“I am not an artist,” says Ginni Bonell. “I can barely draw a straight line.”

Ginni lives in Virginia. She is mid-60s, with long silvery hair, and you get the feeling that this woman listens to Carole King or James Taylor. She has that vibe.

In fact, I would bet good money that this woman owns at least one 1970s album containing the song “Shower the People.”

She throws open a huge garage door for a camera crew and says, “This is where the magic happens.”

Inside is a makeshift studio filled with nothing but scrap wood and paint fumes. There are hundreds—no. There are billions of little pine blocks covered in wet paint.

These aren’t fancy works of art, they are white squares with acrylic pink hearts and simple writing. Two words.

Be kind.

In today’s world, kindness is a pretty rare concept. I just saw a man in traffic, for instance, throw a full Coke bottle at another car on the interstate.

The other car returned fire by throwing a fast food bag. French fries scattered

all over the highway. A Big Mac nearly hit my windshield.

These drivers were definitely not listening to James Taylor music.

Ginni’s idea for the handmade signs happened one day after watching the local news. The headlines were depressing, and a person can only take so much televised tragedy, environmental destruction, and senseless acts of politics.

When Ginni was out for a walk to blow off some steam and clear her head, she saw a garbage heap that caught her eye.

In the trash was a big whiteboard. Like the kind you’d find in an office or classroom. She took the thing home and placed it in her yard the way you would a real estate sign. She wrote messages on the board. Like this one:

“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”

It was just for the neighborhood,…

Miss Hilda always sat in the front row of our church. The snow-haired woman was early to arrive, last to leave, and first to hug your neck.

Sometimes her daughter would be with her, clutching her arm, escorting her down the aisle.

During service, Hilda would sit through the standing parts. She always sang along with “At the Cross,” “Rock of Ages,” or “Amazing Grace.” And sometimes I would sit beside Hilda for the singing. Our eyes would be level with everyone’s belts. She would hold my arm. I enjoyed that.

My granny died when I was a child. And I never knew my father’s mother. I didn’t grow up with a maternal old woman. Instead I grew up with aunts and mothers who used hairbrushes as weapons.

What I always wanted was a grandma to love me. To make me fried chicken. And I know this sounds ridiculous, but sometimes I just needed an old lady to pat my cheek and tell me I was a sweet boy.

I remember one time our congregation

was singing “Amazing Grace.” Hilda leaned toward me and whispered, “I love this song, but there’s one lyric I would change.”

I asked which one.

“Oh,” she said, “where the song says, ‘saved a wretch like me.’ God’s creations are not wretches. So I always sing, ‘saved a SOUL like me.’”

In many churches her opinion would have been high treason. I have Baptist friends who were beheaded for less.

But Hilda was her own woman, she was intelligent, and old enough to disagree with whatever she wanted.

I would visit her house on rare occasions. Once I did some fix-it work for her. The whole time she was telling me stories. Mainly, tales about meeting her husband during World War II.

Her first words to him were: “Do you jitterbug?”

In her day, every young person danced the jitterbug. And she was, by dog,…

I saw pictures of you today on my cellphone. You are so tiny. You were sleeping in a clear plastic bubble, in a hospital room with other premature babies. Trying to breathe.

I want you to know that I’m praying for you to pull through. I haven’t skipped a day. I even pray for you before we eat dinner. Every evening.

Last night we had meatloaf. I love meatloaf. But we didn’t feel right eating until we said a few words for you.

You will pull through, of course. You have to. And when you do I want you to grow up to laugh a lot. I really mean this. I want you to laugh at the drop of a dime, like a nutty person.

I wish someone would have told me to do this, I could have saved myself a few years. When you get older it’s harder to chuckle.

Soon, you’ll be healthier, and off your breathing tube, and you’ll be able to laugh. And that’s what we all want to see. Believe me.

People will be visiting your hospital room and cuddling you with the sole purposes of seeing you smile or laugh.

We adults LOVE to see babies laugh. We will tickle your fat little legs, talk in high-pitched voices, jingle our keys in your face, and blatantly put our fingers into your armpits just to see you grin. And if you don’t laugh, it will hurt our feelings.

So laugh. Laugh too much. Laugh at inappropriate times. Laugh at yourself. And don’t ever stop doing this.

Because for some reason, when you grow up, everything changes. I don’t know why, but it does. In school, you’ll learn how to “sit still,” “be quiet,” “pay attention,” “raise your hand,” “chew your food,” “don’t interrupt,” “drink your milk.”

And if you’re a boy who plans on living past his thirteenth birthday, you will “put the toilet seat…

It is a bright morning. The wind is blowing. I am pedaling my trike as fast as I can. My wife rides ahead of me. And I’m smiling.

I’ll pause for a moment. I don’t want to confuse anyone, so I’ll explain what a trike is for the newcomers.

Technically speaking, a trike is your basic tricycle. Though enthusiasts rarely call it a tricycle because this sounds dumb. So they call it a trike. Then the enthusiasts usually spit and talk about football, just so you don’t get the idea that these are kids’ tricycles. Which they are.

My wife convinced me to buy this contraption a few months ago. The reason was because I was depressed.

I don’t like to admit this, but I will. This pandemic has done a number on my brain. Being trapped at home is not for wimps. At one point I was rarely leaving my bedroom except to restock on Cheez-Its.

I once wore pajamas for almost 60 days. In the mornings, I would crawl from my covers, take a

shower, fix my hair, brush my teeth, then put on my PJs and go back to bed.

So that’s why I’m riding this trike. Because I’m trying not to be blue. I don’t want to live in a perpetual mind-killing funk. I know that sounds a little melodramatic, but I’m being honest.

We are riding at about 13 miles per hour. I am sweating. There isn’t much traffic.

When the pandemic began my wife was always asking me to go bike riding with her, but I never would. You can call me nutty, but all bikes scare me. People die on bikes.

In 2015 there were 50,000 accidents related to bikes in the U.S. And last year the number of deaths on bicycles had tripled from the year before. These weren’t just little accidents, either. These were SUVs plowing into people.

Here in Florida…

Let’s call him Don. Don is old. He lives in an assisted living facility. A few weeks ago he got something in the mail. It was a colorful envelope, with hand-drawn flowers, hearts, and squiggly handwriting. He didn’t recognize the return address.

“What in the…?” mumbled Don, holding the card. The grizzled former Vietnam vet is not known for using PG-rated interjections.

To say Don is lonely is an understatement. In the half year since the pandemic began, Don has had maybe four people visit.

On a daily basis he sees only nurses, orderlies, cafeteria workers, and the 96-year-old guy down the hall who is always singing show tunes to a sock puppet.

Don tore open the envelope. It was a frilly card, with lots of artwork, and girly handwriting. You can always spot the handwriting of a girl. It’s very loopy.

The card read: “You are loved.”

He flipped it over. There were no more clues.

The whole thing made him laugh. He even looked around the room to make sure a hidden camera crew wasn’t lurking nearby.

When his

nurse came to change his sheets, he said, “Did you see the card I got?”

The nurse looked at it. “Who’s it from? Your grandkids?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know who it’s from.”

Don is not on anyone’s radar screen anymore. He’s what you would call a shut-in. And when COVID-19 came along, he became more than just a shut-in. He felt like he became a memory.

He placed the card on his nightstand, where he could see it in plain view.

“You are loved,” it said.

And now I want to introduce you to Jessica Ong. She is a 14-year-old at Westview High School in Atlanta. When the pandemic began, she started making greeting cards to pass the time.

It all started by writing letters to her grandmother and her aunt. Then it mushroomed into something else.…

I am answering a few questions sent in by people. I chose the most commonly asked questions, but I threw in a few strays, too. I’ll quit wasting time:

Q: All time favorite song?

A: Easy. “I’ll Fly Away.”

Q: What are your dogs’ names?

A: Otis Campbell and Thelma Lou. The first is an alleged Labrador. The second is a Clydesdale draft horse who resembles a bloodhound.

Q: How did you get started writing online?

A: It’s a long story. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The embarrassing truth is, I couldn’t hack it as a real-world writer. I got turned down for writing jobs with small publications because I had “great enthusiasm,” but was “not really what we’re looking for.” Meaning: I stunk.

Q: But you still write?

A: Pretty much.

Q: Why?

A: Because my work is a vital part of some peoples’ morning bathroom rituals.

Q: That’s a bad joke, and it’s in very poor taste.

A: You think I’m joking?

Q: You’re always writing to kids when they ask you for advice, why do you write so

many kids?

A: Because I was a lost boy. My father died young, and my mother did the best she could. I was like a kid in a boat adrift in the middle of a sea. Today, I’m still in that same boat, only now I have a cheap 2.5 horsepower motor. So I use this proverbial motor to cruise around the bay, looking for lonely boats, and anyone giving away free beer.

Q: How do you stay skinny when all you eat is junk food and barbecue all day long?

A: I do not eat barbecue all day long. I quit at about 9 p.m.

But to answer your question, I don’t know. Maybe because I walk a lot? I seriously do walk a lot. Always have. I’ve been kicking cans on highway shoulders since…

The gas station is quiet today. I pull in and keep the radio running. The announcer is talking about two tropical storms heading for the Gulf Coast.

Where the storms will land, nobody knows. The meteorologists have taken to calling the two approaching systems “dueling storms.”

As of this morning, the storms are veering for Texas and Louisiana. That could all change tomorrow.

The announcer says: “...And the dueling storms could combine in a rarely seen natural occurrence, circulating together, and the catastrophic destruction would be…”

There is a woman at the pump beside me. She is Latina, with a backseat full of children. I ask what she thinks about the storms. Just to get a feel for what people are thinking.

She has a red surgical mask and a soft voice. “Oh, I never know what to think. I don’t feel right hoping for storms to go somewhere else. That would just mean it’s gonna hurt other people. So I don’t know.”

I notice a crucifix hanging from her rearview mirror.

She’s right. A hurricane is coming.

It’s going somewhere. Someone’s losing a house. Hoping for such a storm to avoid me personally seems like a selfish thought.

The woman goes on, “So I just pray for everyone to be safe. This is what I tell my kids. We pray maybe for the storm to weaken.”

On my other side, a man is tying lumber to his truck, pumping diesel. No mask. I ask what his thoughts are about the dueling storms. At first he ignores me. He’s not exactly Joe Friendly.

Finally, he says, “I don’t care what happens, dude, as long as it’s not hitting me.” Then he drives away.

Funny. Ask two people, and you will get two different answers.

The cashier behind the gas-station counter has an even more distinct outlook. She is tall, wiry, with a surgical mask bearing the Wonder Woman logo.

“My…

I’m watching the Weather Channel with my mother-in-law. Right now, there are two back-to-back tropical storms heading straight for our Gulf Coast.

Count them. Two.

Here is an actual quote from a weatherman:

“When two storms are similar in strength, they tend to orbit a common center, almost appearing to ‘dance’ together. Sometimes these hurricanes can end up forming a super hurricane...”

You do not want your hurricanes dancing together.

“This has not been a good year,” says my elderly mother-in-law.

No, it certainly has not.

The first thing Gulf Coast people do when a hurricane is brewing is telephone each other. We call everyone we can think of. The conversations all go the same:

“What’re y’all gonna do?”

“Don’t know. What about y’all?”

“Still waiting.”

There is a strange anxiety surrounding hurricanes where I’m from. There is also a weird thrill that accompanies them. I can’t explain it. You’ve never felt more alive than when a hurricane is brewing in your backyard. And you’ve never felt more unsure about what to do.

A long time ago my wife and I evacuated for

a storm, but my elderly mother-in-law insisted on staying to ride it out. When the storm hit, it landed only a few miles east of our city.

Meanwhile my wife and I were safe, 262 miles away, watching live footage of our hometown getting pommeled. We called my elderly mother-in-law to check on her.

She answered the phone in a very calm and collected voice, saying, “Get me the [deleted] out of here.”

The thing about an oncoming hurricane is, you never know whether you should evacuate. You watch news channels nonstop, but it doesn’t help you make a decision. Because nobody on TV ever tells you flat-out: “Get out of town.”

Even so, you can’t look away from the tube. You’re always hoping they’ll give you some actual, solid information. During every weather update you crank…

Hello, Melanie,

In your recent letter to me, you told me most of your life story. Thank you for that. I read the whole thing. All 792 pages.

You mentioned that you were “screwed up” more than a few times. I won’t cite examples because your words to me are private, but I had to write you back.

I know your parents’ divorce has been hard. And I know you’ve been going through a lot, getting ready for college.

But I don’t think you’re screwed up. Actually, I think you’re swell. I would even add that you’re pretty cool. Also, your letter weighed 42 pounds.

If you ask me, being “screwed up” is just a matter of perception. Have you ever seen 1,000 identical store bought tomatoes? They’re completely uniform, they have no personality, and they taste like red clay dirt.

But homegrown tomatoes? They’re misshapen, multi-colored, lopsided, and totally screwed up. And everyone knows lopsided tomatoes taste like heaven.

People are the same way. We humans are complex, uniquely shaped biological beings, capable of incredible feelings, empathy, wit, kindness,

and unbelievable body odor.

Here’s something. In only a few millionths of a second, a human brain can compute the trajectory and velocity of a speeding softball aimed at its face.

I bring this up because you mentioned that you played first base on your softball team in your letter. I think on page 349.

Well, it only takes an average ballplayer’s brain five gazillionths of a millisecond to send electrical impulses to his or her arm to make that important catch.

That’s not screwed up. That’s a scientific wonder.

Since we were talking about baseball, do you know what I think is interesting? This: who invented baseball? And I don’t mean which PERSON invented it. I’m talking in a big-picture kind of way.

Because here’s what I know. Baseball didn’t just appear out of nowhere. A flock of people…

It was a nice ceremony, as those things go. Though it was a little weird seeing the congregation wear masks like invaders from another galaxy. But, hey, this service wasn’t about them. This was a country wedding.

The day was about two people who stood behind a hayfield, under an outdoor arbor. They were surrounded by live oaks, creeping vines, and a beautiful grove of professional photographers.

Granny was wearing more than just a medical mask. She wore clunky protective battle gear. Huge yellow gloves, plastic face shield, and an oxygen canister. When she crawled out of the SUV’s backseat in the parking lot it reminded me of Neil Armstrong’s moon walk.

But this didn’t dampen anyone’s spirit. And the bride promised me the day would be fun when she invited me. She was hellbent on this.

I don’t usually cover weddings. For one thing, I live in a wedding capital of Florida. Anyone from the Panhandle has seen so many weddings they can lip sync with the preacher.

Personally, I have worked dozens of jobs

involved with the wedding industry. I’ve been a caterer in a bowtie who takes your empty plate and asks if you want another champagne. I’ve been in the band, playing “I Can’t Help Falling in Love,” or “Mustang Sally.”

I’ve tended bar. Which is misery. Many people have no idea how hard it is tending bar for a party. If you want to know what it’s like, imagine that you are a fire hydrant at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

Everyone visits you. Sometimes all at once. People scream their drink orders without waiting their turn. Some get impatient. And impatience spreads like a virus among the wicked.

“Hey, pal, how ‘bout my PBRs?!” “No, I wanted ONE olive in my martini, dummy!” “Beefeater? I don’t drink Beefeater gin, you boob!” “Hello? Where’s my beer?” “Easy on the cranberry juice!”

It is heart-endangering…