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.

Last week The Boy closed on his first house. He’s all moved in and enjoying home ownership somewhere amongst all the boxes. As he surfaces for air, reality has finally set in. A few must-have things didn’t come with his house. So he does what anyone in his situation would do. He made a phone call. “Dad, we have a problem. What are we going to do about a washer and dryer?”

This week marks the 33rd anniversary of the first and last raid of the Magnificent Seven. The midnight foray on Candi’s house is forever documented on the front pages of old yellowed newspapers tucked safely away in forgotten scrapbooks.

The fourth weekend in June is upon us, and it’s long overdue. Because I’ve been recovering from shoulder surgery, I haven’t been able to climb up on my soapbox this entire year. Five months and 30 trips to physical therapy later, I’ve been rebuilt. Better than ever. Now, perched atop my soapbox once again, my arms are flailing and my back is arched.

It has been seven days since The Wife left me. I truly didn’t think I would survive even this long. The simplest tasks have become incredibly difficult.

The car pulled out of the driveway and headed for downtown with an unsuspecting rider: one green grasshopper asleep on the windshield — if grasshoppers actually sleep. I don’t really know if they do or don’t. I’m not a grasshopper.

Even at 82 when most fathers believe their job is done, my dad is still teaching me. He doesn’t mind my daily phone calls. He listens attentively to all that is going on in my life and hands out advice in his own unique way. In the past I’ve seen it as controlling and prying, but now I know that isn’t what it is. I see it now as love.

Last winter The Wife took me on a walking tour of her alma mater, the University of Virginia. After an hour tour of the grounds, we wondered to the center of the university.

Watch what you say. It can and will be used against you in the Court of Mom.

There is an old saying: “Think before you speak.” And like many old sayings, it provides sage advice. But over the years I’ve learned something extremely important. If you have to think about what you’re about to say, it’s probably in your best interest not to say it.

Okay, I’ll admit it. Other than clicking the mouse when it comes to computers, I’m not only clueless, I’m geekless.

Okay, I’ll admit it. Of the two people in our 10-year marriage, The Wife is the smarter.

What may seem like an astounding realization didn’t just happen overnight. I’ve known for years. I was just too much of a Neanderthal to put it into print.

There are times in a person’s life that are truly defining points, times that will be remembered forever: a first kiss, marriage, and the birth of a child.

The scourge has once again descended upon us all, coating everything with a fine, gritty layer of yellow. My black Lab has magically turned into a yellow Lab. When the wind blows, a cloud of yellow almost blots out the sun. And the simple act of breathing is not so simple anymore.