The snowball was the size of a grapefruit, or at least it felt that big when it slammed into the back of my head. With the force of a sledgehammer, it almost bowled me over. Snow then slipped down the inside of my shirt. The wetness brought with it the frigid hand of Old Man Winter.

I’ve learned many life lessons during my 51-plus years on this spinning blue orb. Some have been easy to learn, some have been very difficult, and there are still a few I’ve yet to master. Knowing the perfect gift for Valentine’s Day is at the top of my “yet to be mastered” list.

When Twin Brother Mark pulled the string tight and talked, I was blown away. With the can cupped to my ear, I heard everything he said. It didn’t matter the span was only 20 feet between us and I could’ve heard him perfectly without the use of our new communication device. For us kids at the time, a soup can and string was the cutting edge of technology.

The 6-year-old boy looked up with eyes full of admiration at the giant of a man and said, “When I grow up, I want to be just like you, Dad.”

The receding water tugged at the corners of the magnificent castle he had built. As each wave folded back onto itself, it took with it handfuls of sand. The sand was pulled under the water and reclaimed by the tide’s relentless force.

Most people fear something in this life. Some will crawl up the wall at the sight of a spider. Others will scurry out of the room away from an approaching cockroach. Still others are deathly afraid of clowns. Not a laughing matter, I assure you. Those sinister clowns are high up on my fear list also.

Despite gazillion-dollar bailouts, let’s face it: Our economy is still in a downturn. Experts state the bottom is near and should be reached this year. Unfortunately what they don’t want to tell you is that the bottom is actually a cliff. And with one look at our bank account and stock portfolio statements, The Wife and I are about to take the plunge. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Coupon Man has made a return to save the day.

Last weekend was an historic time around our house. No, I didn’t finally win an argument with The Wife. Not that we ever argue, mind you, but if we did, I still wouldn’t win. She was the high school debate team coach for three years, and they won the state championship. Why start an argument when you know you’re gonna lose?

Long ago was truly a simpler time. It was a time of innocence. In my childhood, kids could just be kids. Our senses weren’t bombarded by 24/7 news coverage of everything bad that happens in the world. We focused our attention on having fun. It’s a time that’s unfortunately forever passed.

No one knows where the people in the woods actually came from or how long they had lived behind the vacant, dilapidated house on the corner of Flamingo Street and Beacher Hills. They had been there as long as any of us could remember. Some said they would always be among us.

“Dad, what do you want for Christmas?” is the question kids across this country are asking. Forty-six years ago I asked my Dad that same question.

Well, it looks like you’ve made it another year — almost. The hurdle of the holidays, overstuffed with physically unhealthy portions of food and fiscally unhealthy credit card bills, still must be jumped. In this economy the bar of self-control has been set really high as we watch our waistlines expand almost as fast as cash disappears out of our wallets.

Well it’s happened again. The Wife has left me. For those who are regular readers of this column, the news may come as a surprise. Others may be wondering why it has taken so long for her to come to her senses.

The early morning sun streamed through the bedroom window blinds, warming my face. A slight breeze slipped past the cracked window and tickled my neck, trying to awaken me.

When I was small, my best friend suddenly stopped coming around to play. Mom said, “He’s moved on to a better place.”

Cool mists of the fields lazily drifted across the road, but parted quickly for the deer slayer. The trip was about to prove fruitful. A grand trophy was close as the sun slipped past the horizon. For a moment the light refused to relinquish its grip on the day. Then the reds and purples of twilight spilled across the land. Three white tails flicked while antlers cocked, sensing the danger. The deer slayer shuddered with excitement.

Friday morning was like any other at the fire department. I arrived at work about a quarter to eight and opened the door to the station ready for another day of saving lives and protecting the citizens of our great county.

Young or old, male or female, everyone without exception has gotten into trouble and tried to lay the blame at someone else’s feet. With four brothers and one sister, I could lay the blame at multiple feet. While growing up, it was good to have so many other siblings to blame. I was always in trouble for something.

Gas can kill! Trust me. I know. After Twin Brother Mark ate broccoli at dinner, by bedtime he was deadly.

When I was young, I thought that was the worst gas one could possible smell, but as a firefighter, I know that’s not the case. There’s one gas even more deadly than what was produced by Mom’s broccoli cheese casserole and Mark at bedtime. A gas you can’t even smell: Carbon monoxide.

Having passed the half century mark, it is safe to say that there are a few things I’ve picked up along the way. For example, when the dog barks at night, he ain’t just saying hello. He needs to be walked. That’s why he’s barking.

Life would be rather boring if not for our hobbies. Would the world have remembered Michelangelo if he hadn’t taken up painting?

Dad will be 83 at the end of this month. By anyone’s standards, that’s getting up there. Reaching such a lofty age not only poses certain problems for the senior citizen, but also for their children. Just what gift do you get someone who’s been around so long?

The aim of the wet projectile was perfect. Down the Street Bully Brad had taken almost everything into account. I say almost because his first spitball of the school year had missed its intended target by inches. Brad Macalister’s target was, of course, the back of my head.

Last weekend a great debate raged at our house. Was it over money? Although always a worthy topic for a lively debate, money wasn’t the one for last weekend.

Next month Best Friend Mitch will be going through the same shoulder operation that I underwent last December. He’ll be out of work for six months.

For almost eight years now I’ve written this newspaper column. That’s over 390 stories about boyhood friends, family, and life’s observations through the somewhat distorted eyes of yours truly. Never once have I had to say I’m sorry. Depending on whom you ask, an apology for some of the things I’ve done, and penned, is long overdue.

The knowledge kids gained while in school last year has slowly ebbed away. The three “R’s” of reading, writing, and arithmetic were replaced by the three “S’s” — swimming, swinging, and bikes.

This one is for all you teachers and administrators out there who can’t write this article, but wish that you could. Our beloved governor, Sonny Perdue, in all of his infinite wisdom has suddenly discovered that there’s a budget shortfall in our state. Like every household in Georgia, our coffers are now empty. It seems Georgia is projected to be over $900 million short, and something drastic must be done.

For parents across this county your house is peaceful until noon. The sometimes argumentative, always opinionated, eating machines commonly referred too as teenagers are still asleep. If you try to wake them, you can’t. Even the noise from vacuuming their room wouldn’t rouse them.

When I kissed Candi in Old Mrs. Crabtree’s third-grade class, she got really upset — old Mrs. Crabtree, not Candi. I think Candi liked it.