Sunrise on Lake Martin. I’m usually the first one awake. I rarely have any company in the mornings. I wake up with the chickens. Most mornings, I sit on my porch alone. Just me and the feral cats.

This morning, however, I had company.

I heard small feet walking onto the screened porch, overlooking the lake. I turned to see a child with messy hair, staggering toward me. A 12-year-old girl in pajamas.

She used her hands to feel her way through the maze of patio furniture. She walks like this, feeling her way around, even when it’s daylight.

My goddaughter sat beside me on the sofa. She sort of crawled into my lap, head resting against my chest.

“Morning,” she said with a yawn. Her breath smelled like a billy goat’s lower intestinal tract.

“Good morning, Dragon Breath,” I said.

She cupped her hand to her mouth and attempted to smell her own breath. Birds fell out of the trees.

I picked crust from her eyes. “You’re killing me,” I said.

“What do you see?” she asked.

“Sunrise,” I replied.

“Can you describe what it looks like?” She

curled against me snuggly.

I looked at the pink sky of morning. Daylight had taken hold of the world.

“You’ve seen one sunrise you’ve seen them all,” I said.

“Wish I could see it.”

I squeezed her. “I have an idea. How about you tell me what the sunrise sounds like.”

She yawned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I want you to tell me how a blind person experiences a sunrise.”

Becca curled tighter against me. “You really want to know?”

“I do.”

“Well, you have to close your eyes.”

I did.

“No cheating,” she said.

“Scouts’ honor.”

“First,” she said, “I hear birds. But, I feel like when sighted people hear birds, they don’t think about all the DIFFERENT birds they’re actually hearing. They just hear one sound, birds.…

Becca and I were at the little lake cabin. It was noontime. The interior of the 1940s cabin was a sweltering 92 degrees.

Thankfully, old bungalows were designed before A/C. I opened all the windows and doors, and within mere minutes the cabin had cooled to 91 degrees.

The 12-year-old wore a dripping swimsuit, beach towel draped around her shoulders.

“What do you want for lunch?” I asked.

She thought about it for a few seconds. “Can I have anything I want?”

“Within legal reason.”

She thought again before speaking. “Know what I want?”

“I don’t have ESP.”

“The sports channel?” she said.

“Never mind. What do you want?”

“I want you to teach me to make a sandwich.”

Becca is blind. Her eyes are closed because the muscles in her eyelids are atrophied. So she looks like a renaissance painting of Raphael’s angel.

“I’ve never made myself a sandwich before,” she said.

“Sandwiches are complicated things,” I said. “Even for a sighted person. Making sandwiches is messy. Let’s do that another day.”

“I don’t mind making a mess.”

“I believe you.”

She was not giving up. “Please?”

So

I reasoned with her. “How about I HELP you make a sandwich?”

She shook her head. “I want to do it myself. I don’t want your help. I want you to talk me through it.”

Becca stood in the center of the kitchen, dripping, holding her white cane with the red tip. The faint traces of a little sunburn were starting to show up on her face even though—I swear—I coated her face with a sunscreen product resembling commercial aviation wax.

“Is this important to you?” I said.

“Yes.”

I caved in.

“Good!” She was all smiles. “You sit at the counter, and just tell me what to do.”

“Ten-four.”

The first thing to do was talk her through navigating the inner labyrinths of the unorganized refrigerator. I told her where…

To the dog abuser in rural Mississippi. The hound you left chained behind the tire shop is with us now. Her name is Marigold. We got her a few years ago.

You beat Marigold so hard she went totally blind. She wasn’t even two years old. And you blinded her.

I can’t imagine what she did to make you so mad. She is a gentle dog. Painfully gentle. Plus, she can’t weigh more than twenty-five pounds.

I can only assume that you were not in your right mind.

She had one eye removed, one eyelid stitched shut. The other eyeball is just for show. It doesn’t work, the iris is bloodred and vacant. But it’s a beautiful eye.

Because, you see, she is a beautiful girl.

It’s taken a few years to relearn how to get around. She bumped into furniture, she walked headfirst into walls. She uses her nose to lead her. She is a professional now.

Being blind is still brand new for her. And it’s a full-time job. She is constantly working, constantly trying to map out

her new world.

Constantly deciphering new smells. Constantly trying to determine whether a nearby sound is friendly or otherwise.

She walks with a careful gait. Often, she high-steps, like she’s walking through quicksand. Other times she tests every step, like she’s on a tightrope.

It took a while to relearn stairs. She tripped over curbs. She fell over thresholds. She needed help finding her food bowl sometimes. She loves toilet water.

But I don’t want you feeling sorry for her. I don’t know if you are capable of such feelings. I just want you to know what you did to her.

You made her afraid. She cowers at booming noises. Probably because she can’t see what’s making the noise.

Benign objects, such as, for example, vacuum cleaners, sound like monsters. The sound of a garbage disposal is like a nuclear…

Springville, Alabama (pop. 5,043). I am downtown with a few minutes to kill. I pick up a copy of the Trussville Tribune, sit on a bench by the antique store and count cars.

I count four.

I shake open the newspaper beneath an angry noontime sun. The Tribune is a slender paper. Not much to it. You’d need at least three to line a litter box.

The Tribune is your typical small-town paper. Just like small-town papers used to be. The paper is not loaded with reports of stabbings, shootings, and senseless acts of politics. Just local stuff. It reminds you of a bygone age.

The front page, for example, features important breaking news from nearby Argo (pop. 4,364). The headline reads: “Ann ‘Granny’ Grimes celebrates 100th birthday at Fox’s Pizza Den.”

“God has just been good to me!” Granny is quoted as saying.

Granny has nine grandchildren, 23 great grandchildren, and six great-great grandchildren. She also ties down a full-time job at Fox’s Pizza.

She works in the kitchen, preparing her special spaghetti sauce, prepping food, and

washing the dishes in the three-compartment sink.

The article goes on to say that if you should ever visit Fox’s Pizza, you should ask Granny for proof that she’s 100 and “she will gladly show you her current driver’s license!”

That’s what you’ll find in a small-town paper.

There’s also the weather forecast, sponsored by Trussville Water and Gas. This week’s forecast: you’re going to die of heat stroke.

In other news, the Winn-Dixie in Pinson is remodeling. And, in case you were wondering, 2,000 people attended the rodeo. More on Page 5.

There’s the classified section. The first three for-sale ads are advertising adjoining funeral plots. Get’em while they’re hot.

The community calendar of events is slamming. Visit the Trussville Public Library for summertime stories, read by Ms. Alicia. And don’t forget, ladies, the “Yarn Manglers” knitting club meets on Thursday…

I wasn’t going to write this. It’s too controversial. But I have to. For our children.

No matter how hard this topic is to address, no matter how inflaming, there are some things that must be said. I am talking, of course, about the delicate issue of homemade ice cream.

Ice cream has been demonized by today’s society. It used to be okay to eat ice cream. But then, suddenly it wasn’t. So lots of companies replaced ice cream with healthy frozen yogurt.

A few years later, reports claimed frozen yogurt was as bad as sugary ice cream. So they came out with “sugar-free” frozen yogurt made with “aspartame.”

Aspartame is a fun word to say. It sounds like a dirty word but it isn't. You are free to say aspartame as much as you want.

EXAMPLE: “Have you seen the traffic today?”

“No.”

“It’s a pain in the aspartame.”

So Americans started eating sugar-free yogurt sludge by the gallon and watching Jane Fonda videos, and eschewing bacon.

Then—this is true—reports came out with new information claiming that aspartame turns bodily

fluids into formaldehyde.

So, all of a sudden, journalists were NOW telling mankind to stay away from anything “sugar free,” urging mankind to eat kale smoothies instead.

Which is probably why a few months ago, for dessert one night, my wife announced that we were having a frozen surprise. It was a green smoothie and it smelled like lawn clippings.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Kale milkshake.”

Ever since, I have had a persistent taste in my nose that reminds me of the sickly flavored laughing gas our family doctor, Doctor Bob, used when I had a tonsillectomy in first grade.

Speaking of Doctor Bob, do you know how that old man convinced me to agree to an invasive radical tonsillectomy? Ice cream.

That’s right. Back in those days, parents, authority figures, and health-care professionals bribed children with ice…

It’s a sunny July day. Kids are riding bikes. Climbing trees. Little League teams are yelling “Hey batta batta!” And Morgan is in a step-down unit from the ICU.

Morgan is a college freshman. She is pretty, smart, and redheaded—so you know she’s trouble.

She is a student at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. She made the president’s list last year. Which is impressive when you consider that Morgan is epileptic, diabetic, and has paralysis on the left side of her body; her left hand doesn’t work.

Also, she has low vision, and is nearly blind in one eye. Her intestines are paralyzed, too, so digestion is an issue.

And yet she made the president’s list.

We became friends when I wrote about her a few years ago. She’s soft spoken. She’s always smiling. And she has an Alabama drawl that sounds like ribbon cane syrup.

A few days ago, Morgan sent me this text:

“I’ve been in the hospital for the last six days, with no discharge date in sight.”

The doctors can’t figure out the cause. They can’t get her

ketones down. On top of it all, the paralysis of her stomach has worsened, so doctors are trying to come up with a plan.

Morgan’s text finished with: “It’s been pretty rough but I’m making it!”

She ended her message with a heart emoji. She always closes texts with a heart emoji. Her last name is, after all, Love.

Since then, I’ve had my friends praying. Since then, she has had more tests. Since then, they did a scope to see what was going on inside her gastrointestinal tract.

“I have erosions and inflammation... Still high ketones. It’s been a busy but productive day! Also, my sorority sisters stopped by which was sweet!”

Heart emoji.

Yesterday, six Delta Gamma sisters surprised her with a visit. Multiple sisters have been coming all week. The halls of UAB hospital…

Ten years. That’s how long I’ve been writing this blog/column/whatever-the-heck-you-call-it.

It started as a blog. Sort of. Back when we still had blogs. Remember those? Blogs existed during a primitive technological era when we still had DVDs, landlines, 4-1-1 directory assistance, and older people in your family still did not understand Facebook.

Namely, because before social media, we did not “share” photos with loved ones. It wasn’t possible.

To recreate the social media experience back then by, say, posting a photo, we would have had to (a) take a picture with a Kodak camera, (b) develop the film at Walgreens, (c) physically mail envelopes containing hundreds of photos to loved ones and random friends, then (d) wait weeks for people to reply with comments, such as: “Why did you send me a photo of your dinner?”

Also, 10 years ago we still had taxis. Today, taxis are extinct. On my last trip to New York, my Uber driver, a former taxicab driver, said that 10 years ago there were 11,000 cabs in New York.

“Now there are less than 800,” he said.

But getting back to blogs. As a wannabe writer with no credentials, no training, and no pedigree, frankly, I always found a blog to be a magical notion.

You could write something, send it into the universe, and interact with real humans! Your writing didn’t even have to be good, or contane propper punctuashin

People would actually read your stuff, and if you were lucky, the next morning, you would receive hundreds of heartfelt emails from Nigerian princes.

We had a lot of Nigerian-prince emails back in the day. I personally received many of these emails. These were messages sent by members of the Nigerian royal family, telling me how much they enjoyed my blog, how they hoped someday we might meet, hug each other’s necks, and—God willing—exchange intimate financial information.

So anyway, I remember the morning I…

I sat in the old woman’s living room. It was a gaudy block home. The walls were outdated pastel colors, á la 1986. She was smoking menthols.

She knows she shouldn’t smoke, her daughter wants her to quit. Eventually, the old woman says she will.

“Quitting smoking ain’t hard,” she said. “I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

She is 93. By her own admission, she’s never been religious. There are no Bibles in her house. No cute embroidered scripture verses on the walls. She’s tough. You can see it in her face. The lines on her cheeks tell the tale of a life spent in the company of hard work.

She worked in cotton fields when she was a girl, in Georgia. She worked in a textile mill when she was a teenager. She survived two husbands. One of which abused her. She raised six kids. And she did it without any help, thank you very much.

She tapped the four-inch ash on her menthol 305. “I always thought, ‘Hey, if God’s real, he

sure don’t care about me, so why should I care about him?’”

And that was her philosophy. She didn’t bother God, and he mostly stayed out of her way.

Her mind changed when she turned 50. It was a pivotal year. The doctors found breast cancer. It was a cruel joke on God’s part, she said.

Here was a woman who had raised children, who was about to retire. She had finally reached a time in life when she was supposed to be on Easy Street. And along comes aggressive ductal carcinoma.

The woman pauses, then falls into a coughing fit, which finishes with her spitting a gob of mucus the size of a regulation softball into a handkerchief.

“I thought I was as good as dead.”

The old woman says she lost her will. She quit trying. She woman freely admits she did not want…

Last night, the young man found himself in an old hardware store. There were a bunch of old timers, sitting around drinking coffee. Lots of laughing. The irreverent kind of laughs you hear from old men.

Now and then, customers would walk into the store and ask for this or that. An old guy in the group would lead them to the correct aisle, to help them find whatever they needed. The old guy looked familiar.

But the young man couldn’t put his finger on how he knew him. The cotton-white hair. Those horn-rimmed drugstore glasses. The waistband of his trousers, pulled clear up to his nipples.

He looked like the guy who used to sit on the front porch when the young man was a child, playing mandolin.

The young man’s grandfather used to play mandolin. As a boy, he could remember seeing his grandfather sing old-time music while stomping his right heel onto the porch floorboards, picking away on “Turkey in the Straw.”

The young man left the store. He was in the street

now, walking. He was, evidently, in a little town.

Lampposts. Sidewalks. A barbershop pole. The whole deal. There were people everywhere. It was evening, the world was lit with a beautifully pink sun. He half expected to see Bernard P. Fife making his rounds.

A woman bumped into him. She was carrying groceries. She was young. Pretty. She looked like someone he once knew. Like Meredith Alison, from his grade school days.

As a girl, Meredith had misshapen lower legs. The doctor said her spine was as crooked as a congressman. By fourth-grade, she couldn’t walk and used a wheelchair. Eventually she didn’t need the chair because she died from health complications. The young man never forgot her.

“Do you remember me?” said the young woman.

“Meredith?”

She was smiling. “Yes, it’s me!”

“But, you can WALK!”

They were interrupted when the young man…