Hartford Gongaware went back to elementary school last fall. He got a fifth grade pen pal named Christopher, he read some new books, and he and Christopher traded letters online about the books they read.

Two Thursdays ago, with butterflies in my stomach, I drove to an office in Market Walk on Hodgson Memorial Drive. I sat down at a table and completed one of those "fill in the bubble" forms, as if I were taking a test. Less than an hour later, I was on my way home, upbeat and relieved. It was an "A+" afternoon, with "A+" standing for my blood type, "A-positive."

I rarely think about Fort Pulaski at all, and when I do, my catalog of information reads something like this: a destination on the way to Tybee, and a good place to take an out of town guest.

With Historic Grayson Stadium literally in my backyard (I can see their fireworks from my back steps) a Savannah Sand Gnats baseball game last Saturday night promised a few hours of kicked-back visiting, some snacks, a little party music, and an iced diet soda or two.

One hot Thursday morning in June, Orlando Montoya, myself and eight other landlubbers gathered at Rodney Hall Boat Ramp at Skidaway Narrows (sometimes called Butterbean Beach) for a boat trip to Vanishing Georgia.

Three days after the first TEDxCreativeCoast gathering of "ideas worth sharing" I still have the remnants of a creativity hangover. Last Friday, from 9:15 a.m. until nearly 6:00 p.m., over 100 of us, mostly Savannahians, gathered at Meddin Studios for 18 live presentations and two video talks, ostensibly focused on the theme of "Designing Creativity."

Last May at the annual Covered Dish Supper sponsored by Chatham–Savannah Citizen Advocacy, I shared dinner with some new acquaintances – “Frederick,” a friendly–yet–reserved Brooks Brothers–dressed African American professional in his late 20s; and “William," a silent, grade–school aged African American boy.

Fifteen years after Michael Brown took on the job of Savannah's City Manager, it's hard to imagine the version of our city that greeted him on his arrival.

This Thursday night, painter Marcus Kenney would like six–and–two–thirds minutes of your attention. Not one second more. Not a second less.

I usually run into my next door neighbor Phyllis as she passes my house with her middle school granddaughters, on their way to mid–week church services.

Take one historic downtown storefront, boarded and deteriorating for ten years. Propose an historically accurate restoration of the building’s exterior.

When “Secrets of the Old Masters” opens Thursday at Trends and Traditions Gallery, some of the paintings will look familiar to local art patrons.

It's been 42 years since Steve Dunham and Dick Hanna met in a bar in New Orleans. They've been a couple ever since.

 "You are LATE," Quincy Quarterman Sr. said to me, while we watched last Monday's Martin Luther King Jr. Observance Day parade.

This past Saturday I woke up with strong resolve to take down the stale–feeling holiday decorations, clear the Christmas cards off the mantel, and hit the mall to exchange the wrong–size gifts. But amid holiday festivities, the last weeks of December and early January brought with them an onslaught of familiar names in the obituaries–friends, former work associates, acquaintances, and friends–of–friends. Jeff LaRoe, Ricky McAllaster, James Toles, Karen Nelson, Chris Fogarty, Peter Verity, Tom Dillon, ...