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…

We were walking the Camino de Santiago. Trudging toward some farflung village in the remote unseen.

There was a big group of us walking together. Jamie and I were the eldest of the group. Most of these pilgrims were in their teens or mid-20s. They were kids, far from home. And strays of all species have a tendency to follow my wife.

Such as the Japanese kid who had been in Spain alone. He’d met no other Japanese there in three weeks. He was isolated by language since his entire English vocabulary consisted of “yes,” “thank you,” and “Roll Tide.” I taught him the last one.

Our group marched forward. Feet scraping on the trail. Every language was spoken. But we found commonality in English.

We were talking about holidays, comparing our cultures. An American asked whether any other countries celebrated Thanksgiving.

“In Canada,” answered one young woman, “we have Action de grâce, which is like your American Thanksgiving. We have a feast with ham, turkey, mashed potatoes. The biggest difference is, we maple glaze

everything, including annoying relatives.”

“In Ireland, we have Lughnasa. It’s not like Thanksgiving at all. It’s an ancient Celtic harvest festival. We have food and drink and sport. Usually, there’s a long, post-meal walk up a giant hill. Then, according to tradition, everyone goes home and makes babies.”

“In Mexico we have many traditions for giving thanks. Our Lady of Guadelupe is one of our biggest holidays, many pilgrims leave their villages on foot, they walk for days to visit the basilica in Mexico City. Many of them walk barefoot until feet are bloody.”

“In South Korea, we celebrate ‘Chuseok.’ Celebration lasts for three day. All about gratitude. Very fun. Honor ancestors. Visit graves. Give many gifts. SPAM is very popular gift.”

“SPAM?” replied someone. “Seriously?”

“Many Asian cultures love SPAM.”

The Japanese kid smiled. Finally a word he understood. “SPAM! YES! SPAM! SO GOOD!”

The old woman felt weird, not cooking this year.

But she’d given up cooking Thanksgiving ever since the stroke paralyzed half of her body and forced her into an assisted living home.

Still, it was bizarre. Sitting on the sidelines, after all these years. Watching capable women bustle about the kitchen.

She watched her daughters and daughters-in-law lift large casserole pans, wash tall stacks of dishes, cracking open various bottles, jars, and plasticized containers of all shapes and denominations.

The old woman had prepared 54 Thanksgivings, solo. Fifty-four. And she’d been cooking Thanksgiving supper with her mother since before Franklin D. Roosevelt was a household name.

But now, she was doomed to sit in the bleachers. She rarely left the assisted living home—except for holidays like today.

As she watched her daughters move throughout the kitchen, she felt a strange mix of pride and sorrow. Pride, because her daughters were confident, adept mothers and homemakers. Sorrow, because life goes by so dang fast.

Her daughters removed the thawed turkey from its plastic wrapper. They placed the raw carcass onto a

large cutting board. One daughter removed a big cleaver and began cutting the turkey in half while the other held the bird with both hands.

The old woman watched while one painstakingly began to lob the turkey in half, cutting through bone and tendon.

The old mother couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Stop,” she said.

The young women quit cutting. They just looked at their mom.

“Why are you cutting that turkey in half?” the old woman asked.

“What do you mean?” said the oldest daughter. “This is how we’ve been cooking turkey for years, Mama.”

The old woman smiled. “Why would you do such a thing? Cutting it in half?”

The daughters exchanged a look. “Becuase that’s how YOU always cooked turkey, Mama. You’d cut it in half.”

The youngest daughter explained. “Mama, every year, when we were…

The Little League team was good. Really good. The nine mop-haired, lanky boys, clad in classic ‘70s harvest-gold uniforms, were undefeated this season. They had a shot at the pennant.

But then, devastation.

Their first baseman was sliding into home when he broke his shin in two places. Doctors operated. Wired his bones back together. The boys all signed his cast. Unless they could find a replacement, it was goodnight Irene.

The coach held tryouts. The whole team gathered. Every boy was anxious to find a new player who kick some proverbial posterior.

Two boys auditioned that afternoon.

The first was tall and strong. Square-jawed. Looked like he’d been shaving since age three. He was a natural athlete, wiry and agile, an RBI machine. Just wind him up and let him go.

The audition should have been over right then and there. But it wasn’t.

The second boy got his shot, too.

His name was Arnold. He was small, awkwardly built, and he walked funny. Arnold suffered from polio as a baby. He lifted the pantlegs of

his blue jeans to reveal metal braces.

“Braces?” the coach remarked. “You can’t run with those, son.”

“I can, sir,” the boy replied

So, the coach put him through drills. True to his word, the kid could run with the braces. He was slow. His gait looked more like skipping than running, almost like a strange dance. But he was doing it.

Next, the coach put Arnold in the infield.

Arnold missed half the balls hit to him, but he dove in the dirt, without care of injury, leapt as high as he could, and sprinted until he fell over and got mouthfuls of dust. Arnold showed more hustle than 50 boys his age.

Then, it was time for hitting. The tiny boy stood at the plate. Bat held at his ear. Out of breath from exertion. His little shirt was drenched.

That’s…

The following story is true, sent in via email by a man named Gale.

The mid-80s. Detroit. The boy didn’t have much. He was one of those teens most people won’t notice.

Each day, he walked to and from school with a ratty backpack on his shoulders, containing a pitiful lunch he made himself, since he had no mother to prepare meals.

He had no father, either. The boy was raised by his aunt, who spent her life in the arms of some guy she met at a bar, or lost at the bottom of a bottle.

His aunt’s life was such a mess she couldn’t even remember to do the grocery shopping regularly. So the boy got pretty good at buying groceries.

Truth told, he actually liked grocery shopping. The supermarket was his jam. He loved the clean, crisp aisles, with food piled high on shelves. He loved the water-sprinklers, misting vegetables in the produce department. He loved the elevator music.

Today, he was exiting the store with an armful of groceries when he was met

by an older man, standing outside the supermarket, asking for handouts.

The young man’s heart was pricked when he saw the man. He offered the man his sack of groceries.

The grocery bag was full of peanut butter, jelly, frozen French fries, a gallon of two-percent, Frosted Flakes, and other odds and ends. This was supposed to last the boy for an entire week.

The man smiled his tooth at the kid. There was something wet in his eyes. “God bless you, son.”

The kid flashed a return smile, one with a little pain behind it. That was HIS food. He walked home empty handed.

The following week was pretty tough. It’s hard to function when you’re hungry. Hard to fall asleep, too. Digestive acids start to hurt your stomach. Mostly, you just lie in bed, thinking about sandwiches.

The boy ate free…