I wasn’t going to write this. It’s too controversial. But I have to. For our children.

No matter how hard this topic is to address, no matter how inflaming, there are some things that must be said. I am talking, of course, about the delicate issue of homemade ice cream.

Ice cream has been demonized by today’s society. It used to be okay to eat ice cream. But then, suddenly it wasn’t. So lots of companies replaced ice cream with healthy frozen yogurt.

A few years later, reports claimed frozen yogurt was as bad as sugary ice cream. So they came out with “sugar-free” frozen yogurt made with “aspartame.”

Aspartame is a fun word to say. It sounds like a dirty word but it isn't. You are free to say aspartame as much as you want.

EXAMPLE: “Have you seen the traffic today?”

“No.”

“It’s a pain in the aspartame.”

So Americans started eating sugar-free yogurt sludge by the gallon and watching Jane Fonda videos, and eschewing bacon.

Then—this is true—reports came out with new information claiming that aspartame turns bodily

fluids into formaldehyde.

So, all of a sudden, journalists were NOW telling mankind to stay away from anything “sugar free,” urging mankind to eat kale smoothies instead.

Which is probably why a few months ago, for dessert one night, my wife announced that we were having a frozen surprise. It was a green smoothie and it smelled like lawn clippings.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Kale milkshake.”

Ever since, I have had a persistent taste in my nose that reminds me of the sickly flavored laughing gas our family doctor, Doctor Bob, used when I had a tonsillectomy in first grade.

Speaking of Doctor Bob, do you know how that old man convinced me to agree to an invasive radical tonsillectomy? Ice cream.

That’s right. Back in those days, parents, authority figures, and health-care professionals bribed children with ice…

It’s a sunny July day. Kids are riding bikes. Climbing trees. Little League teams are yelling “Hey batta batta!” And Morgan is in a step-down unit from the ICU.

Morgan is a college freshman. She is pretty, smart, and redheaded—so you know she’s trouble.

She is a student at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. She made the president’s list last year. Which is impressive when you consider that Morgan is epileptic, diabetic, and has paralysis on the left side of her body; her left hand doesn’t work.

Also, she has low vision, and is nearly blind in one eye. Her intestines are paralyzed, too, so digestion is an issue.

And yet she made the president’s list.

We became friends when I wrote about her a few years ago. She’s soft spoken. She’s always smiling. And she has an Alabama drawl that sounds like ribbon cane syrup.

A few days ago, Morgan sent me this text:

“I’ve been in the hospital for the last six days, with no discharge date in sight.”

The doctors can’t figure out the cause. They can’t get her

ketones down. On top of it all, the paralysis of her stomach has worsened, so doctors are trying to come up with a plan.

Morgan’s text finished with: “It’s been pretty rough but I’m making it!”

She ended her message with a heart emoji. She always closes texts with a heart emoji. Her last name is, after all, Love.

Since then, I’ve had my friends praying. Since then, she has had more tests. Since then, they did a scope to see what was going on inside her gastrointestinal tract.

“I have erosions and inflammation... Still high ketones. It’s been a busy but productive day! Also, my sorority sisters stopped by which was sweet!”

Heart emoji.

Yesterday, six Delta Gamma sisters surprised her with a visit. Multiple sisters have been coming all week. The halls of UAB hospital…

Ten years. That’s how long I’ve been writing this blog/column/whatever-the-heck-you-call-it.

It started as a blog. Sort of. Back when we still had blogs. Remember those? Blogs existed during a primitive technological era when we still had DVDs, landlines, 4-1-1 directory assistance, and older people in your family still did not understand Facebook.

Namely, because before social media, we did not “share” photos with loved ones. It wasn’t possible.

To recreate the social media experience back then by, say, posting a photo, we would have had to (a) take a picture with a Kodak camera, (b) develop the film at Walgreens, (c) physically mail envelopes containing hundreds of photos to loved ones and random friends, then (d) wait weeks for people to reply with comments, such as: “Why did you send me a photo of your dinner?”

Also, 10 years ago we still had taxis. Today, taxis are extinct. On my last trip to New York, my Uber driver, a former taxicab driver, said that 10 years ago there were 11,000 cabs in New York.

“Now there are less than 800,” he said.

But getting back to blogs. As a wannabe writer with no credentials, no training, and no pedigree, frankly, I always found a blog to be a magical notion.

You could write something, send it into the universe, and interact with real humans! Your writing didn’t even have to be good, or contane propper punctuashin

People would actually read your stuff, and if you were lucky, the next morning, you would receive hundreds of heartfelt emails from Nigerian princes.

We had a lot of Nigerian-prince emails back in the day. I personally received many of these emails. These were messages sent by members of the Nigerian royal family, telling me how much they enjoyed my blog, how they hoped someday we might meet, hug each other’s necks, and—God willing—exchange intimate financial information.

So anyway, I remember the morning I…

I sat in the old woman’s living room. It was a gaudy block home. The walls were outdated pastel colors, á la 1986. She was smoking menthols.

She knows she shouldn’t smoke, her daughter wants her to quit. Eventually, the old woman says she will.

“Quitting smoking ain’t hard,” she said. “I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

She is 93. By her own admission, she’s never been religious. There are no Bibles in her house. No cute embroidered scripture verses on the walls. She’s tough. You can see it in her face. The lines on her cheeks tell the tale of a life spent in the company of hard work.

She worked in cotton fields when she was a girl, in Georgia. She worked in a textile mill when she was a teenager. She survived two husbands. One of which abused her. She raised six kids. And she did it without any help, thank you very much.

She tapped the four-inch ash on her menthol 305. “I always thought, ‘Hey, if God’s real, he

sure don’t care about me, so why should I care about him?’”

And that was her philosophy. She didn’t bother God, and he mostly stayed out of her way.

Her mind changed when she turned 50. It was a pivotal year. The doctors found breast cancer. It was a cruel joke on God’s part, she said.

Here was a woman who had raised children, who was about to retire. She had finally reached a time in life when she was supposed to be on Easy Street. And along comes aggressive ductal carcinoma.

The woman pauses, then falls into a coughing fit, which finishes with her spitting a gob of mucus the size of a regulation softball into a handkerchief.

“I thought I was as good as dead.”

The old woman says she lost her will. She quit trying. She woman freely admits she did not want…

Last night, the young man found himself in an old hardware store. There were a bunch of old timers, sitting around drinking coffee. Lots of laughing. The irreverent kind of laughs you hear from old men.

Now and then, customers would walk into the store and ask for this or that. An old guy in the group would lead them to the correct aisle, to help them find whatever they needed. The old guy looked familiar.

But the young man couldn’t put his finger on how he knew him. The cotton-white hair. Those horn-rimmed drugstore glasses. The waistband of his trousers, pulled clear up to his nipples.

He looked like the guy who used to sit on the front porch when the young man was a child, playing mandolin.

The young man’s grandfather used to play mandolin. As a boy, he could remember seeing his grandfather sing old-time music while stomping his right heel onto the porch floorboards, picking away on “Turkey in the Straw.”

The young man left the store. He was in the street

now, walking. He was, evidently, in a little town.

Lampposts. Sidewalks. A barbershop pole. The whole deal. There were people everywhere. It was evening, the world was lit with a beautifully pink sun. He half expected to see Bernard P. Fife making his rounds.

A woman bumped into him. She was carrying groceries. She was young. Pretty. She looked like someone he once knew. Like Meredith Alison, from his grade school days.

As a girl, Meredith had misshapen lower legs. The doctor said her spine was as crooked as a congressman. By fourth-grade, she couldn’t walk and used a wheelchair. Eventually she didn’t need the chair because she died from health complications. The young man never forgot her.

“Do you remember me?” said the young woman.

“Meredith?”

She was smiling. “Yes, it’s me!”

“But, you can WALK!”

They were interrupted when the young man…

I am sitting at my airline gate. I have been waiting here since the Peloponnesian Wars. I am people-watching because there is nothing else to do while I wait for my plane.

The main person I am watching is a guy in the seating area. He is maybe mid-80s. With him are six children. He appears to be the sole adult in their company. There are no other grownups with him.

These are all little kids, too. Really little. Kindergarteners, I’d guess. The kids wear oversized backpacks and sneakers. And they have been blessed with energy.

The kids call this man “Bill.” Not Granddaddy, Uncle, or anything like that. Just Bill. They are shouting his name over and again. Bill this. Bill that.

I’m wondering what Bill’s story is. And more importantly, I’m wondering whether Bill has called for reinforcements.

The kids are getting more rambunctious with each minute. They are constantly running around, falling down, roughhousing, and asking Bill important questions at the tops of their voices.

“Bill!” the kids are saying. “Do people

ever die in bathtubs?” “Bill! Why are my underpants white?” “Bill! How do mommies get pregnant?”

God bless Bill.

Bill finally gets the kids to stop running around by telling them to sit down and start coloring in their little coloring books. I can tell that Bill is a patient man. I never hear him raise his voice. He never once loses his smile. Lesser men would have already had a cardiac infarction.

Soon, the kids are coloring, and all is well. Mostly. Because while it is true that the kids ARE behaving—technically— they are also making a lot of noise by laughing loudly.

Other people glare at the laughing kids. Grumpy adults nearby give the kids looks of parental disapproval, just to let the kids know laughter is not appreciated. This is an airport, dangit. You’re not supposed to laugh in airports. You’re supposed…