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.

It started just like the real life TV shows, in which a child disappears and frantic family members look everywhere for him. Weeping relatives beg for his return and deputies hitch up belts heavy with walkie-talkies.

This column may be troubling, but I promised you I’d warn you.

Be warned.

Never let it be said that Joel Cowan needed two little old women to defend him.

No, typically, the Godfather (not “father”) can defend himself from “misstatements” like those in a column by former Peachtree City Mayor Steve Brown in The Citizen, May 13.

(This column initially ran on 12-5-79 in This Week in Peachtree City)

Someone asked me recently about the Banks family that settled on Greer’s Mountain long before Peachtree City was anybody’s pipe dream. I realized again how many people have moved here in the decades since most of us staked our own claim to this beautiful spot of the Earth.

This brief travelogue traces one of our earliest trips to Europe. Didn’t want you to think we’re footloose again, although I’m hoping we’ll get there this year. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen our daughter Mary, an opera company pianist, beginning in Stuttgart, Germany in 1984 and working for several other houses in the years since. She’s alighting later this summer for a new job in Duesseldorf.

The stars fell into alignment last week and I was able to come along to the lake with Dave for the first time since last spring. Can’t believe it has been so long.

The babies were coming, and as the arrival of our daughter and grandsons drew nearer, I was fidgety about having everything just so.

Stumbled over an article on one of my favorite subjects last week, the more amazing because of the case in point in our family.

Mary called last evening. She calls often enough that, if I’m busy, I sometimes hand her off to Dave while I continue what I’m doing.

As recently as a week ago, an acquaintance came up to me, looking as though she was about to divulge a state secret.

Birdwatchers respond graciously to stories like the one I wrote two weeks about our Carolina wrens. The short of it: A pair of wrens made a practice nest in the center of a one-time-Christmas wreath still next to our front door.

A familiar voice spoke into my ear from the pew behind us, as the congregation was settling down to worship.

“Can you believe it’s been 20 years?” Paul Yellina said, and I knew exactly what he was talking about.

There’s a reason we still have our Christmas wreath on the wall beside the door – nearly in April.

Girl Scouts delivering cookies have said nothing. Friends arriving for dinner, or the carpet cleaning fellow – they’ve either not noticed or figured they didn’t really want to know why there’s a Christmas wreath hanging there, right at eyelevel. It has been there since late in Advent. And there is a reason it’s still there.

Back to civilian life…

After 14 months, the 25 nurses of the 803rd were rotated back to the States and Lt. Baer’s next assignment was a war bond drive in the form of an air show throughout the western states.

Feeling somewhat uneasy about their carefree lives in war time, the flight attendants listened to a legendary military man:

NOTE: This was the first part of a Fayette Woman Magazine cover story that appeared in September 2003. Miss Essie died Feb.12, 2009, at 90.