Visiting an Appalachian Walmart at 8 o’clock in the evening is unlike any other experience.

Rural Appalachian dwellers are unique unto themselves. Cautious of outsiders. Not always friendly. They have trust issues.

Trust is a commodity among such strong and self-sufficient people. Distrust of strangers is their first line of defense.

Understandably so. Namely, because cyclical poverty in the Appalachian region hangs around like a bad cold. One out of every four kids in Appalachia lives below the poverty line. One out of every five or six houses within these mountains is food insecure. The leading killer in the rural Appalachian health crisis is overdose.

There aren’t many things in life worth trusting.

Which is why there isn’t much chatter in the Walmart aisles. Not even from the children. Everyone’s faces are sort of tired. There is a weighted melancholy in the air.

Many shoppers are wearing what amounts to ragged pajamas. Some children aren’t wearing coats, although it’s snowing.

There is one young mother, with four children in tow, she is wearing flip flops.

Her hair is violently

red. She is lean, wearing short sleeves, with fair skin that looks so cold the freckles seem to be jumping right off her arms.

She doesn’t think anyone notices her as she wanders each aisle, her quiet children following dutifully beside her. She doesn’t think anyone notices her eyeing the price tags, performing incredible feats of mental math which only the Have-Nots are capable of.

But someone is watching her.

Someone is watching when her youngest tries on shoes in the shoe department because his are tattered.

Someone is watching when she buys a pair of adult work gloves because these are cheaper than children’s mittens.

Someone is watching when her oldest daughter begs her mom for deodorant because she is embarrassed about stinking at school.

When the mother passes the dairy section, an older woman is waving her arm, flagging…

When I first started writing, nearly 15 years ago, things were different.

First off, newspapers were still around, doing their thing. My wife still clipped newspaper coupons. Peanuts, Dilbert, Garfield were alive and well. The Sunday newspaper was still slightly bigger than your average Waffle House.

Also, Americans were reading books. Fifteen years ago, 79 percent of us read an average of 16 books per year. Being a writer still meant something to many Americans. Some of us actually aspired to be one.

Likewise, 15 years ago, smartphones weren’t pervasive. They existed, sure. But they were only four years old. Not everyone had one.

Take me. I didn’t own a smartphone. I had a crappy flip phone that only worked on days of the week beginning with the letter R.

Children didn’t own smartphones back then, either. They were too busy being kids. The children on my street, for example, rode bikes. They were always outside.

You could hear their tiny voices, reverberating through the woods. You could see them building forts, climbing trees,

swinging on homemade rope swings, inventing new ways to give each other subdural hematomas.

But then something happened.

I can’t really pinpoint WHEN it happened. Or why. But a subtle shift began to occur.

Newspapers finally entered the late stages of their ultimate collapse. In a 15-year period, we lost nearly 2,500 papers.

This was huge. Newspapers have been around since the 16th century. For 20 generations, your ancestors had newspapers. Your great-great-great-great-great-great granddaddy read a newspaper. And then—POOF!—gone.

Most of us couldn’t grasp how this change would affect the American news cycle.

One major change was that college students quit majoring in journalism. Why choose a dying industry? Bachelor degrees in journalism saw a 30 percent decline. Students who might have become journalists instead became “content creators” who wrote click-bait listicles entitled: “Seven things you already know.”

Then, physical books started disappearing. Entire bookseller chains…

The day is Christmas. The era is ancient. The tiny farming village is located 50 miles from the big city, deep within the Apennine foothills.

A young shepherd is guiding a flock of sheep down mainstreet. He’s talking to the sheep like they are people.

The young man’s name is Frank. People think Frank has lost his mind.

Frank loves animals deeply. Locals know that Frank raises these sheep not to harvest their wool, not to slaughter them. He raises them because he loves them. He’s named each one. They say he even sleeps with them.

“What’s he doing with all those sheep?” says one guy in the tavern.

“Beats me.”

“That guy’s nuts,” says a man sipping his ale.

Frank is bundled tightly in a cloak as he walks through the village barefoot alongside his woolen brothers.

The weather is unusually cold this year. With lows dipping into the 20s. There is snow gathering atop the muddy huts and thatch rooftops of earthen homes and crumbling rock buildings.

Frank looks at the homes lining the

small street, dotting the countryside. The inhabitants of these homes are poor. Very poor. Often, with barely enough to eat. There have been reports of local children so hungry they eat mud.

The line between farmer and fortune has never been so inordinately clear in this isolated farm town, far away from the universe of the genteel.

Today, however, the small town does not seem so isolated. Today, the town is bustling with visitors.

In fact, there are crowds gathering in the streets of Greccio. People have come from far and wide to see what Frank has done. Frank has created something, living art, and word about it has spread all over the countryside.

These visitors are mostly farmers. You can tell because they are all wearing rags. Some have traveled hundreds of miles to be here. On foot. Through the snow. Most aren’t…

The Associated Press published an article warning of the health hazards of using fireplaces.

Yes, holiday fireplaces are cozy. Yes, they’re festive. Yes, fireplaces have existed within our hominid culture ever since Adam discovered he had no belly button.

But…

“…Active fireplaces and gas appliances release tiny airborne particles that can get into the lungs and chemicals like nitrogen dioxide, a major component of smog, according to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.”

But then, there are lots of hazardous things you’re not supposed to do anymore, thanks to deeply concerned governmental and non-federal agencies.

Take sugar. When I was a kid, shortly after the close of the Civil War, everyone ate lots of sugar. Virtually nobody in my life was overweight. Almost all grown-ups and kids were skinny even though we were all eating Little Debbies like they needed the boxes back.

Weirdly, there was no childhood obesity epidemic. Everyone’s mom was lean, everyone’s dad was built like Barney Fife.

Then came the War on Sugar.

Suddenly, we had experts working overtime to figure out the problem.

And they solved the issue (EUREKA!). Sugar! That’s what caused childhood obesity!

Everywhere you looked, another federal or non-governmental agency was warning about the dangers of sugar. Consequently, sugary foods are now restricted in many schools. And in some cities, like Berkley, Philadelphia, and San Francisco, sugary foods are even taxed.

So sugar is the culprit. Sugar is what’s making our kids fat. Thank God we know this now. Because some of us thought the problem was them sitting on the sofa for eight hours, playing on their smartphones.

There are other official warnings to heed this holiday season.

The U.S. Food and Drug Administration urges you to reduce sodium intake to prevent hypertension, heart disease, stroke, and overall happiness. The FDA advises all Americans not to exceed one teaspoon of daily salt. Non-Americans, please feel free to consume as much sodium as…

Dear God,

I know you’re super busy. I know you have people bending your ear at Christmas. From every corner of the planet. Every second of the day. And I know how fussy people can be this time of year.

Everyone wants what they want, and they all want it now. And everyone wants to have it THEIR way.

But you aren’t Burger King. You do not give out paper hats to good little customers. You are not a celestial drive-thru window attendant, wearing a cute little cosmic uniform and nametag and ethereal dental braces. I think I’ve carried this metaphor as far as it will go.

So, I feel like an imposition, asking you for anything. Especially during your busy season. I know Christmas keeps you running. You have starving children in Sudan, the ongoing war in Ukraine, the Israel-Gaza mess, and that whole Cracker Barrel logo thing.

Please don’t misunderstand me, I don’t have any personal requests for Christmas. There is, however, one thing I ask. And I’m asking for a friend.

Please take care of Morgan Love.

This 20-year-old college student has spent half her life in hospitals. She is no stranger to medical environments. The UAB staffers all know her by name in the ICU.

Right now, she is in the hospital again, God. I’m sure you’ve heard.

She has pulmonary edema, her veins are leaky, and have leaked fluids into her lung bases. They’re giving her diuretics to get the fluid out. Her kidneys aren’t producing urine otherwise.

She has a spiked fever. And seizures. And her oxygen is dropping. She’s on continuous norepinephrine to keep her blood pressure stable. And, well…

Things aren’t looking fantastic right now, God.

But I’ve seen you do big things before. In fact, every time Morgan goes into the hospital, you do something incredible.

Each time she is in that hospital bed, the doctors get all frowny faced, and…