Morgan arrived at the little lake cabin around lunchtime. Her sorority sister Grace was driving the car. The car wheeled into the gravel driveway. When Morgan crawled out of the passenger seat, we all rushed her and embraced.

Everyone was laughing and carrying on, hugging necks, and back-slapping. Dogs were turning circles and barking with glee. And during all this social excitement, someone may or may not have accidentally peed in the kitchen.

Now, I won’t say WHO in my family circle urinated directly on the kitchen floor. But I will say that I am almost certain—at least in this particular instance—that it wasn’t me.

Next, Grace and I carried Morgan’s bags inside, while my wife gave Morgan the dime tour of the antiquated lake abode.

Jamie showed Morgan where the wooden floorboards warp and where, precisely, she should watch her step. She showed her the vintage bathroom, with a toilet that predates the Truman era and a rust-covered bathtub with flaking paint, and a tiny lizard who lives in the overflow drain whom we have

named Albert. We showed Morgan exactly which hazardous ungrounded electrical sockets to avoid, and made certain everyone understood the finer points of electrical injuries and basic CPR.

Then, while everyone got settled in, my wife cleaned up the pee in the kitchen.

“I’d like to know WHO peed in my kitchen,” she said in an ominous voice, glaring at me and our three dogs.

“I would like to know as well,” I said.

But my wife was now glaring solely at me.

“What are you looking at me for?” I asked.

Glare.

So I went onto the porch and hung out with Grace and Morgan. The porch overlooks Lake Martin and is the perfect place to spend a serene…

On our first date, we went to a bookstore-slash-coffee-shop. I asked the young lovely if she wanted something to drink. She replied that she would like some water, please. 

So, I found the coffee station, which featured a small pitcher of free tap water. I poured a Dixie cup full. I gave the water to her. 

My date handled the tiny cup like I’d just presented her a container of warm sputum. 

“What’s this?” Jamie said. 

“Water.”

“Didn’t they have any bottles of water?” 

“I think they sell bottles, yes.”

She glanced at the Barbie-sized cup in her hands. “Are plastic bottles against your religion?”

Shrug. “They’re expensive.”

“So it’s a moral issue?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say then?”

I smiled. “Would you like a bottle of water?”

“No,” she said.

“Let me get you a bottle of water.”

“No, thank you. Not if they’re ‘expensive.’ Heaven for-BID.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“No. Don’t bother. I don’t want a bottle of water. I couldn’t have you spending a whole DOLLAR on your date. That would

be a bridge too far.”

Jamie tossed back the water like it was commercial-grade tequila. She slammed the empty cup on the table. “I’ll take another, Mister Rockefeller.”

And I knew I would marry her. 

In my defense, this happened nearly a quarter century ago. Bottled water was still a relatively new thing to the American public. It was considered bougie, at the time. This was an era when bottled water was typically reserved for persons with a credit score of 780 or higher. 

Moreover, when you came from the other side of…

The complainers speak in all caps sometimes. 

“AMERICA IS FALLING APART,” they often say. “THINGS ARE WORSE NOW THAN EVER BEFORE.” 

But just because something was typed in capital letters doesn’t make it true. 

Actually, things are not worse than ever before. Less than 100 years ago, in 1933, nearly 30 percent of Americans were unemployed. Over 2 million children abandoned schoolhouses for factory jobs. About 150,000 families were starving, eating weeds and roadside scraps to combat malnutrition. 

Whereas today, the unemployment rate is 4 percent. Meanwhile, we’re more educated than ever—federal law mandates free K-12 education for all youth. Also, over 86 percent of households are food secure. 

“WHATEVER!” the angry people type while compressing the Shift key. “THIS IS STILL THE WORST PERIOD IN HISTORY.” 

Is it? Let’s talk Earth history for a moment. Millions of years ago temperatures were approaching 150 degrees, which is almost as hot as a Porta-John at a bluegrass festival. Earth creatures retreated to polar regions, en masse. They starved, of course. 

Mass extinction was the norm. Acid rain burned plants, killed trees, and destroyed animal eyesight. A super-volcano spewed enough

lava to cover North America in a layer of lava half a mile deep. Meantime, here comes an asteroid. Whereas today, you have Starbucks. 

“OKAY, MAYBE THE WORLD ISN’T LITERALLY FALLING APART. BUT ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE IS DESTROYING OUR WAY OF LIFE.” 

This is exactly what they said about machines during the Industrial Revolution, but we survived.

“WHAT’RE YOU TALKING ABOUT? MACHINES HAVE RUINED US! THEY MAKE LIFE SOOO COMPLICATED.” 

Complicated? 

“YES!”

But machines make your life easier. 

“NUH-UH!”

Yes-huh.

“NUH-UH!”

Okay. 

Do me a favor. Go to your pantry. Select an…

Jim was stuck. In the middle of the rural two-lane highway. Right there on the pavement. Not far from the solid yellow line. Tucked tightly in his shell. Scared to death. 

Vehicles sped past little Jim, on both sides, shooting by with the deafening roars of F-16s. 

All he could see were their tires from this angle. Big black wheels, flying past so quickly they looked like grayish blurs. Thick synthetic rubber treads, gripping the highway floor, making loud rubberized noises on the pavement, only inches from his tiny head. 

Jim knew what these machines were, of course. Everyone knows. And, more importantly, he knew what they could do to a small creature like himself. He’d seen the aftermath before. 

Squirrels. Possums. Raccoons. Even dogs. Fast and agile creatures, each one of them. But they were no match for the machines with tires. The unfortunate animals were struck. Their limp bodies often lay on the highway shoulder. Unattended. Forgotten. Picked clean by the turkey buzzards. 

“What shall I do?” Jim was

thinking to himself. “If these speedy machines can kill quick-moving creatures like dogs and cats and chipmunks, they can surely kill slow things like me.”

He had only been crossing the highway on his way to the pond. The pond where he was born. This was what his species did, each year. They returned to the old homeplace. 

Year after year, all of Jim’s kind came from distant parts of the forest, following their internal compasses. They reunited at the old pond where they had hatched. They came here to nest. To mate. To lay eggs. They’d been doing this for hundreds, if not thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of years. Ever since the earth cooled. 

Human scientists would call this behavior “site fidelity.” Scientists would marvel at this…

We left New York, bound for Pennsylvania. We crossed the border and entered the Horse-and-Buggy State. All of a sudden the scenery changed. We saw farmhouses, porch swings, clotheslines, and large, steaming piles of organic matter on highway shoulders that definitely weren’t left by SUVs. 

We sped through Amish country on our way to meet our friend Kris at a restaurant called “Funck’s.” My wife, Jamie, was convinced the name of this restaurant was an unfortunate typo. 

“That can NOT be the real name of the restaurant,” said Jamie. 

“Why not?” I said. 

“Because it almost sounds like a cuss word.”

“That’s not very nice. It’s someone’s name.”

“It’s NOT a real name.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Have YOU ever met a Funck?” 

“No, but I’ve met plenty of people who acted like one.”

Then, I explained to my wife that this is Pennsylvania. In Pennsylvania, lots of people marry Funcks. Funck is a completely ordinary thing. Funck is a natural and normal part of life. 

Then, I

started thinking of all the imaginary Funck family reunions in the Keystone State, with everyone getting together for the annual Funck barbecue, with lots of happy Funck families running around. I imagined tiny brother and sister Funcks, a Father Funck and a Mother… 

Anyway, we met our friend Kris at the restaurant where the hostess assured me that Funck is a real name and you are free to use this word in social settings without offending anyone. (“Quit acting like a Funck…”) They even use this name in religious ceremonies and nobody thinks twice. (“Do you, Liz Martin, take this man, Chip Funck, to be your lawfully wedded Funck…?”)

“I actually know a woman named Funck,” one customer in line offered.…

We arrived in New York City and tried our best to avoid the chaotic crowds of pedestrians downtown. But this proved to be difficult inasmuch as our cab driver was driving on the sidewalks. We tried to ask him to slow down, but he was too busy on a video call.

Ah, New York. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate this place, but I appreciate it in much the same way I appreciate, say, dental implants. This is a stressful city. Namely, because everyone here is in a big hurry. You can feel everyone’s energy constantly pulsing around you with the intensity of a trauma unit.

Downtown, I was perpetually approached by people on the street who were either trying to sell me something, trying to save my eternal soul, trying to collect my spare change, or attempting to welcome me into a reputable place of business with a name like, “G-String Theory.” Meanwhile, I was dodging bike messengers traveling upwards of 60 mph whose pupils were the size of subatomic particles.

Years ago, the first time

I visited New York City, one of the first things I learned was that few residents know what to do when they meet someone who holds open the door for them. I was raised to hold open the door for anyone approaching a place of business, restaurant, community establishment, or penal institution. So, I held the door for an elderly woman who was exiting a restaurant.

She looked at me aghast and said, “What, you don’t think I can open my OWN door?”

“Huh?” I replied.

“Are you a sexist?”

“No, ma’am, it’s just…”

“‘MA’AM!?’ Who you callin’ ma’am? Are you saying I’m old?”

“No, ma’am... I mean, Miss, I was just…”

Then she cracked a smile. “Relax,” she said…

I used to write about her all the time. She was just so easy to write about. 

From the first moment I met Thelma Lou, when she was an itty-bitty puppy, I knew I had found a literary muse. Then, she bit my ear with her puppy teeth. Crimson blood poured down my cheek. I held the puppy in the air and announced, “This is the one.”

But then life happened. I got busy. We started traveling a lot, Thelma started spending a lot of time with pet sitters over the years, and I fell out of the habit of writing about my muse. 

Currently, Thelma is curled up on my truck passenger seat, sound asleep. Like the old days. We used to spend a lot of time together in this truck. 

Right now, we are on our way to spend some time together in the Alabamian woods. Just the two of us. There will be lots of father-daughter activities going on such as sleeping, eating, walking, and chewing up

dolls that resemble tiny USPS carriers. 

I have to frequently remind Thelma that her slobbery USPS-carrier chew toy is purely for entertainment purposes. We do not actually condone chewing the appendages of federal employees. We love our United States Postal Service carriers dearly. These selfless postal-persons make our lives so much better with their daily hard work and determination. 

Thelma agrees and solemnly assures me that, although she makes our poor mail lady’s life miserable, she really loves all postal carriers. Although she admits she would love them better with ketchup. 

We arrive at the little cabin, and Thelma rushes onto the screened porch to see if any new smells have cropped up since her last visit. 

She uses her powerful nose to trace the perimeter. She takes her…