I shouldn’t be braiding hair. But there I was. Giving it my best shot. 

We were in a hotel lobby. The 19-year-old sat with her back facing me. Her violent red hair in my hands. 

Hotel guests were staring at me, the middle-aged dork, unintentionally tying a young woman’s hair into knots.  

“I don’t really braid,” I explained. 

“You’re doing fine,” she said.  

Morgan cannot braid her own hair because she is paralyzed on her left side. Usually someone in her dorm braids her hair. But she’s not in a dorm. 

This weekend, she’s been trapped in a van with old people who still sing along with Brooks and Dunn.

I undid the lopsided braid. “This is a bad idea.” 

“It doesn’t have to be perfect.” 

The thing is, I used to be an okay hair-braider. This is because I had a kid sister who believed it necessary to wear her hair in a braid or else my mother would cut it off. 

My mother was obsessed with cutting hair. She owned a pair of scissors not sharpened since the Coolidge

administration, which was why my sister’s hairdo looked like she had fallen into a disagreement with a wood chipper. 

My own boyhood haircuts were even worse. My mother cut my hair by placing a mixing bowl over my head and making a series of abortive scissor cuts before finally saying, “Heck with it,” then using World-War-II-era clippers to shave me bald. My fellow Boy Scouts called me Uncle Fester. 

I unfurled the braid again. “I’m not doing a very good job.” 

“You’re doing great,” she said.  

Morgan has been a good sport this weekend. We have dragged her all over Tennessee and half of Georgia. She has let me write columns about her, even though she is painfully shy. 

We’ve spent most of our time in the van where she has been forced to participate in uninteresting old-person conversation,…

You never know how truly short life is until a 19-year-old girl, who is preceptive and sweet, and of exceptional intellect, a girl who made the university president’s list, stares at you sincerely, with warmth in her eyes, and with all her heart, calls you an “old person.” 

“I’m not old,” you almost reply. 

But she is 19, and she would not believe you. Because to this young woman, the definition of “ancient” is any person or object old enough to predate the iPhone 3G. 

Today, we went to the Tennessee Aquarium together. Three of us walked through the exhibit; the 19-year-old, my wife and my wife’s elderly husband who carried everyone’s purses.

And I watched the 19-year-old, who was genuinely impressed by the gargantuas and leviathans in the water.

We were in a room of glass. Eight hundred species swam over our heads, and another few thousand below us. 

Kids were running around everywhere. Parents were pushing strollers. Babies crying. It was your typical tourist attraction.  

But I was busy watching

the 19-year-old, walking with ease through the aquarium passageways. She admired the tropical fish, she posed for pictures on giant fiberglass turtle eggs, she fearlessly shoved her hand into the water to pet the stingrays. 

You would have never known that this girl has spent most of last year in the hospital, in critical care. 

You would never look at this red-haired marvel and notice that she is paralyzed on her left side. Not unless you saw her clutching my arm as we used the escalator. You would never know this girl is on a TPN feeding tube, which is a form of life support. 

You would only see a brilliant young woman, living her life. Living this life so fully, so everlastingly, that it almost makes you feel ashamed of yourself. 

For she knows how to live with a whole heart. She knows how to find…

Wake up. Start coffeemaker. Turn on TV. A panicky news journalist is saying America is doomed and only minutes away from exploding. And if not America, at least my house. 

Turn off TV. 

Coffee is ready. Pour said coffee. Check my phone. Look at emails. The first subject line attracts my attention. “YOU ARE NOT A TRUE AMERICAN IF YOU DON’T READ THIS!!!” 

I want to be a true American, but for the next few minutes I’ll have to settle for being a fallacious one. Namely, because it’s a little early to be reading anything in all caps. 

Sip coffee. Massage eyeballs. Leash up dogs. Take them outside for morning walks. It’s still dark.

My dog doesn’t want to pee. So we walk in tight, concentric circles through the neighborhood as I whisper-shout, “Go pee!” As though these two words have ever helped a canine successfully urinate within the long and noble history of dogdom. 

I check my phone. To give my dog privacy. Hop on social media. My newsfeed is nothing but

politics. What ever happened to cute kitty videos? 

The first post I see shows the picture of an American flag covered in mud, or perhaps it's a more organic substance. The first words are: “PREPARE TO HAVE YOUR MIND TOTALLY FREAKING BLOWN AMERICA!” 

The user who shared the brain blasting patriotic item is my childhood Sunday school teacher. A woman whose wardrobe once consisted entirely of polyester. Her profile picture is a bald eagle wearing a bikini. 

Soon, I am walking through a dark neighborhood near my house. My dog is sniffing the millions of locations where other dogs peed. I’m encouraging my dog to leave her mark on this world so we can go back home. 

Surrounding me are yard signs galore. There must be hundreds, perched in everyone’s yards. Each sign has some urgent message. Some political aphorism or watchword, printed in bold letters.…

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…

To the three servicemen who died in a midair collision on Wednesday in Washington DC. I’m sorry. 

I’m sorry for everything. Not just the tragedy itself. I’m sorry for all the crap that came after. All the fussing and fighting. The postulating. For all the disrespect to your memory. 

I’m sorry for the suits on TV, pointing fingers and placing blame. I’m sorry for the uneducated keyboard warriors, sitting behind laptops, violating your memory by offering excremental opinions on what you “should have done,” or “why this happened.” 

In fact, I’m sorry for the millions of people online who participated in disgusting trajectory. Who leave comments on social-media posts about this catastrophe, about your alleged roles in it, and who offer up their own political rants.

As if politics has anything to do with the precious life you lived. 

These people are talking out of their rearmost orifices. 

And so, to the Army pilot who remains unnamed. To the other pilot, Chief Warrant Officer 2, Andrew Eaves, from Brooksville, Mississippi. And to crew chief and

Georgia native, Ryan O’Hara. We all owe you an apology. 

Because we have all accidentally partaken in watching your memory get smeared by a bunch of buttheads with microphones and Twitter/X accounts.  

Following the disaster, Officer Eaves’s wife wrote: 

“We ask that you pray for our family and friends and for all the other families that are suffering today. We ask for peace while we grieve.”

Peace while she grieves. That’s what she wanted. That’s what we should have given her. But we Americans didn’t.

We Americans are taking to social media like droves of technological drunks, gorging ourselves on “insights” and “expert opinions.” And the noise we are creating fosters anything but peace. 

So, to Sam Lilley, a pilot on American Airlines flight 5432. To the 64 souls aboard the civilian airliner. To the rescue workers, first responders, and emergency crews who…

Sixty passengers. Four crewmembers. Sixty-four people.

That’s all I heard the reporter say.  

I turned on the TV to see disaster. A plane went down in DC. The reporters were saying lots of words.

Mostly, filler words. Meaningless information. Keep the conversational ball moving. Keep talking even if it doesn’t make sense. No dead air. 

But all I heard was: “There were sixty-four people aboard the aircraft.”  

Sixty-four. 

Sixty-four people. That’s 64 families. That’s 64 grieving moms and dads. Sixty-four bereaved brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, sons, daughters, friends, coworkers, bosses. Sixty-four pets maybe, still waiting at the windowsill. 

The plane left Dwight D. Eisenhower National Airport in Wichita. Bound for Washington DC. A quick flight. Two hours and 45 minutes, max. 

The flight was almost over. Sixty passengers would have been gathering up their crap. Shoving books into backpacks. Using the john one last time. Killing the last of their complimentary coffees. 

Crewmembers might have been collecting final remnants of garbage, flashing professional smiles to passengers. In the cockpit, they would

have been relaxed since the airport was just ahead. 

BOOM. 

The plane collided with a US Army Blackhawk helicopter. Midair. Above the midnight water of the Potomac River. And it was all over. 

The resulting scene was scary. Like a bad dream. Emergency lights as far as the eye could see. Ambulances, fire trucks, police cruisers, rescue watercraft galore. Hundreds of first responders, diving into icy water to find survivors. The Ptomac looked like a boat parade. 

A guy driving home saw the whole thing happen. 

“Initially, I saw the plane and it looked fine. Normal. It was right about to head over land, maybe 120 feet above the water…” 

He saw the plane bank right. Almost 90 degrees. 

“I could see the underside of it. It was lit up a very bright yellow, and there was a stream of sparks underneath it” and then…