It hangs from my porch, slack on a breezeless day. It is stunning in the early sunlight. The colors are so vivid you can see them from 76 miles away. Oxide red, ivory, and ultramarine blue.

These three colors are everywhere in my neighborhood. Heck, they’re in every neighborhood in every state. They hang from patios, flagpoles, and vehicle antennas. They are plastered to bumpers, windshields, on hats, bandanas, and coffee mugs.

Sometimes you can see so many flags you forget they’re around. But believe me, they’re out there.

I’ve never done this before, but this morning I counted them. I drove around tallying up how many American flags I saw. I counted 208 within a few-mile radius. Even more if you counted the miniature flags perched in front yards.

I saw them in front windows, on warehouse rooftops, I even saw one painted on a dump truck. They hang from hardware stores, gas stations, barbecue joints, laundromats, Mexican restaurants, barber shops, assisted living facilities, newspaper offices, auto garages, churches, beer joints, synagogues, nightclubs, strip malls, vape

superstores, banks, rehabs, jails, and beach condos.

I remember seeing the Stars and Stripes in Mrs. Wilks’s kindergarten classroom. The poor woman tried to teach 18 of us kids with runny noses to recite the Pledge each morning. Her patriotic banner dangled above the chalkboard next to the alphabet posters and a painting of General Washington.

If I close my eyes, I can still see that linoleum and asbestos classroom, and I can still hear Mrs. Wilks playing the upright Mason & Hamlin while we learned the lyrics to the patriotic classics:

“...Stand beside her, and guide her…”

“...From sea to shining sea…”

“...And the rocket’s red glare…”

“...And forever in peace may you wave…”

“...My home sweet home…”

“This land is your land…”

“American woman, mama let me be…”

Well, maybe not the last one.

But you should have heard the kids…

Even though there is a lot going on in America right now, I thought you deserved a short break from TV news. Yes, I realize important things are happening in this world. But I’m going to tell you about dogs.

You can stop reading here if you would rather read something more enthralling. Believe me, I will understand.

But the reason I bring up these dogs is because after a recent column in which I mentioned Saint Bernards, the next morning I awoke to a mounding pile of emails about them. I had no idea people were so crazy about Saint Bernards.

Carrie, from Houston, emailed me several articles about the breed, and I found myself reading about these dogs all danged afternoon instead of, say, starting on my 36-month-old honey-do list.

So let’s journey across the Atlantic for a moment and go back in time. Our story opens with an ancient monastery located at 8,000 feet within the bitter Western Alps. Far, far, FAR away from cable TV.

This region

of the Alps has always been an über dangerous place. On average, 1,000 avalanches occur here each year, and they are often fatal.

If you are an alpine hiker, once you hear the crackling land-shaking boom in the distance, you are, to quote the Swiss monks, “totally screwed.” Each year about 100 people are killed in avalanches in the Alps.

Which leads us to L'Hospice du Gd-St-Bernard, a nondescript, plain-looking hostel situated off the 49-mile route that runs between Italy and Switzerland.

The monastery saw a lot of mountain travelers in its time. The monks became famous for their kindness, hospitality, piety, wisdom, and for having the most butt-kickingest homebrew beer ever.

Actually, I’m kidding about the beer. I don’t know how good it was. But what I do know is that during the seventeenth century one of these monks had the bright idea to breed dogs. And that’s…

Today I was thinking about how sometimes even though this life seems like a chaotic trainwreck of accidents, it’s not. In fact it’s the opposite. Sometimes it’s almost as though the whole thing has been scripted. Like maybe there are no accidents.

Which leads me to a story sent in by a friend. Many years ago this friend, who shall remain nameless, was driving through a little town, which shall also remain nameless. He was driving a truck, which, as far as I know, has no name either.

He was listening to music, probably some Duane and Greg. And I’ll bet he was singing along. On the side of the road he saw a sign that read: “Puppies.”

My friend is a noted dog afficiondo, and he is also dad to three kids who are dog freaks. His previous dog had passed that year and he was in the market.

The handmade signs led him to a dilapidated house. And we’re talking about a true ramshackled heap. A stiff wind could have turned this

thing into a pile of pickup sticks.

In the front yard were several kids playing. On the porch was their mother, smoking a cigarette. He leapt out of the truck and waded through the lawn of dead appliances, rusted bikes, and rain-soaked trash.

The house was even worse than he thought. There were threadbare tarps over the roof, and windows missing. The kids were in bad shape, too. They looked like they hadn’t bathed since the Punic Wars.

He saw no puppies, but there on the porch, sitting beside the woman was the most beautiful adult dog he’d ever met. A Saint Bernard.

Many people have never seen a Bernard except in the movies, and they’re unprepared for how impressive these creatures are. A Saint Bernard is not just a dog. It’s a breed that’s been around since the seventeenth century with a reputation, historically speaking,…

It’s November, but Mike is already getting the red velveteen suit from the closet. Because Christmas is getting closer, and Saint Nicholas has work to do. Namely, his dry cleaning.

The first time they ever asked Mike to play Santa he was hurt by the suggestion. Sure, he’s a bigger guy, but he didn't see himself as having a “bowlful of jelly” tummy. Still, when someone asks you to play Father Christmas they aren’t exactly asking you to pose for a Calvin Klein underwear ad.

“Yeah, I've always been overweight, but I was a little offended,” said Mike.

He played Santa anyway, and he had big fun. It came easy to him because he’s a nice guy with a cheerful face. He looks like the real deal. Over the years he’s grown into his role.

“My first professional gig was at PetSmart, in a cheap Party City suit, posing with animals. The ferrets were a hoot. But fifteen minutes before I was done, I saw this woman in line holding plastic boxes... Snakes, it had to

be snakes.”

After that, the Santa gigs kept rolling in. Soon it had become more than just a job. Mike realized he was tending to the wonder and imaginations of children.

Many people might not see the role of Santa as that important, but just think about it: where would your childhood have been without the Big Guy? It would have been in the pits, that’s where.

The magic of youth is easily extinguished by a stiff breeze. It is only kept alive by men and women who guard it with their lives. Every time a Santa puts on his suit, he is defending innocence. And every year he hears the same things all practicing Saints hear.

“My dog died.”

“My mom has cancer, I’m scared.”

“Can you bring back my dad from Heaven?”

“Will foster parents ever want to adopt me?”

And Mike…

Used to, my wife and I would keep our porch lights on for trick-or-treaters each Halloween night. We gave them homemade popcorn balls. At one time we were famous because of these popcorn confections, which were the size of regulation softballs, covered in sticky, ooey-gooey goodness.

Over the years I have seen children get into bitter arguments over these popcorn balls.

This year, however, we’re only doing pandemic-friendly plastic-wrapped candy. But then, it really wouldn’t matter what I’m handing out because there are no trick-or-treaters in sight.

Even so, I still remember when kids would climb our stoop wearing costumes purchased from department stores, or sewn by their creative mothers. You’d toss popcorn balls into their open pillowcases and they would get so excited.

After which you’d hear the voices of unseen dads in the dark saying, “Say thank you, dang it!”

Then, five or six kids would suddenly remember their manners. “Thank you!”

Oh, we would get all kinds of monsters. We’d get werewolves, vampires, swamp monsters, zombies, the undead, the extreme undead, ski-mask

killers, Texas chainsaw massacrists, and miniature congresspersons.

One time a kid came to our porch dressed as Kermit the Frog. I gave that kid a carton of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream from our freezer because his was the only costume I actually recognized among all the Jedis and licensed Disney characters. He deserved WAY more than a mere popcorn ball for that.

My yearly custom has always been to answer the door in costume. I do it for the kids. Most years I dress up as an out-of-work writer plagued by crippling self-doubt and introversion.

Sometimes we would get one or two kids whose costumes wore nothing more than glorified bedsheets with holes in them. And I would give these children extra popcorn balls because not everyone’s mom had time for costumes.

We also had a stand-offish religious family in our neighborhood who dressed…

CAPE SAN BLAS—It’s a chilly morning. The beach is unpopulated at this early hour. It’s just a big sandy patch with lots of seagulls and stray crabs that run sideways. And, of course, me.

I’m walking because this is what I do when I can’t find something to write about. I walk. It works like a charm. Usually, after enough walking, reflection, and literary contemplation, I end up pulling a hamstring. Then I write about it.

But not today. Because about five minutes into my walk I notice Them. They are walking directly behind me, holding hands, leaning on each other. If I didn’t know any better I’d swear they were a four-legged love monster.

I turn back to look at the young sweethearts. They are right on my tail. There’s a huge beach out here, yet they’re practically following me.

Don’t get me wrong, love is wonderful stuff. I’m a big fan. But is there anything more irritating than a young person punchdrunk with love? I submit no.

It’s a wonder that my friends didn’t tie me up and lock me in a closet after

I first met my wife.

I can’t get these young lovers off my bumper. When I stop, they stop. When I walk, they walk. And even their conversation, which I can hear clearly, is getting on my nerves.

“I love shells.”

“Yeah, they’re great.”

“Where do seashells come from?”

“I think from little ocean trees.”

“So, they’re, like, plants or something?”

“Yeah, like underwater shell trees.”

Sound of kissing.

“I love underwater shell trees, Justin.”

You have to worry about America.

I decide to start walking the other direction and leave Bogey and Bacall to their philosophy discussion. To be fair, they seem like very good kids, but I am trying to cure writer’s block this morning. I need privacy.

So I turn. I walk past them. In a few minutes, I am by…

The beaches of Cape San Blas are sunswept and golden. I am on a porch, only 500 feet from the serene Gulf of Mexico. Palmettos and pines moving in gentle gusts of tropical air.

This is the beach where I first had the idea to ask a girl named Jamie to marry me. We vacationed here when I lost my job so that I could lick my wounds and rebuild my life. We came here after my wife’s father died, for similar reasons.

When I was rejected from a major university, sent packing with my hat in hand, we came here. Because there’s something restorative about the cape.

It does something to me. Always has. It’s like stepping into a calmer version of the world. A place free from loud, frightening headlines and cable news.

These are the same picturesque shores where huge square-rigged Spanish ships once anchored themselves. Where men in brass helmets explored for fountains of immortality and shiny rocks.

To the naked eye the cape is a peninsula dividing Saint Joe Bay and

the Gulf of Mexico. But when your feet hit this shore, there’s a rich sensation felt in your chest. It’s rejuvenating, and strong enough to make you forget about pandemics for a moment.

It’s the same wondrous feeling you get when standing on the banks of the Chesapeake, or in the Rockies, or in Arches National Park, or at Talladega Superspeedway.

Five hundred years ago the Spanish boats would have been moored within eyeshot from where I’m sitting. The ships would’ve had lots of sails, and huge crews.

Sailors would’ve been climbing the towering foremasts, mainmasts, mizzenmasts, dropping the spanker sails, and the four jib sheets. The white fabric would’ve been blinding in the Floridian sunlight.

Search parties would’ve come ashore in dinghies. Men in bright armor would have leapt out and been met by coastal Native Americans.

“Hi,” the Spanish would have said…

Here’s what I wish. I wish kids could know the thrill of doing the same low-tech stuff we did as kids. Activities that don’t require smartphones.

Such as piling four neighborhood kids onto a skateboard and rolling them down a steep hill like the U.S. Men’s bobsled team. Or picking wild strawberries. Or reading comic books. Or eating live palmetto bugs on a bet.

I’m not saying I want technology to disappear, I don’t. But did you know that the average person checks their phone 96 times per day?

And here’s another one. The average American teen spends a daily average of 7 hours and 22 minutes on their phone.

Which leads me to a friend of mine. He is an amateur behavioral scientist. And by “behavioral scientist” I mean that he is a dad.

This summer after his kids had been trapped at home for COVID, he and a few other dad-scientists did an informal summer camp experiment with their children.

The rules were simple. No phones, tablets, video games, computers, TVs,

music, or smartwatches. Instead kids did stuff like archery, leathercraft, wood carving, and basically every other activity modern kids think is stupid.

“Compared to their video games,” said one dad, “it was slow torture at first. They all looked at us like, ‘Archery? Really?’”

Who can blame them? What kid wants to shoot a flimsy fiberglass arrow at a bale of fescue when you could hold a digital plasma laser rifle, slaughtering the undead on planet Zurkon with 2,500 of your closest online friends?

The dad-scientists had their work cut out for them.

Before camp kicked off, kids were unknowingly part of a little preliminary social test. When the children arrived, parents put them in small groups to see what they would do without their phones.

Would the young people naturally strike up conversations? Would they do what generations of our ancestors have done at summer camp,…

Mary wants to be a writer. She is 19 and already a good one. Her literary influences are Flannery O’Connor, Carson McCullers, and the immutable Samuel Clemens.

But when Mary published some of her first writings online, several of her college peers returned her efforts with the following comments:

“What the heck did I just read?” Only the commenter didn’t use the word “heck.”

Another commenter: “This has a lot of misspellings, learn to proof.”

And: “Nah thanks.”

Whatever that means.

So a saddened Mary emailed me asking for my opinion about the issue of negativity in the modern world. And I’m glad she did because Mary and I actually have a lot in common.

Like Mary, I also admire many classic authors. In fact, one of my primary literary influences is Gary Larson, creator of “The Far Side.” I’m also a veteran when it comes to mispeling wurds.

The first thing I’d like to say, Mary, is that no matter how adult you feel, when people throw rotten tomatoes at your proverbial theater stage, it hurts.

There

are a LOT of grumps out there, and as a writer you’re going to meet them all. And you'll constantly be asking yourself the question: “Who carries rotten vegetables to a theater?”

But no sooner will you have posed this question than some irate commenter will remind you that tomatoes are fruits not vegetables.

One of the first writings I ever had published by a newspaper was a piece I went to great lengths researching. I traveled to a distant town, interviewed residents, and painstakingly sampled the local beer.

For me, it was a dream gig. The most fun I’d ever had. The pay was squat, I covered my own travel expenses, but I loved it. What I produced was a feel-good story. Granted, it wasn’t Bill Shakespeare, but it wasn’t that bad.

Do you know what happened when the story ran?…

Rural Georgia, 1954. Gas is 22 cents per gallon. Plaid dresses are the rage. Men still wear their trousers up to their armpits.

It’s a good year for America. There is a lot of money going around after the war. Cars are being churned out by factories, all painted bright and happy colors, with tailfins so big they could slice low hanging telephone wires. Everyone's feeling pretty good about life. Cholesterol is still king.

Enter Marian. She’s not that old and she’s alone. She is a Georgia woman, and you know what they say about Georgia women. They are proud.

Her husband was killed in a Korean war, and she is childless. All she wants is a family of her own and to get in on all the good vibes going around in jolly ‘54. She wants a picket-fence. She wants two-point-five kids. She wants someone to love. And above all, she wants to ride in one of those huge cars with the exotic tailfins.

But alas, all Marian

has is an old farmhouse that her late father left her. No family. And Marian suffers from the aftereffects of childhood polio. She has a pronounced limp. Her legs don’t work well. Marian has found that most bachelors in her era are not interested in a woman who limps.

So she is afraid she is turning into a spinster. An old maid. A fuddy-duddy. Arsenic and Old Lace.

On top of all that, her farmhouse is going downhill. The siding is rotting, the roof leaks. She doesn’t have the wherewithal to take care of this homestead, let alone to manage her chickens and victory garden. She could ask for help from her church, but Georgia women, as you’ll recall, have their pride.

Autumn comes. It brings crisp weather and new possibilities, which come in the form of two drifters. They are young, with fedoras and duffle bags. They are lanky, with…