My dad was a runner. He started just before I was born. One day after work, they say he came home and decided it was time to quit smoking and start jogging. He stabbed out his smoldering cigarette and he tore off running, right then. He finished the cigarette later that evening. 

He ran marathons throughout my childhood. Marathons were his thing. And although, occasionally, I still saw him sneak Marlboros, it was ONLY on special occasions. Such as Wednesday. 

But he couldn’t smoke much because running and smoking contradicted each other. But then, the old man was a walking contradiction. 

My father was an ironworker. Union man. Local Number Ten. He wore denim and boots every day of his professional life. The man hung suspended from 40-story skyscrapers, tied off with a safety harness, and stick-welded column splices from nine to five. 

When he got home, he’d be covered in soot, with little white patches of skin around his eyes, and he smelled like diesel. And yet, the first thing he’d do was change into

running clothes and go for a six-miler. 

He began running the Pikes Peak Marathon on a whim. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. One day he came home from work, loaded up our van with camping gear, and announced that our family was going to Colorado where he would run 26.2 miles, climbing 14,000 feet above sea level. My mother responded by picking up the kitchen phone receiver. 

“Who are you calling?” Daddy asked. 

“I’m upping your life insurance,” my mother replied. 

We camped in Colorado for a few days. I remember the morning of the race. The old man was nervous. He wore red cotton shorts. A Coors Banquet Beer ball cap. He was unprepared. But he believed he could do it. 

He kissed my…

Tonight, we walk the streets of Savannah with royalty. Traffic does not part when she walks by. Her unwitting subjects, trudging along the sidewalks, do not pay her a genuflecting glance. When they see her, they do not even recognize her sacred station. But they smile just the same. For one cannot help but smile at royalty. 

Her sovereign vestments are made of cotton and denim. Her robe, of spun atmosphere. Her jeweled crown, invisible to the human eye. But she is royal nonetheless. 

Her name is Maddie. Or as we like to call her, “Your Majesty.”

Her Grace stops at a crosswalk to wait for a string of traffic to pass before crossing Habersham Street. She is smiling at each car that passes, for no reason at all. It is Sunday evening, and for no explainable reason, she is happy. 

“Why are you so happy?” I ask Her Excellency as she monitors the traffic situation. 

Maddie cannot hear me speak, of course. She is deaf. But she has trained

herself to feel vocal vibrations and read lips. The random vibrations she senses, she associates with mental colors. The colors help her earmark all sounds and place them into categories. It is in this way that Her Highness can identify different noises. She can, for example, tell the difference between the deep-purple thrum of an A/C unit and the bright-red explosion of a dog barking. 

She replies to my question after sensing the peach-colored vibrations from my voice and reading my lips with her one good eye. 

That’s another thing. Her Highness’s left eye was removed because of glaucoma complications. Her right eye has glaucoma, but right now it works fine. The bad eye was giving her migraines. 

Maddie spent her teens in a murky depression. Sometimes Maddie wouldn’t…

I’m sure some of you have noticed I haven’t been writing as much as I used to. I get lots of emails asking why this is. Many of these emails are ultra-friendly emails, beginning with the words, “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!!!?”

To answer this, I need to start by telling you about our trip to Spain. 

Not long ago, we walked the Camino de Santiago for a second time. For a second time we were on foot in Spain, living out of our backpacks, communicating fluently in Spanish hand gestures. 

For a second time, we read Spanish signage, watched Spanish TV, ate Spanish foods, and enjoyed many authentic Spanish foodborne illnesses which transform the lower digestive region into nuclear field testing sites.

While we were there, something kinda cool happened to me. I heard a voice. I don’t know how to describe the voice. I don’t even know whose voice it was. But it was definitely a voice. It was, however, a quiet one. 

I suppose I could only hear the

voice because the noise of daily life died down. And I became acutely aware of the present moment. I had never really connected with the present moment before. I’d always been living in the next few moments. Or worse. I was reliving the decades of past moments. But in the silence of the Camino, I was here. I was now. And I heard the voice. 

We live in a loud world. 

Smart TVs, mobile phones, tablets, and other media devices blare frightening news, twenty-four-seven. The news isn’t even news anymore. It’s cleverly worded headline phrases with trigger words and slanted spin phrasing. Stories are announced by talking heads, capable of discussing a single media event for upwards of six or seven hours without once pausing to reapply hairspray. 

And…

Morgan arrived at the little lake cabin around lunchtime. Her sorority sister Grace was driving the car. The car wheeled into the gravel driveway. When Morgan crawled out of the passenger seat, we all rushed her and embraced.

Everyone was laughing and carrying on, hugging necks, and back-slapping. Dogs were turning circles and barking with glee. And during all this social excitement, someone may or may not have accidentally peed in the kitchen.

Now, I won’t say WHO in my family circle urinated directly on the kitchen floor. But I will say that I am almost certain—at least in this particular instance—that it wasn’t me.

Next, Grace and I carried Morgan’s bags inside, while my wife gave Morgan the dime tour of the antiquated lake abode.

Jamie showed Morgan where the wooden floorboards warp and where, precisely, she should watch her step. She showed her the vintage bathroom, with a toilet that predates the Truman era and a rust-covered bathtub with flaking paint, and a tiny lizard who lives in the overflow drain whom we have

named Albert. We showed Morgan exactly which hazardous ungrounded electrical sockets to avoid, and made certain everyone understood the finer points of electrical injuries and basic CPR.

Then, while everyone got settled in, my wife cleaned up the pee in the kitchen.

“I’d like to know WHO peed in my kitchen,” she said in an ominous voice, glaring at me and our three dogs.

“I would like to know as well,” I said.

But my wife was now glaring solely at me.

“What are you looking at me for?” I asked.

Glare.

So I went onto the porch and hung out with Grace and Morgan. The porch overlooks Lake Martin and is the perfect place to spend a serene…

On our first date, we went to a bookstore-slash-coffee-shop. I asked the young lovely if she wanted something to drink. She replied that she would like some water, please. 

So, I found the coffee station, which featured a small pitcher of free tap water. I poured a Dixie cup full. I gave the water to her. 

My date handled the tiny cup like I’d just presented her a container of warm sputum. 

“What’s this?” Jamie said. 

“Water.”

“Didn’t they have any bottles of water?” 

“I think they sell bottles, yes.”

She glanced at the Barbie-sized cup in her hands. “Are plastic bottles against your religion?”

Shrug. “They’re expensive.”

“So it’s a moral issue?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say then?”

I smiled. “Would you like a bottle of water?”

“No,” she said.

“Let me get you a bottle of water.”

“No, thank you. Not if they’re ‘expensive.’ Heaven for-BID.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“No. Don’t bother. I don’t want a bottle of water. I couldn’t have you spending a whole DOLLAR on your date. That would

be a bridge too far.”

Jamie tossed back the water like it was commercial-grade tequila. She slammed the empty cup on the table. “I’ll take another, Mister Rockefeller.”

And I knew I would marry her. 

In my defense, this happened nearly a quarter century ago. Bottled water was still a relatively new thing to the American public. It was considered bougie, at the time. This was an era when bottled water was typically reserved for persons with a credit score of 780 or higher. 

Moreover, when you came from the other side of…

The complainers speak in all caps sometimes. 

“AMERICA IS FALLING APART,” they often say. “THINGS ARE WORSE NOW THAN EVER BEFORE.” 

But just because something was typed in capital letters doesn’t make it true. 

Actually, things are not worse than ever before. Less than 100 years ago, in 1933, nearly 30 percent of Americans were unemployed. Over 2 million children abandoned schoolhouses for factory jobs. About 150,000 families were starving, eating weeds and roadside scraps to combat malnutrition. 

Whereas today, the unemployment rate is 4 percent. Meanwhile, we’re more educated than ever—federal law mandates free K-12 education for all youth. Also, over 86 percent of households are food secure. 

“WHATEVER!” the angry people type while compressing the Shift key. “THIS IS STILL THE WORST PERIOD IN HISTORY.” 

Is it? Let’s talk Earth history for a moment. Millions of years ago temperatures were approaching 150 degrees, which is almost as hot as a Porta-John at a bluegrass festival. Earth creatures retreated to polar regions, en masse. They starved, of course. 

Mass extinction was the norm. Acid rain burned plants, killed trees, and destroyed animal eyesight. A super-volcano spewed enough

lava to cover North America in a layer of lava half a mile deep. Meantime, here comes an asteroid. Whereas today, you have Starbucks. 

“OKAY, MAYBE THE WORLD ISN’T LITERALLY FALLING APART. BUT ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE IS DESTROYING OUR WAY OF LIFE.” 

This is exactly what they said about machines during the Industrial Revolution, but we survived.

“WHAT’RE YOU TALKING ABOUT? MACHINES HAVE RUINED US! THEY MAKE LIFE SOOO COMPLICATED.” 

Complicated? 

“YES!”

But machines make your life easier. 

“NUH-UH!”

Yes-huh.

“NUH-UH!”

Okay. 

Do me a favor. Go to your pantry. Select an…

Jim was stuck. In the middle of the rural two-lane highway. Right there on the pavement. Not far from the solid yellow line. Tucked tightly in his shell. Scared to death. 

Vehicles sped past little Jim, on both sides, shooting by with the deafening roars of F-16s. 

All he could see were their tires from this angle. Big black wheels, flying past so quickly they looked like grayish blurs. Thick synthetic rubber treads, gripping the highway floor, making loud rubberized noises on the pavement, only inches from his tiny head. 

Jim knew what these machines were, of course. Everyone knows. And, more importantly, he knew what they could do to a small creature like himself. He’d seen the aftermath before. 

Squirrels. Possums. Raccoons. Even dogs. Fast and agile creatures, each one of them. But they were no match for the machines with tires. The unfortunate animals were struck. Their limp bodies often lay on the highway shoulder. Unattended. Forgotten. Picked clean by the turkey buzzards. 

“What shall I do?” Jim was

thinking to himself. “If these speedy machines can kill quick-moving creatures like dogs and cats and chipmunks, they can surely kill slow things like me.”

He had only been crossing the highway on his way to the pond. The pond where he was born. This was what his species did, each year. They returned to the old homeplace. 

Year after year, all of Jim’s kind came from distant parts of the forest, following their internal compasses. They reunited at the old pond where they had hatched. They came here to nest. To mate. To lay eggs. They’d been doing this for hundreds, if not thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of years. Ever since the earth cooled. 

Human scientists would call this behavior “site fidelity.” Scientists would marvel at this…

We left New York, bound for Pennsylvania. We crossed the border and entered the Horse-and-Buggy State. All of a sudden the scenery changed. We saw farmhouses, porch swings, clotheslines, and large, steaming piles of organic matter on highway shoulders that definitely weren’t left by SUVs. 

We sped through Amish country on our way to meet our friend Kris at a restaurant called “Funck’s.” My wife, Jamie, was convinced the name of this restaurant was an unfortunate typo. 

“That can NOT be the real name of the restaurant,” said Jamie. 

“Why not?” I said. 

“Because it almost sounds like a cuss word.”

“That’s not very nice. It’s someone’s name.”

“It’s NOT a real name.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Have YOU ever met a Funck?” 

“No, but I’ve met plenty of people who acted like one.”

Then, I explained to my wife that this is Pennsylvania. In Pennsylvania, lots of people marry Funcks. Funck is a completely ordinary thing. Funck is a natural and normal part of life. 

Then, I

started thinking of all the imaginary Funck family reunions in the Keystone State, with everyone getting together for the annual Funck barbecue, with lots of happy Funck families running around. I imagined tiny brother and sister Funcks, a Father Funck and a Mother… 

Anyway, we met our friend Kris at the restaurant where the hostess assured me that Funck is a real name and you are free to use this word in social settings without offending anyone. (“Quit acting like a Funck…”) They even use this name in religious ceremonies and nobody thinks twice. (“Do you, Liz Martin, take this man, Chip Funck, to be your lawfully wedded Funck…?”)

“I actually know a woman named Funck,” one customer in line offered.…

We arrived in New York City and tried our best to avoid the chaotic crowds of pedestrians downtown. But this proved to be difficult inasmuch as our cab driver was driving on the sidewalks. We tried to ask him to slow down, but he was too busy on a video call.

Ah, New York. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate this place, but I appreciate it in much the same way I appreciate, say, dental implants. This is a stressful city. Namely, because everyone here is in a big hurry. You can feel everyone’s energy constantly pulsing around you with the intensity of a trauma unit.

Downtown, I was perpetually approached by people on the street who were either trying to sell me something, trying to save my eternal soul, trying to collect my spare change, or attempting to welcome me into a reputable place of business with a name like, “G-String Theory.” Meanwhile, I was dodging bike messengers traveling upwards of 60 mph whose pupils were the size of subatomic particles.

Years ago, the first time

I visited New York City, one of the first things I learned was that few residents know what to do when they meet someone who holds open the door for them. I was raised to hold open the door for anyone approaching a place of business, restaurant, community establishment, or penal institution. So, I held the door for an elderly woman who was exiting a restaurant.

She looked at me aghast and said, “What, you don’t think I can open my OWN door?”

“Huh?” I replied.

“Are you a sexist?”

“No, ma’am, it’s just…”

“‘MA’AM!?’ Who you callin’ ma’am? Are you saying I’m old?”

“No, ma’am... I mean, Miss, I was just…”

Then she cracked a smile. “Relax,” she said…