My 13th birthday. Mama is driving. It is overcast outside. My kid sister is in the back seat, talking up a blue streak. I’m in the passenger seat, staring out the window.

We have just eaten pizza, I think. Or maybe it was Chinese we ate for my birthday. Either way, the birthday celebration is over—if you can call it “celebration”—and now we are heading back home.

Mama asks if I’m having a good birthday. I nod. But I don’t mean it.

I’m quiet. I’m always quiet. Ever since my father died several years ago, I just stay quiet. I don’t know why. Not much to say, I guess.

I think adults are sometimes concerned about me because I used to be so animated. I used to get up on stage at school, sing for plays, and act in silly musicals. I used to sing at church like I was auditioning for the Stamps Quartet. But now I’m mute.

“You sure you’re having a good birthday?” says Mama.

I nod again.

There are all these feelings inside me I can’t describe. I neither have

the vocabulary, nor the life experience to accurately diagnose myself.

I’m kind of angry, that much I know. But not at anyone in particular. Also, I’m depressed. I know that, too. But I don’t really know why.

“Birthdays just suck,” I explain to my mother.

I’m not supposed to say “suck.” It’s bad language. But my mother lets it slide because (a) I’m a teenager now, and (b) on some level, she knows I’m right.

And so we just drive. I watch cattle pastures go by. I watch miles of wire fencing roll past. I wish the sun would come out because I am a sun-aholic; I’m sad whenever it’s cloudy.

But it’s always overcast on my birthdays because my birthday is always in December and the sun won’t shine in December. Plus, December birthdays mean…

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…

Christmas morning. It was still dark outside. The children were all snug in their beds.

Their air mattresses and cots were scattered around the double-wide trailer, perched in each nook. A battalion of space heaters were humming.

Let’s call her Elizabeth. Elizabeth awoke early. She was smiling.

She was the oldest foster kid in the group home. At age 13, she was a veteran here. Her deep black hair was the color of coal. Her rosy cheeks, like candy apples.

She could hardly stand herself from the excitement. And it wasn’t because of the Christmas festivities ahead. Namely, because there weren’t any.

Usually, for Christmas, the kids all received one toy apiece. The toys came from a local charity who donated minorly broken or lightly used toys. Sometimes, the kids received donated coats and mittens. But that was about all.

The Christmas meal would be frozen lasagna and canned green beans, lovingly prepared by the Methodist church.

Elizabeth had prepared a surprise of her own this morning for her foster consociates.

She woke Peter first, quietly. The little boy

opened his crusty eyes.

Elizabeth hushed him. “Ssssh! Don’t wake anyone else.”

She handed Peter a small package.

The package was wrapped in newspaper, with candy canes, hand drawn with magic marker.

Peter tore open the small box.

Inside was an old baseball, painted yellow and black with tempura paint. The ball had a little face, a wide open mouth, with a cute pink tongue.

“I know how much you love Pac-Man,” said Elizabeth. “So I made you Pac-Man.”

Peter gave her the biggest hug.

Next, Elizabeth awoke Helen and her brother, Danny. Helen received homemade clip-on earrings, made of twisted baling wire and dried candy corn. Danny received a handmade book of racecars which must have taken days to create.

Sarah was next. The sad, sullen girl who never said more than a few words. Her biological mother had abused…

A supermarket checkout line. Cheesy holiday music is playing overhead. Not the fun kind of cheesy music, but the kind once heard in Kmart á la 1973.

There is an old man at the head of our long checkout line, standing at the register. He digs through his pockets, but keeps coming up empty handed.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he says to the cashier. “I must’ve left my wallet at home.”

He is embarrassed, and the young cashier is unsure about what to do.

I am watching this entire exchange closely because I am a columnist who writes human interest stories.

We columnists must keep our observational reflexes honed as sharp as wiffle-ball bats. We have to stay ready because we are not real writers.

Writers are inspired artists and poets. Columnists are factory-line workers who take whatever stories they can get.

Your big-time writer is a person with incredibly poignant things to say about life and the profundity of the human condition; they have grand ambitions of someday winning a major literary award,

and possibly having a “New York Times” best-smeller.

Whereas a columnist’s highest aspiration is for someone to cut his or her column out of the paper and hang it on the refrigerator.

So columnists have to work harder than true writers because we can’t rely on inspiration. Besides, our job is not to be inspired, but to constantly find new stories. This is not simple work. Therefore, most of the time you find me writing about key social issues such as, say, my dogs.

But the beauty of all this is, every once in a while a column will actually fall into your lap.

This is a rare thing indeed, and one of the most precious things that can happen to a stringer of words. Your task as a columnist is to be mindful enough to notice this pivotal moment is occurring, then to ignore it and…

Dearest Jamie,

I’m going to be honest. In our two decades of marriage, I have never known exactly what our roles are. It’s never been clear to me. I’ve always been confused about hierarchy in our household.

See, when I was a kid I was led to believe that males were supposed to “wear the pants” of the family. But that’s not you and me.

I became acutely aware of this about ten minutes into our marriage when you signed all the checks, paying the wedding florists, photographers, and caterers. Then you wrote a check to me.

I asked what my check was for.

You replied, “It’s your monthly allowance.”

I quickly realized that I would not be wearing the proverbial pants of our family. I would be wearing the proverbial yoga pants. And I’m okay with that.

Because the truth is, you’re stronger than I am. It’s just a fact.

Used to, it made me feel like less of a man to know that my wife was made of tougher mettle than I was. But not anymore. No, these

days I’m just proud to be loved by such a sturdy person.

And you are sturdy. That’s why you’re the one who does the important stuff in our life. You do the planning, the organizing, the deep thinking, the bill-paying, the technical troubleshooting.

You are the one who keeps our world going. Without you, it’s a mess.

Which is why after you visited Canada for your friend’s wedding, the day you returned home, the fire department was parked in our front lawn. Sirens flashing. The fireman informed you that it was the third time they’d visited our house in the last week. He also took away my deep-fryer.

You are a powerful woman, not just psychologically, but in body. When I had back surgery, for example, and the doctor told me that I shouldn’t lift anything over 10 pounds, you…

It’s hard to choose my favorite Christmas movie. Each time I try to pick one, I’m afraid I’ll shoot my eye out.

There are, of course, obligatory holiday movies which bring to mind one’s parents and grandparents. A period in post-war national history which featured Buicks Roadmasters, Hula Hoops, and pineapple upside down cakes made almost completely of mayonnaise. This era features movies such as “Miracle on 34th Street” (1947); “A Christmas Carol” (1951); and “White Christmas” (1954).

Those are all great movies. But what about the spiritually inspired cinematic manifesto of the Great American Dysfunctional Family, “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” (1989)? A film which, over the years, has brought me more joy than nearly anything including most major religions.

Somewhere at the top of my movie list sits “A Christmas Story” (1983). Perhaps because, not unlike the movie’s protagonist, Ralphie, I too grew up among folks who believed no Christmas gift better embodied the True Meaning of Christ’s Birth than an American-made firearm.

There are also many

popular holiday movies which, in my opinion, suck. Such as “Home Alone” (1990). If that kid had been in my house, my mother would’ve wore his butt out. And “Edward Scissorhands” (1990), directed by Tim Burton, the man who ruined “Dumbo” (2019). Or “Gremlins” (1984), a Christmas movie about a horde of malicious demons invading a small town and murdering the townspeople.

Do what?

No holiday movie discussion, however, is complete without mentioning the dozens of stop-motion animated TV movies by Rankin and Bass. These movies are pure childhood. “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” (1964); “Rudolph’s Shiny New Year” (1976); “Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas” (1979); “Rudolph Develops a Nasal Polyp”, etc.

I’m also a big fan of the multiple retellings of Dickens’ Ebenezer Scrooge. For my money, George C. Scott delivers a prize-winning performance in 1984’s “A Christmas Carol.”

Still, it is the Dickensian musical “Scrooge” (1970), starring Albert Finney, that takes…