It’s the trees. The trees get me every time.

When you walk the sidewalks of Fairhope, Alabama, it’s the trees that impress you most. It’s not the upscale homes, nor the Mayberry-like storefronts, which all give you the impression that you have fallen into a Rockwellian planned urban development.

No. It’s the live oaks.

They tower over the byways like ancestors. Trunks as thick as Buicks. Tall as ferris wheels. Giant, spidery arms, draping over roadways, intertwining in a giant web, letting tiny slivers of sunlight between their fingers.

Their bark is covered in brilliant green resurrection ferns, which grow directly into the gnarled skin of each tree.

Resurrection ferns do not steal water and nutrients from the oaks; they absorb nutrition from the air. During drought, the ferns conserve water by shriveling and turning brown. But they’re just sleeping, really. Once moisture returns, they “resurrect,” unfurling their fronds of verdant green.

But, oh, the trees.

As you walk through the groves of Quercus virginianas, you feel each tree’s personality. Don’t let anyone tell you that trees don’t

have personalities.

One tree is strong and stalwart, almost symmetrically bold in its warrior pose. Another tree is slender, flexible, twisting its arms, gyrating in all directions, like the class clown in a senior photo.

A stroll through Fairhope feels like walking through a private social club of Southern live oaks. They gather together. Like they’re mingling. You feel like a crawling toddler, scuffling along the floor of your parents’ living room during a cocktail party. Crawling through the forest of adult legs, hearing adult conversations above you, but you have no idea what they’re saying.

Two massive trees in the distance have arms intertwined, almost like they are touching. It looks like they are holding hands. I’ve never seen trees do this before. It’s amazing.

“Trees can be in love,” says an old man who I meet in the park. He’s…

Sixty-one percent of American adults say they’re lonely. Sixty-one percent.

Think about that.

You probably missed this information, but loneliness was recently listed as an epidemic by the US Surgeon General and the World Health Network. That’s how big of a deal this is.

Namely, because loneliness leads to fatal medical conditions. If you’re lonely, you’re more likely to die by heart attack or stroke, more likely to suffer from anxiety and depression, and significantly more likely to read stupid things on the internet like this.

Last year, 870,000 deaths were attributed to loneliness. The number grows each year.

But here’s where things get interesting. The loneliest demographic in America isn’t who you think it is.

You’re probably envisioning a mass of white-haired, elderly souls, trapped inside assisted-living facilities, forlorn, eating cold clam chowder, constantly being exposed to dangerous amounts of “Live with Kelly and Mark.”

But if you want to see the loneliest people in America, look no further than our young people.

According to recent studies, two in three young people are lonely. It’s gotten so bad that academic researchers

have termed this generation “the loneliest generation” in history.

But why? How can we all be so lonely?

As futuristically modern humans, we are more connected than ever. We have ka-trillions of digital connections in our pockets. At any given moment, if we wanted to, we could communicate with ALMOST ANYONE IN THE WORLD.

Doesn’t matter. We’re lonely. Really lonely.

And you can see these lonely people when you’re out in public. Maybe when you’re shopping. You might not notice them right away, they blend in.

They might not be exhibiting symptoms, and I doubt whether they’ll be wearing a T-shirt that reads: I’M LONELY! In fact, they might be wearing a political T-shirt that you disagree with.

But they’re starving to death. When you look at them, try to stare past the T-shirt. They are giant NICU…

Rico was going to be euthanized in a few days. He was in his kennel. Unmoving.

He wasn’t making a fuss the way hopeful dogs do when visitors come. It was almost like he knew. He was not long for this world.

That’s when Rachel happened.

“I saw this picture online of this really cute black and tan dog… and they said he had two days left to live. I paid the fee to get him out of the pound, but they hadn’t found him a home, [so] I ended up paying and bringing him over.”

She paid an adoption fee, then paid to have him delivered to her home in the UK. A trans-Atlantic pet delivery fee, Rachel discovered, costs about as much as purchasing a four-bedroom-two-bath beachfront condominium.

But Rico was worth it. He was sweet. And happy. Some dogs are just born happy. And by “some dogs,” I mean “all dogs.”

One day, however, Rachel discovered Rico’s remarkably unique ability. Rico, it turned out, could sniff like a mother.

“He was REALLY good at [tracking]. It

was like hide and seek where they sniff you out.”

Rachel worked with Rico to develop his olfactorial talents. His powerful nose was soon stunning small audiences consisting mostly of Rachel’s friends. Rico was great at dinner parties.

But one day, the trajectory of Rachel’s life changed. Rico’s incredible nose became more than just a parlor trick.

Rachel and Rico were walking through a parking lot. There was a family gathered outside their car, and everyone was weeping. Turned out their dog was missing.

“My friend suggested Rico try and help them, so we let him sniff… the car to get the lost dog’s scent. We searched for about three hours and he kept going to the same location…”

Rico found the missing dog.

“I’ve never been so proud,” said Rachel.

That first rescue turned out to be the beginning of…

The parking lot is crowded. It is dark. Runners are all outside their vehicles, warming up before the race. They are bouncing on the pavement. Doing calisthenics. Pulling and pushing their own bodily limbs into impossibly contorted positions. Not a thimbleful of body fat between them.

As the sun peeks above the roofline of the Hoover Metropolitan Complex, 2,000 of Birmingham’s most bloodthirsty competitive runners begin to gather at the starting line, forming tight social clusters.

They are all listening to music on earbuds. Lacing and re-lacing shoes. Many are wearing skimpy athletic outfits, revealing six-pack abs, massive deltoids, and well-defined gluteal regions. Some of the runners look like living GI Joe figurines and Barbie dolls.

I am wearing athletic shorts purchased from Walmart. I look like a pig farmer from Butler County.

But I’m here.

“This is for the kids,” is the slogan of this race. Everyone keeps saying this mantra.

The BHM26.2 Marathon is a fundraiser. In its eighth year, the race has raised over $1 million for children in Alabama.

All proceeds benefit Magic Moments. Each year, this race brings together thousands of people who inadvertently grant a wish to some hope-starved child in Alabama. A kid with a chronic, life-threatening, or life-altering condition. That’s why I’m here. For the kids.

The music on the loudspeakers starts. The emcee gives us the go-signal. And we’re off.

The mass of runners moves forward. We in the rear are merely shuffling. Because we are not fast runners. We are not competitive athletes. We are what is commonly known to the global running community as, “middle-aged normal people.”

Even so, we all have our reasons for being here.

One woman runner tells me a doctor once told her she would not live to see her 65th birthday, due to breast cancer. She is 71 and runs marathons.

Another man in his 50s began running after his divorce. One morning, on…