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…

She’s 19. Beautiful. Violent red hair. And smart. Morgan is one of those rare humans who honestly thinks math was not invented by Satan. 

The girl climbs into my truck, buckles herself in.

“Hey,” she says. Fresh-faced and happy. Slightly out of breath. The flushed cheeks of youth. 

I like that she feels so at home in my truck. 

She’s got big plans in life. Pre-med student. Wants to be a doctor. Maybe. Or a nutritionist. Perhaps. Or someone whose job is to shop at Target all day with unlimited stacks of cash. Maybe she’ll be all those things. 

Who knows. Who cares. Doesn’t matter right now. Because she’s at that age where she isn’t expected to know exactly what she wants to be. It’s a big world out there and she’s allowed to change her mind as often as she wants. 

Technically, she shouldn’t be here right now. Here in my passenger seat. Namely, because last month they were planning her funeral. Literally. They were choosing ceremony music. Choosing guest speakers. Choosing photos. 

She was in a hospital

bed, too weak to open her eyes. Or speak. Malnourished. Unable to walk. Her gastroparesis complications are many. 

“I finally came to the place where I was done fighting. I was praying for God to let me die.” 

There is a small tear in her eye. And in mine. Nineteen-year-old girls aren’t supposed to pray to die.  

“It’s not that I wanted to die,” she explains. “It’s just, I’ve just been fighting for so long. I was praying to go to heaven.”

Doctors kept fighting. They tried new treatments. New medications. New everything. Now she’s on Total Parenteral Nutrition (TPN), which feeds her directly through her bloodstream, bypassing her digestive system altogether. It’s a form of life support. 

Thanks to TPN, suddenly, she could move again. Suddenly she wasn’t sleeping all day. Some of her muscle mass came back. Doctors…

Angels aren’t real. They can’t be. It just doesn’t make sense. How can a rational human with a working brain believe in invisible celestial creatures who all resemble Michael Landon? 

People will make fun of you if you believe in angels.

At least that’s what the young woman thought. There were no such things as angels. Case closed.  

The young woman was driving on a desolate backroad. Going home. A college student. Working on her second degree. A hard skeptic. Educated beyond her intelligence. 

The year was 1974. Paul Harvey was playing on her radio. She wasn’t a Harvey fan, but it was either him or the pop music of ‘74. Such as “Seasons in the Sun.” Or, God help us, “The Way We Were.” 

The young woman was thinking about her mom. Her mom was crazy. Super religious. A big believer in angels. Ceramic angel crap all over the house. Angel coffee-table books. Angel toilet paper holders.  

The young woman’s car hit a patch of ice on the highway. She lost control and collided

with a tree.

The crunching of metal. The twisting of steel. Her vehicle contorted around the trunk of an oak. Game over.  

She was there for a long time, pinned in the driver’s seat. Nothing but the silence of a rural highway to keep her company. 

That's when she heard someone saying her name. It was a man’s voice. Soft and kind. He opened her mangled door. He helped her out of the smoldering wreckage. 

She doesn’t remember anything about him except for one thing. He was wearing a Beatles T-shirt. John, Paul, George, and Ringo were staring back at her, dressed in full Sgt. Peppers regalia. Ringo always looked so sad. Poor Ringo. 

In a few moments, she was lying against the guardrail. The guy was stroking her hair as she fell in and out of consciousness. 

“You’re going to be okay,”…

All I wanted was a newspaper.

It was a small town. Somewhere in the Southeast. Big shopping complex, off the interstate. Best Buy, Red Lobster, Ulta, Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse, Target, and all other franchises that transform American towns into carbon copies, from Oil Slick to Shining Oil Slick. 

I walked into the gas station to buy coffee and a newspaper. But something was wrong.

“Sorry, sir,” said the kid, playing on a phone. “Ain’t got no newspapers here.”

“Do you know where I might find some?”

The kid looked up from his device and took a few moments to think about it. “Got some real estate magazines out there.” 

“I’m not looking for real estate.” 

Shrug. “Well, it's a really great place to live.” 
  
So I drove around. Maybe I could get one at the grocery store. I’m a big fan of physical newspapers. Even though they aren’t en vogue anymore, you can usually find one the supermarket.  

“Excuse me,” I asked the young man at the supermarket’s customer service desk. “Do you sell newspapers?”

The kid

was dressed like a surfer although it was 32 degrees Fahrenheit outside.

He looked at me with that “look.” You know the look. My grandfather might have said you gazed into this young man’s eyes and saw the back of his skull. But I’m choosing to call this look a “vacant stare.” 

“Brah,” the kid said. “I don’t think we sell newspapers.” 

“You don’t think?”

“Nope.” 

“Is there any way we could find someone who does think?”

He itched his hair, then sniffed his fingers. “Let me ask a manager.” 

The manager was a young woman. Very friendly. Very organized. She smiled and informed me:  

“We don’t sell newspapers. We have a free magazine rack by the entrance. It’s mostly just real estate magazines.” 

“I’m not looking to relocate here.”

“There are some very good articles…

You’re going through something right now. Something bad. Something truly, inexplicably, wholly, and everlastingly crappy. 

I don’t know what it is. But it’s ugly. And it’s getting the best of you.

Someone you love betrayed you. Someone you trusted let you down. Your body is sick. Maybe a loved one is dying. Maybe you got some bad news.  

It doesn’t matter what your experience. What matters is, I’m thinking about you. And as I am writing these feeble words, holding you in my heart, although I can’t see your face, I can imagine you. 

Somehow, I almost feel a teensy bit of what you’re feeling. The pain. The heavy load. The agony in your breast. 

Namely, because my own life has undergone episodes of grief. And whenever one endures grief—true grief—it rewires one’s brain. 

Suffering sort of initiates you into a secret club you never knew existed. A club of hurting people. And you start noticing things you never noticed before. 

You walk through Walmart and notice the bald woman with the oxygen canister. You recognize the single

dad, pushing his buggy quietly through the aisles, looking like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown. 

You see the weathered woman standing in the median, holding a cardboard sign reading: “Anything Helpz.” And you actually SEE her.

You might not have seen these people before. But now you do. You’re feeling what they feel. Because you are them. They are you. And this new togetherness you feel with strangers, this is not a bad thing.  

So, I have no advice. No wisdom. No clichéd unoriginal, motivational meme to get you through your hard time.

I’m not a smart guy. And even if I were , you can’t trust smart people. Even smart people can be about as clueless as a one-legged cat in a litterbox. 

Even so, I know one thing. And this is the only thing I know…

I’ve never seen London. I’ve never seen France. Consequently, I’ve never seen anyone’s underpants.

But in a few months my wife Jamie and I will fly into France—wearing underpants—to do something that is completely nuts because my wife is bat-excrement insane.

In a couple months, we will be deposited in a French airport with nothing but backpacks and walking shoes. We will traverse 500 miles on foot, hiking the breadth of Spain, from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela. These are places I’ve never heard of. Places I can’t even pronounce.

So I’ve been doing some light reading on what we’re about to embark upon.

This 500-mile route was established in the 9th century and is one of the oldest religious pilgrimages in history. In fact, the route is CALLED the “Pilgrimage,” or “El Camino,” or “Middle-Aged People Doing Something Stupid.”

But as I understand it, the Camino is basically just a really, REALLY long trail hiked by people who are trying to find something.

“A lot of are trying to find themselves,” says one expert I interviewed. “But after the first few days, most hikers are just trying to find clean toilets and decent insoles.”

Jamie and I have been training for the past several months. We have been going on walks wherein we hike a few miles, and each time we return we give each other looks of mock terror because we know we will be walking five times this distance every day for A MONTH AND A HALF.

This will be the biggest, most notable thing either of us has ever tackled with the exception of having a new septic tank installed. And I am sitting here thinking about the Camino this morning.

I am the same age my father was when he died. Which makes this a pivotal year for me. I never expected to live this long. Frankly,…