Suicide is a dirty word. Try using it in mixed company. Try using “suicide” at a dinner party. You wouldn’t. Because suicide is not something people talk about. 

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve already quit reading this. I know I have.

Still, I grew up as a child of suicide. This word is at the forefront of my vocabulary. There were moments in life when people would ask the ever imposing question, “How’d your dad die?”

The air usually goes quiet for a beat. 

You look around because you know you’re about to kill everyone’s buzz.

At this juncture, you have a few ways of handling this question. There’s the direct approach. “He died by suicide.” Or you could use more passive language. “He took his own life.” Or you could get very florid: “He passed away of his own choosing.” 

Either way, the person who asked the question gets it. Which is why they are now edging away from you because they suddenly remembered an important dental appointment. 

Because nobody wants to

talk about suicide. We can talk about diabetes, heart disease, cancer, or any other cause of death. But suicide?

Filthy word. Conjures up too much mental imagery. Godawful things. And people just don’t want to talk about it.

So nobody does. Nobody talks. And as a result, suicide remains possibly the most undiscussed mental problem in the world. 

And yet each year upwards of 725,000 people die by suicide, worldwide. Every 40 seconds someone thinks about attempting suicide.

Or let’s put it like this: In America, someone takes their life every 11 minutes. Perhaps even people reading this right now are contemplating the act.   

I’m sorry to bring all this up. As I say, I know this isn’t a fun issue. But a few days ago, a friend of mine died this way. 

Ever since her death, people in her family have…

Americans are arguing right now. And believe me, I get it. There is a lot going on. Everyone has differences of opinion.

But I wondered if we Americans couldn’t put aside our disagreements for a moment, and agree on a few things we love. 

I’ll start. 

I love quilting. Quilting bees, quilting circles, quilting parties. Americans didn’t invent quilting, but it’s an American artform nonetheless. 

I used to watch my mother quilt with dogged persistence. Day after day. Month after month. She used birch-wood quilting hoops, and pieced recycled fabric together. She could take seemingly unrelated scraps and make art.

My mother always said, “When life gives you scraps, you make a quilt.” 

Also, I love jazz. American fiddle tunes. And the way New Orleans smells on a summer morning, after tourists have spent all night urinating in the streets.

Stetson hats worn non-ironically. Case knives, butter yellow, dual blades. Moe Howard, Larry Fine, and Curly. Shemp is okay. 

The old men in cafes who still drink coffee in groups. And the young men who

still idolize them. 

Boys who still ask Santa Claus for BB guns. And their little sisters, who steal their GI Joes because Barbie needs a viable love interest. 

Kids who still ride bikes. Children who play tag in their backyards, screaming and laughing, without ever once checking their phones.  

I love Waffle House. An American institution. Yes, I realize eggs are expensive right now, raising the cost of an ordinary omelette to about the same price as a Range Rover Autograph. 

But I will continue to eat Waffle House fare until my end. Namely, because I have eaten at Waffle House to benchmark the most important moments in my life. 

I ate at Waffle House the morning after my own wedding. After the funerals of friends and family. God willing, I will eat at Waffle House the day after my own funeral. 

I love…

From emails, comments, and private messages:

Q: I read your piece about the Black Hawk crash, and yet you refused to name the third pilot! Why haven’t you spoken about the third pilot, Rebecca Lobach, identified in the Black Hawk crash? …why are you staying silent!!? This is a time for all Americans to speak loudly!!!

A: Sorry. I can’t hear you over all the shouting.

Q: What do you have to say about Beyoncé winning a Grammy for best country album of the year? Is this really happening? How can they call hip hop country music?

A: I say give to Beyoncé what is Beyoncé’s. But give to Willie what belongs to Willie.

Q: Who the [cussword] were you even writing to when you wrote your open letter to the three service members in the helicopter crash? The crew members are dead, they can’t read it, [cuss word] you, [cussword] idiot. You were disrespecting their memory by using this crash as a platform to share

your [creative cussword] writing.

A: Would that we could all be more like you.

Q: Are you aware that people on social media have stolen your writing about the helicopter disaster and are posting it all over the internet as their own, and taking credit for writing it?

A: I wrote it for fallen service members. Not for credit.

Q: Why do you refuse to speak on politics? Grow up little boy and pull your head out of your [cussword]! Can’t you see what is happening to this country? There is a war between the USA and Canada right now! At the Raptors basketball game in Ontario, the USA national anthem got booed by Canadians!

A: I think you mean Toronto.

Q: What are we going to do about Canadians booing our “Star Spangled Banner” at sporting events? This is disrespectful and frightening! I was…

In light of the critical world events taking place in the news, I know many of you are anxious to know more about my dogs. 

I’ll start with Marigold, our blind coonhound. Right now, Marigold is barking outside.

It’s five o’clock in the morning and the whole neighborhood can hear Marigold. The whole neighborhood always hears Marigold. The whole neighborhood loves us. 

And even though I stand outside, barefoot, saying, “SSSHHH! GO POTTY!” Marigold ignores me and sniffs the backyard, smelling each individual blade of grass until she finally selects the same peeing location she has used for the last 13,290 consecutive mornings. 

The baying voice of a coonhound is hard to miss. It is a sustained low tenor, powerful enough to change the migratory patterns of waterfowl. 

The strangest things excite her. She is always getting worked up, for example, whenever anyone says “Alright.”

We don’t know how this started. 

We think, perhaps, “Alright” is a verbal cue we usually say the moment before we get up to feed the dogs.

“Alright!” someone might say, rising off the sofa. 

Either way, this word has been embedded in Marigold’s consciousness. Which makes it challenging to, for example, have a simple conversation.

Because the moment you utter the word, “alright,” tiny bits of ceiling plaster start falling like rain and many of the neighbors are already putting their houses on the market. 

We have two other dogs, of course. Thelma Lou, bloodhound, who weighs upwards of hundred pounds, stands seventeen hands tall, with paws the size of Volkswagens. She is Marigold’s Seeing Eye Sister. 

Marigold follows Thelma everywhere, keeping close beside her, imitating Big Sister. Whenever Thelma sits on the sofa, Marigold sits on the sofa. Whenever Thelma barks, Marigold barks. Whenever Thelma rolls around on a dead squirrel carcass in the backyard, Marigold helpfully brings the carcass into the kitchen for future use. 

Also, we have Otis,…

The nursing home had a piano. An instrument last tuned sometime during the Cold War. 

Staffers wheeled residents into a semi-circle. Nurses faced the piano toward an audience of chairs, roller walkers, and oxygen canisters. 

A middle-aged guy sat at the piano. The middle-aged guy plays by ear. He can’t read music because as a kid he was too obsessed with girls to practice “Hot Cross Buns” under the weight of Mrs. Downing’s glaringly sinister eyes.

“Any requests?” he said. 

The elderly people did not move. Nobody spoke. They stared into abysmal nothingness. 

“HELP!” shouted one elderly woman, for no reason at all. 

One of the nurses said, “They really like the hymns.” 

Piano Guy has been playing in church since boyhood. He knows hymns. When the first melodic phrase of “Old Rugged Cross” began, the room erupted to life. 

Surprisingly, the voices were not old. Neither were they dry and crackly. They were young. And strong. They knew every word. 

The next tune was “Victory in Jesus.” The room sounded like it was going to come apart

at the joists. They knew every stanza. 

A few of the ladies were even clapping in rhythm. 

“Those ladies are Pentecostals,” explained one elderly woman, using the same tone you might use to describe someone as an “Amway salesperson.”   

The next hymns were “Because He Lives,” “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” “Leaning On The Everlasting Arms,” and “How Great Thou Art.”

When they sang “I’ll Fly Away,” the entire room sounded like it might just do that. 

One man sat slumped in his chair. But his voice was so robust, so pure, the pianist could feel his dental fillings vibrating. 

“That man was a Church of Christ songleader,” explained an elderly woman. “We call him ‘The Singer.’ Whenever you walk past his room, you hear him singing.” 

The concert ended at 4:30 p.m., because it was suppertime. Chairs wheeled away. Residents tottered…