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…