Live Oak, Florida. Population 6,843. A tiny town in north central Florida, the county seat of Suwannee County. There are oaks everywhere, hence the name. Each limb is drapes in Spanish moss, which, ironically, is neither.

Meet Quiet Will Carpenter. He’s a soft spoken kid. He doesn’t talk much. He is your all-American college kid. Honey brown hair. Honest smile.

Last year, he was a freshman at the University of Central Florida. A fierce swimmer, a competitive fisherman on the UCF Bass team. Will is also a football fanatic and pulls for the Jacksonville Jaguars—but hey nobody’s perfect.

He was studying mechanical engineering. A sharp kid like Will is talented enough to be designing space probes for NASA. Classic overachiever. This kid is going places.

He doesn’t talk much, but he’s the genuine article.

Last year, on Christmas Eve, Will had a sinus infection. No big deal. His lymph nodes were pretty swollen so his mother took him to the hospital. They were on the way to Christmas dinner with family when they made

the detour to the emergency room.

The doctor looked him over. It was no run-of-the-mill sinus infection. It was worse. Much worse. They never made it to Christmas dinner.

Within days, Will had already left school and began hardcore treatment. The mild mannered fisherman was subjected to the systenatic that is American Healthcare. He underwent all the usual oncology stuff. He was exposed to chemo, meds, and obscene amounts of daytime television.

His family survived on vending machine food. Slept in waiting rooms. Waited on test results. They cried. They prayed for miracles. Doctors ran more tests.

Will received radiation treatment on his face, spine and shoulder. He was administered every drug you’ve ever heard of, and many you haven’t. And recently, he was fitted with a gastronomy tube, simply so he can eat.

To say this past year has been “hard” is like saying World…

The dusk is reflecting off Douglas Lake. I am nestled in the French Broad River valley, seated on the porch of a log cabin, watching the Great Smoky Mountains continue to be Great.

I am playing the mandolin with some friends. There is an upright bass, a flat top guitar, and a Deering banjo. I have known these fellas since I was a kid. They are bluegrass musicians, passing through Tennessee on the way to a gig. We are playing a few old tunes.

We are all outside. On the deck of my rental cabin. The distant blue mountains are laced with wisps of low-hanging fog. The trees are leafless and stoic. God was showing off when he made Appalachia.

The tune we play is called “Old Joe Clark.” We sound about as good as a dump truck driving through a Steinway factory. But that’s not the point. The point is, we’re having fun. And that’s what this New Year is all about.

Today is the first day of 2023, and the keyword

of this current year is “fun.”

This past year, I didn’t have nearly enough fun. The reasons don’t matter, but this upcoming year is going to be different for me. This year, I am making a fresh start. This year, the F-word is going to be my go-to experience.

Fun.

Last April, I wrote a column about a 100-year-old woman in a nursing home located in rural Virginia. I traveled to interview her in a rundown elderly care facility that looked like a condemned shack. Her name was Miss Lorena. She was in bad shape. She received two insulin shots during our interview.

She passed away before the column ever ran in the local papers. She never read what I wrote about her. Still, her parting words have been lodged in my brain.

“In all my years,” she said, “I’ve finally discovered the meaning of life.”

“What…

The New Year is only minutes away. The TV is on. My wife is snoring softly as I watch a perky, hip television host deliver a broadcast live from Times Square, speaking in a tone of voice not unlike a squirrel on amphetamines.

So I change the channel to see Miley Cyrus hosting a New Year’s special while wearing a strand of dental floss.

My phone rings. It’s an unrecognizable number. Maybe a spam call. I answer.

“Hello?”

The voice is male, with a pronounced Hindi accent. “Are you Shane Deeter?”

“Not exactly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fairly.”

Whereupon the caller informed me that he had important information about my automotive warranty. He was very adamant about this, and assured me that he could definitely assist me more effectively if he could gain access to my AmEx number.

I reminded him that this was New Year’s Eve. He replied, “That’s why this is so important, Sam.”

What a nice guy.

He was mid-speech when I hung up. Then it suddenly occurred to me that New Year's Eve has always made

me a little sad. I don’t know why, exactly. But I always choke up when people sing “Auld Lang Syne.”

What is it about this holiday that gives me the blues?

Maybe it’s the idea that time keeps moving faster. Or maybe it’s the idea that I’m getting older. Or maybe it’s the way everyone pretends to be excited about even though January 1 is no different than, say, August 23, or May 9.

But do you want to hear something bizarre? Even though, admittedly, this upcoming year scares the stew out of me, for once in my life, the New Year worries me less than it has in the past.

Probably because I know upfront that this year will be exactly like every other year. Likely, it will bring heartache, happiness, pain, and the agony of watching your football team…