This Saturday, November 4, is a big day. A huge day. In fact, you could call it the “Everest” of calendar days.

Our story begins in North Yorkshire, a hamlet in Northern England that looks like it came straight out of a BBC Christmas special. The rural village is named Embsay, and it’s about the size of a guest bathroom, only with less legroom.

There isn’t much going on in Embsay, unless you count the thriving knitting scene. It’s a village of a few old ladies. Some fishermen. A couple farmers. Lots of old English houses, perched on sloped cobblestone streets. Two pubs, an inn, and the arts and crafts store which is, of course, constantly on call and ready to furnish all your yarn intensive needs.

The town’s most identifiable feature is that it lies nestled at the base of a large hill. Embsay Crag, a 656-foot miniature mountain that stands watch over the local resevoir.

The most notable person to ever come out of Embsay, aside from its knitters,

is a world-famous rock climber named Ron Fawcett who was born here. In the rock-climbing world, Fawcett is a demigod. He single handedly transformed the sport of rock climbing in the ‘70s and ‘80s, setting records by completing some of the world’s most difficult and treacherous climbs. Many of which are still tightening the sphincters of today’s rock climbers.

I bring this up because, as of right now, there is another world-class climber from Embsay, about to set a big record of his own.

Which brings me to the main thrust of this column.

Meet Luke Mortimer. Luke is 10 years young. He lives here. He is a quadruple amputee.

He was only 7 when he contracted a bacterial infection that led to the loss of all four limbs.

Luke Mortimer spent six months in the hospital and nearly died from meningococcal meningitis and septicaemia. Whereupon he underwent 23…

Today is the Day of the Dead. An important holiday for remembering and celebrating late loved ones through anecdotes and funny stories.

Which might not mean much to non-Mexican Norte Americanos, but it should. Because it’s an excuse to replay old memories like worn out records.

Well, as it happens I have one such story. It’s not humorous or anecdotal, mind you. But it is deeply traumatizing, and that’s almost the same thing.

I speak, of course, about the time when my late mother-in-law saw me naked.

I’ll pause here. Because I'm sorry if this is offensive. I consider myself a sincere gentleman. I mean it. I open doors for ladies, watch my language, and I never slouch. But the truth is—and I can hardly say it—my mother-in-law indeed saw me wearing nothing but the Joy of the Lord. And I mean the full biscuit.

Don't make me repeat myself.

It happened years ago. And the violation occurred right in my own house. I'm forever traumatized. In fact, just writing about this causes unpleasant feelings to start swimming inside me, some of

which date back to middle-school locker-room showers.

I can't really explain how it happened. All I know is that one moment I'm waltzing across my empty house after a shower, enjoying the invigorating springtime air, then (WHAM!) a peeping Thomasina is standing in my kitchen.

“Mother Mary!” I squealed—but in a masculine tone. “How'd you get in here?”

“I have a key, ding-a-ling.”

"Please don't use that word."

She handed me a stack of envelopes, but did not turn away. Her demeanor could only be described as unimpressed. "I was bringing your mail."

I felt my face get hot. “My eyes are up here.”

“It’s mostly just bills.”

“Miss Mary, I'm naked."

She agreed with this.

Then without breaking her non-Methodist stare, she said, “Sorry, I didn’t bring any ones or fives with me.”

Without uttering another word…

The email came from someone named Paxton.

“Dear Sean,” the message began, “my dog died today and I feel like I can’t go on. I know you‘ve lost a dog before. How do you go on without them?”

As it happens, I have lost 12 dogs in my life. Twelve sounds like large number and makes me wonder whether it’s time to sign up for AARP. But I’m not very old. The truth is, I am just crazy about dogs. Always have been.

At one time in my life, we had four dogs living in our 900-square-foot house. My shoes all had teeth marks. And all my reading glasses had been semi-digested.

Owning four dogs at once, I must point out, is unwise. Of course, I didn’t set out to own four dogs simultaneously. No sane person would. It all started with one dog.

His name was Squirt. My wife and I adopted Squirt from a local animal shelter long ago. He was part of a litter born at the shelter. The employees named

the puppies after characters from the Disney movie “Finding Nemo.”

I’ll never forget our first meeting. My wife and I were seated on the complimentary sofa in the meet-and-greet room, we were both a little nervous.

The sofa resembled something that had survived an atomic weapons detonation test. The cushions were soaked with drool, the nylon stuffing was removed, and there were fleas on the upholstery roughly the size of Danny Devito.

Squirt entered the room, leapt on my lap, and ruined my shirt with the Weewee of Joy, thereby living up to his name.

And I had to have him.

But here’s the thing. The canine shelter did not make adopting easy. Shelters often require adoptive owners to jump through several bureaucratic hoops before adopting. This is to discourage non-serious pet buyers, which I am in favor of—sort of. Except that some preliminary criteria seemed…

I want you to imagine something. I know you’re busy. So I’ll make this short.

Imagine that you are blind. Your vision has been deteriorating for years now. A little bit each day. It happens slowly, but quickly. If that makes sense.

One day, just when you’ve adjusted to your new low-vision, your little window of sight narrows. All of a sudden, you’re looking at the world through a pinhole. Then one day, you wake up blind.

Now imagine that you’re in your 40s. You are a single female named Jesmine. You’re not exactly a spring chick. You’re not old per se. But age is like cheap underwear; it creeps up on you.

Which means you’re a little long in the tooth to be learning new tricks.

But see, that’s just the thing. Now you HAVE to learn some new skills to survive. Never mind the shipload of emotional baggage you’re now working through.

About three quarters of those who go blind experience hardcore depression.

The first symptoms are bone-crushing fatigue. You don’t have the energy to get dressed. Or eat. So at first

you sleep excessively. But then, even though you’re exhausted, suddenly you’re an insomniac. You go 36 hours without rest.

Your appetite goes away. Now you’re dropping weight. Then comes the lack of hope. Feelings of worthlessness. “What’s the point?”

And yet, here’s the weird part. Even though you feel isolated and alone, you have lost your independence. So you can’t let yourself be alone. You need people now more than ever.

Which means you have people around you constantly. They are helping you do everything from feed yourself to using the bathroom.

Your helpers are always giving you rides. They’re guiding you in public. Because—here’s something else you’re learning—almost NOTHING in our civilization is accessible to the blind. And if you don’t believe me, try going to the supermarket with a blindfold on.

There is no…

Rome. The sun is rising over the City of Seven Hills. I am sitting at a cafe, not far from our hotel, editing a column on a yellow legal pad. I am here for breakfast, waiting for my wife to wake up.

The Colosseum is just down the street. The old stones are kissed by morning light. The Circus Maximus, the ancient chariot racing stadium, is flooded with morning fitness enthusiasts, jogging the old track. Most of whom are American.

The waitress stops at my table. She is an older woman. Exotic in every way. Midnight hair. Black eyes. She could have been Sophia Loren in another life.

She smiles when she takes my order.

“Are you a writer?” she asks.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“What Southern state are you from?” she asks.

“How’d you know?” I said.

She smiles again. “You say the word ‘chair’ with two syllables.”

Her name is Ginerva. I’ve never heard this name before, but it’s a lovely name. And it makes me feel warm inside because the women I come from don’t have

names like this. We have Myrtles, Ruth Anns, and Janice Louises. Here, they have Isabellas, Ludovicas, and Ginervas.

Ginerva is a highly traveled individual. Speaks six languages. Has been everywhere. Seen everything. But she loves America the best. Especially the Southeastern United States.

Namely, she loves our food. She loves iced tea. And fried chicken. Also, she adores American television shows like “Monk,” “Bonanza,” and she grew up listening to the Grand Ole Opry. She has a tattoo of Lucille Ball on her elbow.

And I’m starting to get homesick. Don’t get me wrong, I love to travel. In fact, “love” might be too weak of a word. I’ve learned a lot about Italy. Some good; some bad. I’ve learned a lot about Americans, too. Some good; some bad.

But mainly, gentle reader, I’ve learned that you will never know what…

Morning in Firenze. The cobblestone streets are wet from a light rain. The sun is not yet up.

The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore stands in the distance, red tile roof obscured by a mist which hangs over town like a damp washrag.

I leave my inn, looking for coffee and breakfast. I’ve been in Italy for weeks now—and I never thought I’d say this—but I’m sick of bread.

I pass a homeless man on the corner. He is sleeping at the foot of a basilica, on the cobblestones. A dog is curled up beside him. They are both wet. Both shivering.

Next, I see two nuns approach the man. Their habits are dark and nontraditional. The nuns look youngish. Maybe mid-forties.

One nun stoops to speak to the man. And I cannot help but watch them. I’m thinking to myself, “Now here is something you don’t see every day.” A nun and a beggar. It’s like the flannel boards from Sunday school class, only in real-time.

Maybe the nun is asking whether the man

is all right. Maybe she is offering to help him, or buy him a sandwich. Or whatever.

She stays with him for a while, as crowds of students meander past them.

There are students everywhere here in Florence. You can tell they are students because they are always surrounded by a giant cloud of vape fog. Almost all young people vape in Italy. It must be an unwritten law. If you are young; you vape.

The air is cough-syrup scented miasma. It’s almost enough to make you miss the days when people smoked cigarettes. Almost.

But these children are young and happy, and full of wonderful plans for their lives. Just seeing them makes me feel a little excited somehow. Also, all these Italian students have more fashion sense in their pinky toes than an entire Kardashian family reunion.

Speaking of fashion. Recently, a…

She was cool. That was my initial thought when I first met her. She was just cool.

It wasn’t her milk-chocolate hair. Or her Poarch Creek skin. Or her quirky mannerisms. Or her loud, Alabamian voice. Or the way she spoke, like everything she said carried the same level of importance as, say, national security.

It wasn’t her filthy ‘89 Nissan Altima. Her car was disgusting. Before you crawled inside, you wanted to make sure you were current on all your shots. Her backseat was littered in culinary school textbooks, mostly with French titles. Fleetwood Mac was in the cassette player. There was a church key in the ashtray.

It wasn’t that she was bossy—I have a thing for bossy women. It wasn’t that she was a tomboy—I have a thing for tomboys. It wasn’t that she truly believed she could beat me at arm wrestling, and then proceeded to do so.

It wasn’t that she knew all the words to Joe Diffie’s “Pickup Man,” or that she could clear a dance floor whenever they played

“Watermelon Crawl.”

It wasn’t the way that dogs and children always followed her around. And it wasn’t the way she smelled without perfume; a sweet smell, mixed with a little sweat.

It wasn’t the way she listened intently when someone spoke, with a slightly tensed brow, like she was REALLY listening. Either that, or she was trying to solve the Riemann Hypothesis.

It wasn’t the way she laughed too much. Or the way she was always cracking jokes. Or that she had her black belt in sarcasm. Or the way we could spend 138 hours in a car together, without one serious word being spoken between us.

Or the way she chewed her nails. Or the way she never had to shave her legs because she is the only human being I’ve ever known who was devoid of arm and leg hair.

It wasn’t…

There are many perks to being a professional writer. Namely, whenever you are at a swanky cocktail party and you tell people what you do for a living, they will smile and reply by giving you their drink order.

But sometimes as a writer, you actually get to do exciting things that other citizens never get the opportunity to do. Cleaning public toilets is only one example.

Another example would be piloting a gondola down the Canale Orfanello in Venice. Which I did.

Matteo was my gondolier today. He was a youngish middle-aged guy, fit, wearing a navy-and-white striped shirt and tennis shoes. He has been operating a gondola in Venice for 22 years.

He stood at the stern of his boat, constantly pumping an oar in the blue-green water of the canal, and he asked what I did for a living.

So I told him. Then I asked how he came to his current profession.

“It was my uncle who first suggest me to try this job,” said Matteo

in broken English. “I was 17 when I first try to use the oar, and I think to myself, ‘How hard can it really be?’”

The answer was: hard. For many reasons.

First off, the Gondola is a temperamental, flat-bottomed boat whose design took 800 years to perfect. It is a giant asymmetrical banana, which makes it responsive, quick, and the boat is as sensitive as a gassy toddler.

The slightest movement aboard a gondola affects the whole ship. If you clear your throat on a gondola, everyone onboard feels it.

Secondly, the single oar that propels the boat, in a sculling manner, also serves as a rudder. Sort of like a fish flapping its tail. Learning to use the oar takes some a lifetime. Many never get it and abandon their apprenticeship.

“It take me seven years just to learn to use this oar. It never just ‘clicks’ in…

It is after dark when our train pulls into Stazione di Venezia Santa Lucia. We step off the railcar in Venice, onto a platform that is empty, except for a few singing crickets and railway employees on smoke break.

We made a few friends from Nebraska on the train. They are mid-seventies. Just a few Americans, helping each other through a foreign land.

We all descend the terminal steps. Our backpacks sit heavy upon our backs, akin to carrying 3-year-olds across Europe. Our bodies are cramped and sore. We have been hopping trains all day like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Dorks.

But we all soon forget our misery. Because as we exit the station, we are greeted by incredible streetlights.

“Wow,” say our friends from Nebraska.

“Wow,” say we Alabamians.

The street lights in Venice are not like American lights. In the US, outdoor public spaces largely adhere to a strict design style that could be loosely defined as Adult Correctional Facility. The buzzing fluorescent lights found in, say, a Walmart

parking lot, glow harshly white, bringing to mind your last appendectomy.

Whereas the streetlights in Venice are the color or flickering torches. Orange light is reflected in the mirrored water, Van Gogh-like, rippling beneath city sidewalks.

Then, a gondola passes beneath us. The gondolier is a young man, scrawny, working the stern of his flat-bottomed boat, singing for the tourists. The song he sings, a capella, is “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” by Meatloaf.

Not exactly what you’d expect from your typical Venetian, but hey.

We all walk around the city. There are ornate archway bridges everywhere—435 bridges to be exact. Venice is a town made up of 118 islands, so there are lots of bridges. Each bridge has a name. And most bridges predate the Boston Tea Party.

The bridge we are standing on, for example, is Ponte de Rialto, built in 1173.

And all this history…

It was a small ristorante. About the size of a walk-in closet, only with less legroom. It was raining in small-town Italy. The slick, cobbled streets looked like a shiny lawsuit waiting to happen.

The older woman welcomed us into her place of business. She had no other customers today because of the weather.

“No tourists ever visit in the rain,” she said.

She motioned for us to come in by saying, “Prego, prego.”

They say “prego” a lot over here. They say it more than “grazie.” More than you’d expect.

Prego means “you are welcome,” technically. But it can also mean other things, such as “after you,” and “please, come in,” “how may I help you?” and “would you like mass amounts of carbohydrates?” In short, Prego sort of means “I care about you.” Even if only for right now. Prego.

The woman had a framed picture of a young woman on the counter. The image had flowers adorning the frame and glass votives flickering beside it.

The woman noticed me looking at the photo.

“She die last year,” the woman said.

“She was my—how you say in English? My daughter.”

I don’t ask how her daughter passed because (a) it’s none of my business, and (b) our communication is limited. I am a big, dumb, redhead American who only knows how to say “grazie” and “prego” and other such words from “The Godfather.”

We have a seat in the back of the restaurant.

“You want gnocchi?” the woman asks us.

“Gnocchi?”

“Si. I just a’cook the gnocchi this morning.” Then she adds, “Is a’fresh.”

We haven’t even looked at a menu but there’s no need. It’s raining. This woman has made gnocchi. If we don’t eat it, odds are nobody today will. Besides, it is a’fresh.

“Grazie,” I say.

“Prego.”

Soon, we have two ginormous bowls of hot gnocchi. The steam hits our faces, the smell of fresh…