Pull into the parking garage. It’s packed. No parking spaces. Behind your vehicle is a line of vehicles, headlights blaring.

In your mirror, you can see motorists behind you, all shaking heads, because you are all playing the infamous parking-lot game, Follow the Leader. And apparently you’re the leader.

When you finally find a parking spot, you’re already late. You jump out of the vehicle and watch the angry motorists speed past you.

You half-jog to the elevators. You’re running VERY late.

In the elevator is a little boy and his mother. They are both carrying overnight bags. Mom looks like she hasn’t slept in eight years. The boy looks worried. He’s so serious.

“Mom?” the boy asks. “Do you think Caleb’s surgery worked?”

Mom flashes an uncomfortable look and tells the boy to hush because they are in an elevator with strangers and it’s not polite to blab your business to strangers.

The boy falls quiet. But there is genuine angst in his mannerisms.

And you’re wondering who Caleb is.

You all get off at the second floor and disappear into the hospital. You are now walking through a huge glass crosswalk, with downtown Birmingham traffic far below you.

You keep pace alongside a gaggle of young, college-age women in pink scrubs. They are laughing and carrying UAB backpacks.

Behind them are two men, doctors maybe, also in scrubs, stethoscopes dangling from their necks, with briefcases, carrying on an in-depth discussion about football.

When you arrive in the lobby, you can tell this hospital was specifically designed for kids. The bright colors. The wacky, vivid artwork everywhere.

In the lobby of this great building are people from all walks, standing around, all waiting for Heaven knows what. Mostly families. There are families of every shape, color, and creed.

You see a family of five, all wearing…

Marriages are down 60 percent since the ‘70s. Divorce rates are soaring. And the New York Times reported that more 40-year-olds are choosing to live alone than ever before.

Another recent survey of U.S. high-schoolers showed that the percentage of 12th graders who have ever dated has fallen 85 percent since the ‘80s. It has fallen another 50 percent within just the LAST FIVE YEARS.

What the heck is going on? Why aren’t people dating, or getting married? What’s to blame? I can’t answer that, I’m too busy scrolling my phone right now.

Nevertheless, one marital expert chimes in.

“The problem is risk. People want guarantees these days. We are a nation of consumers, and consumers require return policies. We need guarantees.”

Another psychologist has a different assessment. “It’s helicopter parenting that’s killing marriage. How can a 20-year-old decide to get married when they haven’t ever built a fort in the woods or ever played House?”

Well, I decided to approach the marriage crisis by asking random people to

give their opinions and advice on the institution of matrimony.

Gary and Delores have been married for 54 years. Gary says: “My 38-year-old son has never been married. Recently he asked what it’s like to be married, so I told him to ‘LEAVE ME ALONE!’ When he did, I asked why he was ignoring me.”

Simon and Anne have been married 62 years. They were married the same year Kennedy was shot. “Marriage is simple. You can either be happy or you can be right. But you can’t be both. Too many people want to be both.”

Lydia and Eddie, 48 years: “Nobody tells you that you don’t fall in love before you’re married. It takes years and years to fall in love. A little more every day.”

Pearl and Jacob say: “People don’t realize that you actually can survive on love. They’ve been told otherwise.”

It was almost kickoff. All my gameday preparations were in order. Life was good.

We were all gathered in the backyard, bundled in warm clothes, with lows hovering around 50°F. The fire pit was roaring. The beer was cold enough to break your molars. My dogs were begging for food from anyone who could fog up a mirror.

The television was sitting on my deck, with extension cords snaking across our yard. The volume was at the maximum setting.

The televised tumult of a 90,278-person crowd inside Los Angeles County’s Rose Bowl Stadium was blaring through the feeble Samsung speakers.

God wanted Alabama to win. That much we knew.

The Rose Bowl pregame segments were steadily broadcasted on the screen. Lots of player footage. Lots of round-table discussions. And an onslaught of roughly 10 million prescription drug commercials.

Also, there were many expert commentators appearing on the screen, administering their deep analyses of what “needed to happen” in this game.

These pregame commentators earn millions of dollars per TV appearance, and here is an example

of the wisdom they impart:

“Yeah, John, listen, this game is about running the ball, you have to run the ball, running the ball is key, even when you don’t want to run the ball you have to run the ball, then you have to run it again, you keep running the ball, because running the ball is everything, John, and if you run the ball, the fact is simple, you’re a team who runs the ball…”

I don’t want my dogs hearing this.

So I mute the TV. Then, I tend to the fire while Alabama rushes the field. Soon, we are all hollering. Even my dogs are making noise.

Alabama has a chance at the National Championship this year. And even if you aren’t a football fan, you know the National Championship is a big deal simply because of its namesake.

I have…

The Old Year is perishing into oblivion. The New Year is crowning, with new blessings to bestow. And I am standing in a self-checkout lane listening to a computer tell me there is an unknown item in the bagging area.

There is no cashier around to assist me. At least I THINK you call them “cashiers.” Although they don’t handle much cash anymore.

Yesterday, for example, in a big-name retail store, my cashier paged his manager for help because he didn’t know how to make correct change when I asked him to break a $100-dollar bill. This cashier was in his mid-thirties.

“You can’t call them ‘cashiers’ anymore,” says one fellow shopper, whose self-checkout computer is also saying there is an unknown item in her bagging area.

We are both waiting for assistance. That’s what the computer tells us to do.

“Saying ‘cashier’ is outdated,” my new friend says. “You’re supposed to call them ‘checkout associates.’”

Meanwhile, both our machines are speaking to us, at the same time, using loud, authoritative, apathetic, computerized voices, akin to a 1968 Stanley Kubrick sci-fi film.

My fellow shopper is frazzled, like me. Our self-checkout warning lights are blinking, with huge monolith beacons above our heads.

The whole store is staring at us. Two felons, caught redhanded, committing the very serious offense of forgetting to weigh our produce.

There are flashing messages on both of our display screens, reading, “¡Artículo desconocido en el área de empaquetado!”

Finally an employee finds us.

The young cashier/sales technician/digital-sales associate comes jogging from the breakroom. She is wearing her work vest. She is chewing food, as though we have interrupted her lunch.

She looks just as disgusted with these machines as we are.

She scans her card, punches in the correct code. “We’re short staffed,” she explains.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It looks like we’ve interrupted your lunch.”

The employee shrugs. “It’s no problem. I’m used to it.…

A lot has changed in a year. The entire world has changed. Many will tell you that 2025 has been full of bad stuff—the media, for example.

Tune in to the news. You will see footage of explosions, nuclear weapons, and random acts of reality TV. But if you look deeper, you’ll see good peeking through the surface.

For starters, on September 12, Betty Kellenberger made history by becoming the oldest woman to complete a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail.

Betty began her hike, amazingly, almost immediately after knee replacement surgery. She traversed muddy bogs, snow, cold rain, and impossible rocks.

After completing her hike she told reporters, “I decided the Lord must love rocks because He made so many of them.”

Betty Kellenberger is 80 years old.

Also, Americans are making true progress in the fight against technological slavery. As of December, 35 U.S. states and Washington, D.C., have enacted laws effectively banning student cellphone usage in classrooms.

Now, if only

we could get Congress to ban speakerphone calls in supermarkets.

Also, this year, Japan elected its first female prime minister, Sanae Takaichi, shattering a centuries-old glass ceiling.

Takaichi is turning out to be a real go-getter, saying she sleeps two hours per night, “four hours at the longest.” Her first words in office were: "I will abandon the idea of a 'work-life balance'—I will work, work, work, work and work.”

Takaichi’s husband has likewise pledged to abandon the “work-life balance idea” and commits to playing significantly more golf.

The world also got its first American Pope, Robert Francis Prevost. Pope Leo XIV was born in Chicago, raised in Dolton, Illinois, and he roots for the White Sox. Unfortunately, there is a conflict of interest inasmuch as God is a Braves fan.

Either way, Pope “Bob” is a regular guy. That’s why people love him. He watches movies.…

The following story was mailed to me by a woman named Carole. The letter was written in pencil.

Carole’s mother was young. Twenty-two years old. She was married and pregnant with her second child. The year was 1945.

The War was freshly over. The Depression was still a recent memory. Carole’s mother wanted to buy her husband a gift for his birthday. He was turning 25.

Her husband had just gotten back from Europe. He had helped liberate the French. Viva la France.

He was battleworn. He was scarred all over. He wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the shrapnel, it was that he’d seen too much.

He got a job working as a janitor for a public school. It wasn’t a great job, but it put food on their table and diapers on their baby.

It was going to be a sparse birthday. The young mother only had $9. She was a homemaker who kept her loose change in a tin biscuit box. She saved up quarters and dimes and nickels in the box.

Only silver. No pennies.

One day, the mother was out shopping for her husband. She was going to buy him a pipe or a bottle of whiskey or something like that. But she met a man on the street.

The man was selling pencils. He had one leg. He was partly blind. He was singing songs to passersby. He was covered in rags. He, too, had been in the War. And he had the injuries to prove it.

She watched him grovel to pedestrians. And she watched people ignore the man. Something moved her. Something compelled the young mother to give him the box of money. It was only $9. But in 1945, 9 bucks was a lot of bread.

He cried when she gave it to him.

“I can’t take this,” he said.

“I want you to have it.”

“Why are you carrying around a…

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…