Thirty years ago it happened. 30 years ago today. Thirty years ago my whole life changed, and I thought I’d never be okay again.

It was a serene, late-summer day. I was a kid, playing outside, when the sheriff’s department cruiser pulled up to our house to deliver the news.

I remember my mother collapsing on the floor, sobbing. I remember, personally, going into shock when the preacher told me, “Your father took his own life.”

I remember feeling that upon this day, 30 years ago, nothing would be okay. Not ever again. I remember thinking that I would not survive my own childhood.

As I write this, I sit on a wide lake, watching autumn seize the world. The trees of Lake Martin are experiencing the first pangs of fall. There is a slight chill in the air. A woodpecker nearby is seriously attempting to give himself a concussion.

Sitting on the lake is a good place to think. Namely, because

you don’t hear much of anything except the ringing in your own ears.

You only hear black billed cuckoos, northern flickers, American kestrels, or a humble American crow. You hear the soprano section of starlings, or the flapping of a heron’s wings.

Right now I see a few ducks in the faroff, swimming. Mallards, with brilliant green heads. A male and female. The female duck is, evidently, trying to drown the male. They are quacking and clacking for their lives. Although, it just occurred to me that these ducks are not trying to kill one another. I think they are mating.

And I’m wondering what the next 30 years of my life is going to look like.

This life hasn’t turned out at all like I thought it would. It has been a most wonderful adventure. It has confused me. It has moved me. It has entertained me. It…

Her husband left her with two kids and a Honda. She didn’t even have a place to stay. She moved in with her sister. She worked thankless jobs.

And she hardly ever smiled. Not only because she was unhappy, but mostly because she was missing teeth.

“Lost these two teeth in middle school,” she says, touching her mouth. “My dad got in a car wreck. My brother and I were in his passenger seat.”

Teeth or not, the woman is tough. It's in her blood. She raised three kids single-handed. She fought off rowdy teenage boys who wanted to date her daughter. She taught her sons how to be men.

The day after her youngest left for the military, she marched into a local lender’s office. She only had one hour before work.

“I had good credit,” she said. “I knew they couldn’t turn me down. Never had any debt.”

She could have used the loan money to buy a house. She could’ve invested in dental work. She could’ve replaced her rusted Honda.

She enrolled in community college.

She

was a forty-seven-year-old, taking Algebra One. But she was no stranger to hard work. Schoolwork was nothing compared to pulling double shifts and feeding hungry mouths.

“I’ve always been a quick learner.”

She enjoyed each class, each lecture, each teacher, each test. But more than anything, she liked being on campus.

During her first summer semester, she met a woman. The woman had salt-and-pepper hair and wore white scrubs. She took nursing classes. They both talked about life. About their families.

“I looked at her,” she said. “And I was like, 'Hell, this lady’s my age. If she can be a nurse, so can I.'"

She enrolled in the nursing program. Seven years, she worked. Seven years of math tests, lectures, and clinicals. She completed mountains of homework. She borrowed more money.

“Wouldn’t believe how much education costs,” she said.…

The emailer was irate. “When are you finally going to address the lies being told RIGHT NOW to the American people?” the emailer wrote. “You are A COWARD!”

For the purposes of this article, I will call this emailer “Fran,” not only to conceal her identity but also because Fran is her legal name. In the interest of anonymity, however, I will not tell you that Fran lives in Huntington, West Virginia.

To be fair, Fran is absolutely right. There ARE many lies told to Americans. And I’d like to address the biggest ones which are currently impacting our cherished way of life.

The first lie—and maybe the biggest—is that we must wait one hour after eating to go swimming.

False.

When will the misinformation stop? This myth has been perpetrated on the American People for centuries. Primarily, by Our Mothers who sought to keep We The People out of the public pool so they could hurry home and attend special-interest Tupperware parties.

Long ago, mothers would allow children to swim happily, shortly before telling their children it was “time for a snack.”

Whereupon mothers would deceptively administer to their children Fig Newtons, only to declare, after the Newton was consumed, that we were not allowed to swim until we were well into our mid-forties.

The truth is, a meal eaten before swimming will not cause cramping, says Doctor Boniface, an emergency room physician in Birmingham. “I think mothers came up with this because they were just ready to go home.”

So you are free to eat before swimming. You are also free to be a critical thinker.

Which leads me to the second lie, and one of the most profoundly disturbing, which states that we humans only use 10 percent of our brains.

I’ve heard this one for years. I specifically remember my Little League coach spreading this misinformation…

It happened on a serene Tuesday morning. Perfect weather. Clear sky. Locals saw a Boeing 757 jerking through the air at an awkward angle and speeding toward Earth.

Farmers watched in slack-jawed amazement. Commuters pulled over to see a commercial airliner bounce from the sky and slam into the ground. When the plane hit soil it sounded like the world had come apart at the bolts. A mile-high column of black smoke rose into the air.

United Flight 93 had been due for takeoff from Newark International Airport at 8:01 a.m. But, because this is America (Land of the Free and Home of the Flight Delayed) the flight was late.

It started out as a normal flight. The passengers and crew were chatty. Forty-one ordinary people made conversations over Styrofoam coffee cups. It was usual talk. They chatted about kids’ soccer games. Work. The new fad diet that wasn’t making their thighs any smaller.

In the cockpit, pilot Jason Dahl was going through preflight

stuff. He was 43, cobby build, with a smile like your favorite uncle. Jason always carried a little box of rocks with him. They were a gift from his son. Directly after this flight, Jason was going to take his wife to London for their fifth anniversary.

In the passenger area you had folks like John Talignani (74), retired bartender, stocky, a World War II vet, a no-nonsense kind of guy. He was one of the millions of long-suffering, tormented souls who call themselves New York Mets fans.

Deora Bodley (20), a college junior. The vision of loveliness. They say she was one of those natural beauties that caused young men on sidewalks to crash headfirst into lampposts. Deora wanted to be a children’s therapist.

And Jean Peterson (55). She was traveling with her husband, Don (66). They were going to Yosemite for vacation. Jean was a retired nurse, but she didn’t want to take…

I was thinking about how all my grand plans for life never worked out.

Before I was a writer, for example, I was a night owl. I played music in bars for a living. I thought I was going to be a musician forever. But evidently there was another plan.

Our band usually started at 9 p.m. And you played music until various persons on the dance floor began removing articles of underclothing and throwing them at the bass player. Which was often around 1 a.m.

Then, you’d pack your instruments and go home. You’d eat a breakfast consisting of one gas station burrito which predated the Carter administration, then creep into your bedroom, strip off your sweaty clothes, and crawl into bed beside your wife.

You slept until about noon.

When you awoke the house was empty, except for your dogs. Your wife had already left for work. You both worked different shifts. Like two semi-trucks passing in the night.

You’d stagger from your

bedroom, hobble into the bathroom, and stare in the mirror. There was a huge, bloody gash on your nose.

How’d that get there?

Then you remembered. The night before, a 72-year-old woman had been overserved. She had approached the bandstand and asked whether she could give you a peck on the cheek. You said okay because you’re devastatingly nice guy.

So mid-song, she leaned in and bit your nose. Hard. Blood went everywhere. Before security escorted her away, the woman successfully managed to get the whole bar to sing “Sweet Caroline,” a cappella.

True story.

But now I’m a writer, which means I’m a morning person. I don’t play in bars anymore. Now, I only patronize them.

Each morning I wake up at fiveish. I sit on the porch, hot beverage in hand, and I watch the sunrise. I missed so many sunrises in…