On an empty neighborhood street near my home a father teaches his son to ride a bike. The boy sits on a tiny two-wheeled machine wearing a helmet roughly the size of a prize-winning watermelon. The father balances the bike and offers reassuring advice.

“Keep your head up, and just keep pedaling, and…”

Scattered on the driveway are disassembled training wheels which have been removed from the kid’s bike. The nuts and bolts lie on the pavement like memories of a bygone infanthood.

This boy is about to be one of the big kids today.

The child sits on his saddle wearing the face of Neil Armstrong before blastoff. It is the same facial expression Chuck Yeager had before breaking the sound barrier. The same look I once wore when I realized my income taxes were considerably late.

“I’m scared, Dad,” says the kid.

“You’re gonna be fine.”

“What if I fall?”

“I’m here.”

“What if I can’t do it?”

“You can.”

Meantime, I’m watching from a distance. They don’t see me eavesdropping.

Right now I am having a few

memories return to me. Not memories of bicycles, but of times I once sat in the proverbial saddle and asked myself similar questions.

Can I do it? Can I withstand failure? How about rejection? What about embarrassment? Or pain? Will I make a fool of myself?

There was the time I worked up the bravery to ask Dorothy Lynn to couple skate at the fifth-grade roller-rink party. I was nauseous about it. I felt as though I would vomit all over my shoes.

Dorothy was the most popular girl in fifth grade and I was a chubby redhead whose T-shirts always seemed too snug. Boys like me did not ask Dorothy Lynn to couple skate. Boys like me held the regional record for the most rice puddings consumed during a single cafeteria period.

But I asked Dorothy anyway. I ignored…

A newsroom. I was in my mid-20s. Unruly red hair. Big nose. A necktie that was suffocating me. Don’t ask me how, but I had a job interview. I was pure nerves.

I had no business being there. But then, I have a well-documented history of being in places I shouldn’t be.

“No journalism degree?” the editor said, squinting at my resume which read like a Hardee’s breakfast menu.

“No ma’am.”

“So, what’s your degree in?”

I explained that, at the time, I was in my ninth year of community college. And I was showing true potential as a promising liberal arts major.

“Aren’t you a little old to be applying?” she said. “What exactly is it you want, here?”

Her question paralyzed me. I didn’t know how to answer. She waited. I made no human-like sounds. She asked me to leave.

Goodnight, John Boy. Thanks for playing.

I loosened my necktie. I ordered three tacos from a Mexican dive downtown. The tacos came doused in a red sauce that would forever burn the protective lining from my lower gastrointestinal tract.

I sat

on a curb. What DID I want?

I saw a group of young men, walking the street, wearing suits and neckties. They did not look like me. They were cleancut, perfect teeth.

They probably had vocabularies which did not contain words like, “y'all,” and “twelve-pack.”

It was at this moment that I was interrupted.

Across the street, I saw a young woman struggling to lift a wheelchair from her trunk. I approached her and offered to help. She asked if I’d lift her sister from the vehicle and place her into the chair. I did. I sort of had to bear-hug her sister to lift her out of the passenger seat.

And this did something to me. I discovered what I wanted.

And I’ll share it with you, if I may:

First: I want my friends to…

His name is Moose. I don’t know much about him. We were first introduced yesterday evening when he pressed his cold nose against my skin, which is the age-old gesture of friendship between dogs and humans.

Moose is roughly two-foot tall with a short tail, black muzzle, wide-set eyes, brindle coat, and linen-white paws. He’s a boxer, and he has a temperament so calm he makes the Pope look like a troublemaker.

Moose belongs to our friends, Steve and Elvira. My wife and I were at our friends’ house celebrating New Year’s last night. All evening I was transfixed by Moose because, judging by the look on his face, he didn’t understand what we were celebrating. I guess Moose has never heard of New Year’s Day.

“It’s New Year’s, Moose,” I explained. “Are you gonna wish me happy New Year?”

Moose blinked once. Then he licked himself and left the room.

Because, hey, he’s not here to participate in our weird human holidays. No, Moose is merely an observer within frantic People World.

Although from

the corner of my eye I could see the old boy paying attention to our peopleish conversations with genuine interest. He looked like a spectator at a tennis match. His head would move left, then right. Left. Right. Left. Then he’d pause to do more intimate grooming.

We humans were having some animated discussions too. We were talking about things like pandemics, and problems the virus has created. And we talked about the New Year, and how 2021 is going to be a better year.

The whole time, Moose just watched us. Because for dogs, you see, there is no such thing as pandemics or New Year’s Day. In fact, to a dog there is no yesterday, no next week, and no 2021. There is simply right now.

A dog’s world involves no clocks or calendars. It’s nothing but food, naps, and visits to the…

I don't like endings. I hate goodbyes. I dislike the last day of vacation, the morning after Christmas, the final slice of pizza. I am sad when I finish a carton of rocky road, the last biscuit makes me weep, I grieve when baseball season ends. Endings are the pits.

Then again...

The end is also the best part of a good book, or a timeless song, or a movie. Take “Casablanca.” The final scene of this classic film shows the hero, nightclub owner Rick Blaine, delivering his gut-punching poetic lines to the lovely Ilsa.

The last dramatic minutes between him and Ilsa make the whole movie worth it. The entire film has been tediously mounting, building, climbing, and leading to Rick’s tearful farewell in which he tells Ilsa:

“...Ilsa, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that. Now, now... Here's looking at you kid.”

Here’s looking at you kid.

Boy. What a finish.

So endings are vital. Just think about it. The ending of a ballgame is when Sid Bream’s teammates smother him on the infield after he slides into home plate. Where overjoyed ball players dogpile atop each other until they break each other’s ribs.

The ending is the crescendo of a Brahms symphony, swelling to unsurmountable heights. The ultimate few bits of a masterwork which represent the fruition of a composer’s entire career boiled down to 120 seconds. The crashes of cymbals, the sustained whole notes from a string section. La fin. Das ende. Finis. конец. 終わり. The end.

Which is why I want to share something with you that might gross you out, but it’s kind of important. So hang in there.

I speak of a recent study that was done wherein volunteers were taken off the street to…

The last time I went to Kentucky, I got lost. Ten minutes after I crossed the state line my GPS quit working and I found myself on a two-lane highway, adrift within an ocean of wild green hills that never ended.

The first thought I had was: “I think I’ve found heaven.”

I’ve read claims about certain U.S. states that boast the most greenery. Well, I think Kentucky is up there with the champs. We’re talking about a place that’s roughly 12 million acres of woodlands, which comes out to nearly 49 percent of the state.

Kentucky is also home to one of the biggest elk herds east of the Rockies; cradle to the Boy Scouts of America; the birthplace of Mother’s Day; also Abraham Lincoln; and the home of perhaps the greatest philosopher, thinker, and role model of our time, Jim Varney.

Which is why I was pleased to get a letter recently from Eastern Kentucky, sent to me from a man we’ll call Frank.

Frank has been working construction for

43 years. And last week, after a long day at work, he was riding home, feeling depressed because he had this nagging feeling he was about to be laid off before the New Year.

The company Frank works for has fallen on hard times since the pandemic hit; there have been lots of layoffs. Frank believed he was next to go because, in his own words, “I’m too old.”

Frank is in his 60s. His younger coworkers work for cheap, and are considerably more spry. You fall off a ladder at 23, you get up and keep working. You fall off a ladder at 60-something, your boss calls the local funeral home.

So Frank’s truck was rolling through a heavenly rural highway. It was already dark outside, the moon was out, and he saw something in the road.

The small object looked like an upside-down bowl, inching forward.…

It’s my birthday and I’m writing this before sunrise. I don’t know why. I guess, like all aging people, I have changed over the years. I don’t sleep like I used to. Once upon a time I could fall asleep during a pep rally, but now I wake up hours before my neighbor’s deranged rooster, Virgil.

Virgil is a piece of work. He crows at odd hours. And once he starts crowing, he goes all day, no matter how many blunt objects are hurled at him. Virgil is one of those chickens who, when he looks at you with his two crazy eyes, you know he’s only got one oar in the water.

The first thing I do this morning is start the coffee on the stove. Then I listen for Virgil at the back door, but he isn’t up yet.

Thank God for birthday blessings.

To kick off my big day, I play my guitar, quietly, so I won’t wake my wife. The Folgers perks on the stove while I play “After You’ve Gone.” I’ve

been picking a guitar since I was 9 years old, and in all that time I think I’ve actually managed to get worse.

The percolator starts bubbling. I put the guitar down and turn the coffee off.

This porcelain Corningware percolator was a wedding gift from my mother. I remember the day I got it. No sooner had I announced to Mama that I was getting married than she wrapped up her 1950s coffeepot in paper grocery bags and gifted it to me.

“You’ll need coffee if you’re gonna be married,” she said. And I nearly started crying because in that brief moment, before I left her home forever, life seemed so existentially real to me. I can’t explain it.

I pour a steaming cup then walk outside before sunrise.

On my porch I discover that it is colder than brass undergarments out here.…

DEAR SEAN:

I don’t think my school is going to have prom for 2021, everyone is guessing this is the case. We don’t know yet, but it’s probably not happening. It just sucks that we might not get to do this because we have nothing to look forward to.

Thanks,
A-SAD-JUNIOR

DEAR SAD:

First of all, I am sorry. I know this year has been a major let down. So I am not going to offer you some overused parental slogan like: “You oughta count your blessings, young lady.”

When I was a kid I heard versions of this phrase all the time from my mama. And I swore these words would never, EVER exit my lips. Because this is old-person talk, and I’m no fuddy-duddy.

Although, before I write another word, you should know something. Life is unfair and nothing you can do will change this. Not just a little unfair, either. A lot unfair.

Nowhere is this more clearly illustrated than in karaoke clubs. Have you ever been to one?

They are totally criminal. Singers with the pitch sensitivity of tugboat airhorns try to sing “I Will Always Love You” while spilling their Harvey Wallbangers all over the audience. And these people get standing ovations.

Meanwhile, the guy who sings from memory all eight verses of Allan Sherman’s masterpiece, “Hello Mudda, Hello Fadduh,” gets booed off the stage. I ask you, is this fair?

Something else unfair? The price of automotive tires. I bought new truck tires a few days ago and they cost as much as a three-bedroom rambler. I remember buying secondhand tires when I was a younger man for $19 apiece from “Al’s Used Tire Barn.” Al even threw in a complimentary emergency flare gun.

You know what else really sucks? Body pain. I had spinal surgery when I was in my mid-20s; nobody ever tells you how quickly chronic pain can ruin your…

A nameless town. A tiny place you’ve never heard of. One without a stoplight. It’s a place so small that when you dial a wrong number they supply you with the correct one. The 2020 Christmas decorations on mainstreet have started to come down today.

Once upon a time, the beautification committee would have kept decorations up until New Year’s, but it’s been a weird year. The chairwoman decided it was time to take decorations down. The New Year needs a fresh start, she said. People are ready to forget the trappings of 2020 and remember that life goes on.

So the garland on local businesses was first to go. Then the pinery on lampposts. The snowflake decals in shop windows came down too.

Meanwhile, across town, there is an old man sitting in his yard in a wheelchair. He wears a surgical mask and watches grandkids play with a Nerf football. He’s hardly moving after his recent stroke, which nearly killed him weeks before Christmas. But they tell me this man

is immeasurably determined, and even cheerful.

His granddaughter sits beside him, holding his limp hand. He has been through a lot, but there is no sadness in his mumbled responses, only reassurance to those he loves. His quivering lips seem to say, “Please don’t cry for me, life goes on, and so will I.”

Life does indeed go on. Just like it’s doing a few houses over, where a young man who we’ll call Billy is back home. Billy is visiting his mom for the holidays.

Billy has been sober for two years now. Although most remember him from his former days spent on a local barstool, playing the fool. But that’s in the past now. He’s dry, and constantly recovering. This makes his mama proud.

His mother, the former Sunday school teacher. The woman who taught the town’s children to memorize the Ten Commandments and recite the…

I’m going to say this now: I’m proud of you. That’s it. You can stop reading here if you want. I know you’re busy. So take the kids to karate class, scrub your bathroom mirror, schedule a dentist appointment, wash your dog, live your life amidst a worldwide pandemic.

Buy more hand sanitizer. Get some organic peach-smelling disinfectant. Scrub your surfaces, doorknobs, children, pets, and spouse head-to-toe with isopropyl rubbing alcohol. But just remember that I’m proud of you.

The thing is, I don’t think we tell each other how special we are. I don’t think people get enough attaboys, well-dones, or five-dollar beer pitchers.

So I’m proud of you. For not giving up. For eating breakfast. I’m proud of you for remembering to breathe and keep going. Really.

I’m also proud of Billy. He emailed me. He’s forty-nine. He’s been working in construction all his life, and he couldn’t read until a few years ago.

His friend gave him reading lessons every morning on the ride to work. And on weekends. They practiced on lunch breaks.

Billy started with elementary school books. Recently he

read the “Complete Collection of Sherlock Holmes Stories.”

He reads aloud sometimes, during lunch break to the fellas. He said he’s been practicing reading the same stories so many times, he’s almost memorized them.

I’m proud of Leona, who had the courage to check into addiction rehab recently. She’s a young woman, and she needs someone to be proud of her. So I guess I’ll have to do.

I’m proud of her aunt, too—who is helping to raise Leona’s daughter.

And Michael, who just asked Jessica to marry him—on Christmas morning. He squatted down onto one knee in front of seventeen family members, one woman, and her three children.

He gave Jessica and each of her children a ring.

He said, “Will you be my everything, forever and always?”

Jessica’s oldest (Brooke, age eleven) got…

It happened on Christmas Eve, last night. It took place in an ordinary Georgia living room. It was late. Elevenish. The Christmas tree was glowing. A space heater was humming.

Five-year-old Samantha was fast asleep on the sofa waiting for Santa Claus to arrive.

They call her “Sam.” The girl has tight brunette curls and eyes like a Kewpie doll. The irony here is that Sam announced back in October that she quit believing in Santa. And to be honest, who could blame her? This year has been ridiculously hard on children.

When the pandemic hit, her dad lost his job. He took a new job driving eighteen wheelers, and it’s been hard on Samantha’s family. Her father has been all over the U.S. this year, far from home. In fact, he almost didn’t make it home for Christmas. This is what earning a steady paycheck looks like sometimes.

“Santa isn’t real,” Sam told her dad over and again.

“Yes he is,” said Dad.

“How do you know he’s real? Have you ever seen him?”

“Well, no, but

I’ve never seen a billion dollars, either.”

No matter how her dad tried to convince her, skepticism is a condition that cannot be undone without granite proof. Sam’s dad finally suggested how about Sam stay up late on Christmas Eve to see for herself.

Well, it sounded like a good idea. The only problem was, Sam is a girl with an IQ in the quintuple digits. She was not to be convinced easily.

Even so. Here she was, lying on this sofa, this miniature Doubting Thomas, holding onto a final thread of childhood.

The first noise to waken the girl was a deep rumbling sound. Like a diesel earthquake. This was followed by her dog, growling at the backdoor. The dog’s tail and ears were high.

“Could this be it?” she thought. “Could this be him? No way. Not possible.”

Sam arose.…