It has been heartening to me the number of grandmas whose grandbabies have been diagnosed with autism. Whether at church or Curves or the Kroger, grandparents of autistic children come up to me with huge smiles and saying, “We have an autistic grandchild too and you’d never know it.”

This is the winter our grandkids will mean when they tell their grandchildren, “You call this snow? Ha! Once we had snow so deep I could stand up in it and disappear. This is nothing! Predicting another 18 inches tonight? Pshaw! We had three feet in Virginia in the Winter of 2010, without drifting. In just one day. With another two feet predicted for the next day.”

When I look back on the 10 or so years that I worked at Peachtree Medical Center, I see the history of medical services in my new hometown. Occasionally another member joined the staff, but for at least its first decade, Dr. Henry Drake’s staff consisted of Bonnie, Juanita, Mary Ann and me.

Of the trickle of sightseers who had heard or read about Peachtree City and Fayette County, most landed here singing essentially the same chorus: There’s nothing here. Lovely trees and a sparkling lake, yes, but no library, no middle and high schools, no police department except for a fellow who cruised around town like a night watchman. Virtually no bad guys who made it all the way to Peachtree City either.

Readers’ response to how our daughter Jean’s working with her mildly autistic son Samuel has been gratifying indeed, and makes me believe that there are lots of other first-time mothers and grandmas holding each others’ – and their children’s – hands as they navigate the treacherous waters of the childhood years together.

Sometimes it matters to hold onto material – notes, books, old addresses, friends – because odds are they’ll be useful some day.

Fond as I am of the little people who are truly our closest neighbors – the occasional field mouse or wood rat, even the chipmunks, squirrels, and birds – sometimes they try my patience.

Another holiday come and gone. Another year redolent with feasting, bread baking, and candy hardening. In the 1940s my Mom was at the center of holiday hubbub, coming out of it occasionally to fuss that she could use a little help.

You may remember my account, several years ago, of a friend we’ll call Jack, who broke himself into many pieces trying to blow leaves off his roof. His several surgeries and arduous rehabilitation resulted in a truly remarkable recovery.

Last week, my grouchy toy bear Griz began telling me how he flew with his jackdaw friend Bergdohle to witness the arrival of angels in Bethlehem...

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and it takes a few moments to figure out why. Abbie stays in now that it's cold, and I've almost learned to sleep through her periodic inspection of the dark house, her stumbling on the steps and her jingling tags.

When we drove to Leesburg for Thanksgiving with daughter Jean and her family, the weather was nice and the roads mostly dry. In these latitudes daylight is brief. It behooves the traveler to pick his weather and his day.

When Jean was at Georgia Southern 25 years ago – a quarter century! – we made a point of getting together early in May to celebrate Mother’s Day and her birthday.

Home schooling has its merits, but a lack of intrusions is not one of them. Big grown-up Isaac is going to a Christian school in Loudon County, Va., and Jean sorely misses his help with the little boys. He’s playing football and seems very happy with the way his life is going.

The cruise ship Noordam we boarded last summer cost a small fortune, but that’s why I write. Dave takes responsibility for keeping the house intact, paying for prescriptions and groceries, and for vehicular maintenance. My meager wages go into an account labeled “Fun.”

Going through some old files recently, I opened one slugged “ants” and dated exactly one year before today. Talk about your déjà vu….

His apparent inability to control himself and to communicate clearly has earned grandson Samuel, 6, the title of “high functioning autism” or “Spectrum Kid.” He’s so incredibly smart, a happy little boy, but he is going to have to learn how to cope with life on its own terms. Not to mention the determination of his mother, our daughter Jean. Join their journey:

Seems to me the world is made up of the “cans” and the “can’ts,” and I am a “can’t.” Maybe more of a “won’t.”

Our Samuel. Autistic?

Or just smart, always on the move, a spark of sunshine?

In his parents’ eyes, maybe a bit slow in speech and in social development.

Mary accompanied us by train to Sarrebourg, France, the closest town before we set out by taxi to Niderviller where we were renting a small barge for a two-week self-driven canal cruise.

Hubris and diesel fuel don’t mix.

No surprise here. Some of our readers share our fondness for rivers, canals, locks and barges, and for them I write of life on the water. It’s not for everyone.

Well, wouldn’t you know, we went off to see some new (to us) corners of the world, and came home in love again.

With what city or garden or sculpture, you may ask? The Parthenon? St. Peter’s Basilica? The winding rivers and canals of France?

Having been out of pocket, as they say, for 60 days, I may be a bit dated as to the newspaper changes. I know that we will walk into the house and find piles of dead bugs, so we’ll start our homecoming by cleaning up.

A faded cotton sweatshirt inspired last week’s conversation - or lack of - about four great cities and their symbols. Certainly I don’t want to suggest that London and Paris are the world’s greatest municipalities or that I have the credentials to judge them. After all, my shirt is only a size 12.

There are so many interesting places to visit in the world, and life is so short, one wonders how to choose. There are those who believe travel should begin and end in their native land, depriving themselves and families of the wonders of the rest of the world.

An otherwise ordinary bit of research recently took me on a circuitous route through Web pages, a shelf full of reference books, and appeals to trusted advisers, always just an e-mail away.

When we saw the young girl pushing her bike up the hill most locals call “Little 6 Points,” I had a curious tightening in my throat.

What is it about holidays and festivities that turn our minds to memories of the past? We watched the July 4th parade from the embankment of Peachtree Parkway South and, of course, “saw” in memory our little girls caught up in the squealing, cart-wheeling, candy-catching melee of an all-day celebration.

Visit December of 1998 with me, trying to get Dave gussied up for his role as father of the bride on new Year’s Day. And with Christmas as another excuse, I bought him a couple of neckties to go with his new gray suit.

It says something – something good – for our town’s reputation that wildlife lives here alongside people, and thrives. Bird lovers keep their feathered friends fed and watered, and the word is out: We have peacocks strolling through our office complexes.