counter to pay for the item when the clerk, a young black man, seeing my clerical collar, asked me if I was a minister. When I responded that I was, he asked several questions about our church. Most of the queries were routine but the last one stopped me cold.

Yes ‘tis summer time once again. It’s time for beaches, sunning, barbecuing, and my favorite – cutting grass.

When I was 11, Dad bought a rotary push mower for us four boys to cut the grass with. “Why didn’t you buy a gas power mower?” I asked. He replied with a smile on his face, “When you’re older you’ll understand and appreciate it. Now you and your brothers go cut the yard. It’s not but a little more than an acre and besides it’ll be good exercise.”

It was probably my calling to Dave that got the attention of a fisherman on the bank of Lake Horton. I was trying to keep my voice moderate, while avoiding the use of the word “snake,” lest I panic picnickers.

On the way home from a speaking engagement, my sister, Louise, called me on my cell phone.

“Whadda you doin’?” she asked as usual then quickly cut to the purpose of the call.

Several years ago I revisited Parris Island, South Carolina. I first arrived at that dreadful place on Friday the 13th of February, 1970, as a just-turned 19-year-old.

After talking with my dad last weekend, it seems I had several misconceptions about him while I was growing up.

We had a large family: four boys, one girl, two dogs, and a green parakeet that ate hushpuppies off Dad’s head. The first misconception was the reason we had a garden every year. I thought it was for additional food to feed the family. Come to find out, this was not the reason Dad spent so much time in the backyard.

He didn’t even notice the neat rows of new candles hanging from the racks as he crossed the porch and stepped into the kitchen.

When my beloved godfather left this vale of sorrow and tears for a better place, he slipped away quietly, softly and without warning.

That’s right; I’m delving into the world of politics. Since the Bozos we now have in office are doing such a stellar job, I figured it was about time someone who knows how to run things got into office. That person would be Mom, and by the end of this article, you will agree with me.

If we hadn’t taken the golf cart to Easter services, we would have missed the first song of the thrush. There are several densely wooded pockets on our route, perfect haven for songbirds, and we’ve listened to thrushes there every spring. But if we’d driven the car that glorious morning, we would not have heard those first-of-the-season flute tones.

Mother’s Day brings to mind the twisted path that took us to China to adopt our two girls from orphanages, both at 12 months old. Kristen, the youngest, is 4 this year, old enough now to buy a present for Mom with Dad’s help, old enough for our Chinese Moon Festival conversation.

Mama, never one to hold back her opinion, was commenting on my latest columns.

“You know, they’re just not as interesting when you don’t write about me,” she commented casually. “You haven’t written much about me lately.”

“War is nothing but a duel on a larger scale. Countless duels go to make up war, but a picture of it as a whole can be formed by imagining a pair of wrestlers. Each tries through physical force to compel the other to do his will; his immediate aim is to throw his opponent in order to make him incapable of further resistance.” – Carl von Clausewitz, “On War,” page 1.

Before the days of email, people used to “clip and file.” People would share clippings with me that would possibly be helpful in sermon preparation. I’m grateful that some still cut poems or stories out of newspapers and magazines and bring them to me. In my “Mother’s Day” file, I found this “clipping” authored by Rex R. Burns: