George wanted to be a musician. He was born to a working-class family. His mom was the daughter of a minister. His dad was a barber.

His mom supported her son’s passion, but his dad was deadset against it. Music was a waste of time. Frivolity. George’s dad wanted him to be a barber, just like his old man. He prohibited any music in his household.

So George’s mom took matters into her own hands. She secretly bought a secondhand keyboard and placed it in the attic, where George’s father couldn’t see or hear it.

George would practice when his father was at work. Sometimes, spending all day practicing scales in the attic.

As an adult, music became George’s career. He actually became quite famous. He wrote for important people. He performed in prestigious places. But the life of a musician is an unsteady one. Audiences are fickle. Trends move fast.

As he aged, George’s career took a downturn. Nobody wanted his brand of music anymore. It was too old-school. Audiences wanted young

blood, new talent, rebels with weird hairstyles. Not old-geezer musicians who looked like your dad’s barber.

Before long, George was washed up. Work disappeared. He was drowning in debt. Soon, he was accepting donated food just to survive.

Sometimes he wished he’d listened to his dad. But it was too late to become a barber now. God knows, he was no spring chick. George was 56. This, during an era when average life expectancy for males was 45 or 50. People George’s age were considered seniors.

He downsized. He relocated to Ireland with his proverbial tail between his legs. Maybe he could find work there. Earn some money. Perhaps, rebuild whatever career he had left.

He was forced to take a job as an organist for a small Irish church. Also, he accepted charity gigs performing for places like local hospitals, prisons, and institutions for the mentally…

Meredith is a good Catholic woman. A mother of three. A pillar in her church. So, I can only assume this story about her father is true, since good Catholics never lie.

It was 1939. America was swallowed in a Great Depression. Everyone’s old man was either out of work or about to be.

The 16-year-old kid was walking home from work, carrying a loaf of bread beneath his arm. His jeans were covered in white flour. There was flour in his hair. He had flour in crevices of the body he didn’t even know existed.

After his father died, the boy dropped out of school to work at the bread factory. The job paid poorly. But it was worth the trouble because he was around food all day. His mother worked two jobs. But they were falling behind.

On the walk home, the boy stopped by the church. He knocked on the parish priest’s office door.

“I brought you sourdough this time, Father,” said the boy.

The old cleric looked up from his desk. “Oh, I love

sourdough.”

The clergyman knew the bread cost the boy more money than he had. The bread factory did not merely give away products to employees. But this bread was part of the deal.

“Are you ready for work?” said the priest with a paternal smile.

“Yes, Father.”

They walked outside to the church shed. The priest unlocked the garage door, then flicked on the lights. A half-demolished Packard sat beneath the humming lights. Dented, dinged, and rusted.

The priest popped the hood.

“Tonight we’ll begin repairing the engine block,” the old man said. “We’re going to be welding. You ever welded, son?”

“No, Father.”

“Then this is going to take a while. ”

They spent all night beneath the heavy engine, wearing goggles. They worked until 1 a.m.

This all started when the priest visited the junkyard, looking for a car to…

It was quite a day. Not the kind of day you’d expect to have inside a prison.

The holidays were fast approaching when the inmates walked into the prison’s Bible college room and were swallowed by pink.

Huge pink swaths of decorative fabric, draped from the ceiling. Pink carpets. Pink tablecloths. Pink flowers.

They weren’t dressed like inmates, either. All 29 of them wore donated tuxedos. Bowties. Shined shoes. Buttoniers, made of fresh-cut flowers. The kinds of outfits you’d never expect to wear inside Angola.

Welcome to Louisiana State Penitentiary, otherwise known as “Angola.” The facility lies smack dab in West Feliciana Parish. This is the largest state prison in the U.S. You’re looking at over 18,000 acres, 28 square miles of land, and about 6,000 inmates.

“This ain’t just a prison,” says one inmate. “Angola’s a town.”

And just like a small city, it comes with its own social norms, folkways, and culture. Prison culture hardens most inmates beyond recognition.

One Angola prisoner explains: “Imagine a thousand more such daily intrusions in your life. Every

hour and minute of every day, and you can grasp the source of this paranoia, this anger that could consume me at any moment if I lost control.”

Inmate Leslie Harris is serving a decades-long sentence for armed robbery. He’s been inside for a while. He probably won’t get out before his daughter’s first prom or graduation. He will likely miss her wedding.

But tonight, the rules of Leslie’s reality were suspended for a moment—albeit a brief one.

His evening began when 37 inmate daughters were turned loose to reunite with their inmate dads.

The girls exploded beneath floral arches and walkways, adorned with rose petals, and made pictures with their fathers. Daughters ranged from ages 5 to 20. They were wearing evening gowns. Hair fixed. Makeup. There were enough corsages to start a community rose garden.

Leslie’s daughter surprised him from behind. He…

My blind coonhound sits before our fireplace. Staring into nothingness. Caught in the darkness of her own visionless world.

“Marigold,” I call to her. I’m using my high-pitched dog falsetto.

There is an important reason I use this voice. I speak this way so I can effectively sound like an idiot. Dogs love idiots.

“What’re you doing, Mary?” I ask.

Her tail wags, ever so gently. But she simply continues gazing with her dead eye into the whistling, steaming logs.

Before we adopted Marigold, an angry hunter paid a lot of money for her as a puppy. When he discovered she was gunshy, he beat her until she went blind.

She was found chained behind a tire shop, starving. That man is still walking around, somewhere in this world, breathing free air. Whereas she lives in darkness.

I close my eyes and try to join her sightless world for a moment.

The smells of a fireplace are intoxicating. I smell woodsmoke, but that’s about all. Namely, because I am a big, goofy human. Humans can’t smell much of anything.

Humans consider themselves to be God’s most noble and cherished work of art—they’ve announced this to the world many times. But I think it’s important to note, God has admitted that, for a work of art, there’s a lot of room for improvement.

For my money, a dog is God’s masterwork. Humans are not smart enough to realize how smart dogs are.

Recently, a Border Collie named Chaser, from South Carolina, learned 1,022 words, and could distinguish between different objects by name. Scientists had no idea dogs possessed this kind of brain power.

And in the early ‘90s, Rico, another Border Collie, demonstrated a dog’s neurological ability for “fast mapping,” a skill human toddlers use for learning new words. Whenever Rico heard a new object-word, he would select the only unfamiliar object in the room, then narrow his choices down.

Scientists…

Tony James stood holding a cardboard sign on the street corner, caught in the cold drizzle.

Damp clothes. Sun-beaten skin. Moving around to keep from shivering.

Nobody really paid attention to Tony. Motorists sped around him. Most refusing to roll down windows. Avoiding eye contact.

Tony had become urban wallpaper. Almost invisible to civilized eyes. You see Tonys all the time. Standing at a stoplight. Asking for handouts. Most drivers just keep driving. Some might catch a glimpse of the little cardboard sign as they whiz past, which usually says something like, “God bless,” or “anything helps,” or “thank you.”

Tony’s sign read: “VETERAN.”

Tony James is a 44-year-old Navy vet. Tall and lean. Nice smile. This last year has been hard.

First, his appendix burst. The surgery was supposed to be straightforward, but there were complications. Mounting medical debts drained his bank account.

Then, Tony and his girlfriend lost their house and moved into their car with both of their pets: One medium-sized dog, named Elvis, and one 250-pound pot-bellied hog named Roscoe. It was only

supposed to be temporary. Just until they figured something out.

One month later, Tony’s girlfriend of 13 years died of a heart attack.

“When it rains it pours,” says Tony. “I’d like to think I got broad shoulders and I can handle things, but…” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and sniffs.

So Tony was alone. Living in his car. With his dog. And his pig.

Roscoe the hog is about the size of a General Electric residential appliance, with coarse bristles on his back, and thick tusks growing outward from his upper jaw. Feeding a pig the size of a college draft-pick linebacker isn’t cheap. But Roscoe isn’t just a pig. Roscoe is Tony’s baby.

“My wife adopted Roscoe when he was just a piglet,” says Tony. “He’s like our son. I’d never let anything happen to him.”

And so it…

We arrived at the Christmas tree lot after dark. My wife and I walked the long aisles of pinery, scrutinizing each tree as though it were asking for our kid’s hand in marriage.

Most trees were standing erect, like soldiers undergoing inspection. Others were slumping like they were tired of playing the game.

I noticed a large family also looking at trees. They were in our aisle. Their oldest son was extremely tall. Very skinny. But very young. Maybe 15 years old, towering over all other customers by at least a foot. He had the face of an infant.

I had seen this family in the parking lot earlier. They had arrived in a rusted economy vehicle. Their clothes looked worn. And even though it was 30-odd degrees outside, some of the kids were wearing Dollar General-style flip flops.

“Which tree do we we want?” the boy’s mom asked her children.

The tall boy’s brothers and sisters meandered from tree to tree, thoughtfully remarking on each one, as though the trees were people.

“Oh, this one looks so happy!”

said one.

“No, I like this one!” said the boy’s kid sister as she shook the tree’s hand.

Meantime, the tall young man was staring at a lone tree. It was small, and seemed as though it had undergone a lifetime of malnourishment. The branches were skimpy, the trunk was not true, the top leader was crooked.

“I like this one,” the tall boy said.

“THAT one?” exclaimed Mom. “It’s puny.”

But it was too late. The boy had evidently already bonded with the tree.

“We are NOT getting that tree,” said Mom. “Are you out of your mind? I’m not wasting our money on that one.”

The boy was soft spoken and sincere. “Please, Mama.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

The boy explained to his mother that nobody else was going to buy this tree. It was too different. Too lean. The…

It was Christmas Eve. Pa arrived back at the cabin in the wagon. His buckboard was loaded with crates and supplies. It was snowing heavily in the Appalachians that night.

Ma and the four little girls rushed outside to help Pa unload, each child carrying heavy crates, trudging through the snow crust, fighting wind and frost.

When they finished unloading, the family was winded, huddled inside the one-room log shack, around the rock-and-mud fireplace, warming themselves.

The interior of the rough-hewn cabin was bitingly cold, and still smelled of pinesap. Their father had only finished building this cabin three days ago. It was small and crudely built. But it was theirs.

Pa collapsed in front of the hearth. His beard, painted with ice. His face, rosy from the cold, like a tomato.

“Himmel, ist das kalt!” said Pa, warming his hands.

“English, Papa,” said Ma, who forbade Deustch in her household. They were Americans now, and she insisted they speak as such.

“Sorry,” Pa said. “I

said, ‘Ist so colt outside, I cannot feel my Popo!’” Then he patted his rear for effect.

The children laughed.

“Papa?” said Saskia, the youngest, who was wearing all her winter clothes at once. The thick layers made her look like a giant stuffed animal. “Did you buy us Geschenke?”

“English, Saskia,” said Ma. “The English word is ‘gifts.’”

Pa’s face broke into a wide smile. “Gifts! Of course! I have one big, special Christmas gift for all my kleine Mädchen tonight!”

The children released peels of joy.

With that, Pa walked out to the wagon. The girls anxiously watched as Pa removed a wheel from the wagon using a mallet. He did this every night so nobody would steal their wagon.

This wagon was all they owned. Pa had spent their life savings…

Letters from the children of Christmas Past.

RHINELANDER, WI—1933. Dear Santa Claus, I am sorry I haven’t wrote before but my pet dog got his leg broke and I thought we would hafta have him killed but he will get well.

…I am nine years old and bring me, dear old Santa, what you think is best for me. But as long as my dog will get well that is all I ask you. But I would like to see you.

Bye-bye, dear Santa,
Wayne Akey

CHICAGO—1901. Dear Saint Nicholaus, I love you next to God. So if you can please bring me a billygote.

ST. LOUIS—1886. Dear Mr. Santa Claus: You forgot me last year, Christmas. Please don’t forget me this Christmas. I’ll pray every night to you to bring me a doll, and slate, first reader and a school dress.

Love, Carrie.

PORT ANGELES, WA—1931. Dear Santa Clas, please help my mom and dad this Christmas. My dad is not working anymore. We don’t get many food now. My mom gives

us the food she would eat. Please help my mom an dad. I want to go to Heven too be with the angels. Can you bring me to Heven? My mom an dad woud not have too by things for me no more. That would make them happy…

I live in my house like last year. We got candils. A city man took the lights a way. It looks like we don’t live heer no more. We do. I will wate for you too come in my room. I will not slep.

Wen you give my dad a job and some food too my mom I will go with you and the rain deer. Merry Christmas too you Mrs. Clas too the elfs too.

Love, Thad.

WISCONSIN—1933. Dear Santa, we are four little children. We live on an old country farm. Our daddy is away from…

One hundred years ago, America is unrecognizable from its modern-day counterpart.

Booze is illegal. Movies are silent. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s new book is a smash hit.

Baseball is everything. Major League baseball is still young, only in its 28th season. Games are held in the daytime, $0.50 per ticket. Babe Ruth sucks this year. Fans wear Sunday clothes to the ballpark.

Laundry is done by hand. Indoor plumbing is a thing, but only for rich folks. Electricity is becoming common, but only in big cities.

In small towns, they still use kerosene lamps and candles. In the rural parts, if you walk into a general store and ask for a lightbulb, they’ll take their teeth out and laugh at you.

Being a teen in 1925 is no cakewalk. Most teens in the US have a hard life. Education is a luxury. About 8 million people are illiterate. Finishing high-school is a rarity. Less than 20 percent of US kids even attend high school.

Most young people start full-time work in their teens,

jumping straight into a 60-hour work week. An average middle-class worker labors for 60 to 75 hours per week and earns an annual income of approximately $1,500.

Automobiles are a big deal. They are affordable now, thanks to the Model T Ford, which costs about $260 for a basic no-frills model.

Many Americans, however, are still resistant to the idea of things like cars, electricity, and radios. These tech advancements will bring about massive change, and change scares the you-know-what out of people.

Life isn’t supposed to be electrified or motorized or broadcast or incandescent or combustible or loud.

Speaking of loud. Jazz music is everywhere. It’s all you hear on radios and Victrolas. Old timers ceremoniously hate this music. It’s chaotic, rebellious and nonsensical. Noisy and obnoxious.

Today, however, kids are being raised by the radio because of lazy parents who just don’t give a dadgum.

The…

Wake up early. Still dark outside. It is 30-odd degrees on Lake Martin and I can’t feel my unmentionables.

The 1940s cabin is poorly insulated. You could store Ben & Jerry’s products in the living room.

I make coffee. Sit on the couch, wedging myself between sleeping dogs. I warm my frozen hands by touching the tender canine flesh of their warm underbellies. The dogs all give me disgusted looks when they feel my icy hands groping them.

My sister wakes up. She tiptoes into the living room. Hair askew. Wearing PJs. We sit together, drinking coffee. And just for a moment I’m 14 years old again, as we talk of olden times.

My wife awakes. The dogs all spring off the couch when they hear my wife’s footsteps in the hall, performing deep yoga stretches to celebrate her arrival. They do not do this for me.

Next, the rest of my sister’s crew is awake. Little girls in pajamas are rushing in and out of the kitchen, singing and playing, crying and tattling,

laughing and shouting. Dogs are chasing them. And I’m wondering if it’s too early to start drinking.

My wife looks at me and laughs. She says, “Mazel tov!” for some reason. Even though we are not Jewish.

The cooking marathon commences. My wife and my sister have been preparing food for days. My wife operates her kitchen like the captain of a German U-boat. Her cool glare toward all males who enter her ship’s cockpit is frightening.

So, I become invisible.

I don a canvas jacket, and wander outside. I am preparing the cabin’s exterior for the upcoming onslaught at noon. I rake the yard, leaf-blow the driveway, and chase one runaway bloodhound across nearly a mile of gravel roads.

Next, I build a fire in the firepit. I am the male of my family. I am the bringer of fire. I continually walk around the…