The 8-year-old boy offered to help the old man in his garden. The old widower wore a chewed up Red Man hat, and jeans with mud stains on the knees.

The boy asked the random, nonsensical questions of boyhood:

If the world is spinning, why can’t we feel it, Grandpa? Why does time feel slow when I’m bored, but fast when I’m having fun?

The old man answered every persistent question with patience. Then, the conversation took a turn toward the philosophical. It is a well-known fact that 8-year-olds are philosophers.

“What’s humble mean?” the boy asked.

“Humble?” the old man replied. “Why do you ask?”

The boy shrugged. “There is a picture in your bathroom that says ‘Be it ever so humble.’”

“Oh, that.”

“It hangs over the toilet.”

“I know.”

“I can see the picture really good whenever I’m peeing.”

Grandpa laughed. “Yes. Your grandmother embroidered those words before she died.”

The boy began digging with a small handshovel. The kid’s hands were soon covered with soil. His fingernails, black.

“Humble,” the old man said, lost in thought. “Sorta hard to explain...”

The boy waited.

“Well, just

look at the trees, the trees are humble.”

The boy wrinkled his face. “The trees?”

“A tree is not loud. Not boastful. Not showy, or self-important. He’s not trying to be something he’s not. A tree never judges anyone.”

The kid was silent.

“Same way with birds,” the man added. “Birds aren’t interested in being right. They don’t share our human need to win.”

The child continued to dig. His little hole was growing too deep to serve any true gardening purposes.

“And yet,” the man said, “birds have every reason to be proud. Birds can fly, they can even navigate using Earth’s magnetic fields.”

“What’s magnetic fields?”

“Something a bird uses to travel thousands of miles by memory. Did you know that some birds can fly 180 miles per hour?…

The Central California coast was covered in dense fog that clung to the world like a wet T-shirt. Morro Bay was gray and cold.

The bay lies directly between Los Angeles and San Francisco. You’re looking at about 2,300 acres of Pacific tidal flats, marshes, and beaches, one of the few national estuaries in the US.

It was midday when the Marine Mammal Center’s phone rang. A concerned caller was reporting weird sounds coming from Morro Bay. Crying sounds. Almost like a baby crying. A high-pitched squealing noise.

The center manages about 600 miles of coastline, including Morro Bay. The workers knew what the sound likely was.

The bay is home to about 70 sea otter adults. Which might not sound like many otters, because it isn’t. But it’s a huge population, considering.

Considering, primarily, that sea otters were nearly wiped out by hunters from the 1700s to the 1900s. Otter pelts were worth a pretty penny. Americans loved wearing the pelts for high-end hats and cloaks.

After only a short

time in history, the global population of sea otters went from around 500,000 to somewhere above 1,000. By the 20th century otters were little more than a historical afterthought.

One of the great victories of our modern age, aside from sliced bread and heated toilet seats, is the restoration of the global sea otter population. Today, there are roughly 150,000 sea otters.

The Mammal Center sent a four-person team into the bay along with the harbor patrol. The boat trolled through the water, but found nothing at first. Then rescuers heard the faint crying. Infant-like cries.

Shyla Zink works at the Center in Morro Bay. She said this was serious. Baby otters need their moms.

“That pup is really relying on everything it learns from the mother to be able to survive in the ocean,” said Shyla.

The team spent hours on the water until they found the a…

A few of this week’s questions from the audience.

Q: Sean, I can’t figure out whether you’re a Republican or Democrat… Could you please share your views on the ICE arrests in this country so I know where you stand?

A: I’ll bet you’re all hands on a first date, too.

Q: You’re a [cuss-word] and a cowardly [maternal cuss-word]… for criticizing our Border Patrol agents in Charlotte, North Caroline.

A: I think you mean “Carolina.” Also, I didn’t criticize. I think your message was intended for Charlotte’s mayor, the Mecklenburg County Sheriff, the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department, the multiple city officials, the Charlotte City Council members, the Mecklenburg County officials, the several North Carolina senators, the congressional representatives, and the Republican state lawmakers who DID criticize the agents’ job performance.

Q: …You’re a lib-tard, I just know it. I can tell by the way you write.

A: I can tell a lot by the way you write, as well.

Q: I’m shocked you chose sides in a political issue, I am deeply shocked. I never expected you to demonize

one party.

A: Sorry, I never choose sides. No single party can fool all the people all the time, that’s why we have two parties.

Q: In your last article, you shared a photo of your “gratitude chalkboard” for Thanksgiving. And one of the items you were thankful for was listed as: THE BLACKS. I truly did not expect racism from you, please explain this. I am deeply disturbed.

A: Sure thing. Joel Black, Tammie Black, Graham Black—along with Sierra, Violet, and Violet’s big sister Hazel. If you find racism issues in my friends’ last names I suggest you take it up with them. Also, I agree, you might be deeply disturbed.

Q: In your last article, you cited different historical dates and used the abbreviation “BCE” instead of BC. BCE is a secular abbreviation that removes Christ from history.

A:…

“Do unto others...” your mother always said. Usually that was what your mom told you whenever you were acting like a little flatulent-head.

Her words were usually uttered with that unique tone that only mom’s can achieve. Your mother uses the same tone when saying:

“Just wait until your father gets home…” “You’d better count your blessings, young man...” “There are people starving in China; eat your liver…”

Do unto others.

The Golden Rule is older than you might think. The first reference to The Rule comes from ancient Egypt, roughly 2000 BCE. “Do for one who may do for you, that you may cause him thus to do.”

It’s also in ancient Sanskrit, in a 3,000-year-old book called Mahābhārata: “Do not to others what you do not wish done to yourself…”

Similar words also come from Rabbi Hilel, 1st century BCE, long before the birth of Western Christianity. “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow; this is the whole Torah; the rest is explanation.”

And in the Tamil traditions of Southern

India, 1st century BCE: “Do not do to others what you know has hurt yourself.”

The ancient African proverb: “If you cannot add to the man you meet, do not subtract from him.”

And in archaic Mayan civilizations, on the other side of the world, the ancients said: “In Lak’ech Ala K’in.” Which means, “I am another you, and you are another me.”

In ancient Greece, all the smart guys were using the Rule:

“Avoid doing what you would blame others for doing.” Thales of Miletus (624 –546 BCE)

Sextus the Pythagorean, 3rd century. “What you do not want to happen to you, do not do it yourself either.”

The venerable Plato (420-347 BCE): “I am sensible I shall treat others with the same respect [with which I treat myself].”

In ancient Persia, (300 BCE): “Whatever is disagreeable to yourself do not do unto…

Ads. Ads everywhere.

Look at your phone. Ads. Turn on a television. Ads. Open a laptop. Ads. Scroll social media to make sure cherished friends and loved ones are still alive and actively posting angry political memes. Ads.

Get in your vehicle, turn on the radio. Ads. Stop at a gas station; a video screen is embedded in your gas pump. Ads.

If you ask me, the TV commercials are the worst. The ordinary American sees roughly 200 TV commercials per day. Most of these commercials are advertising medications. Your average American streaming channel airs 80 prescription drug commercials EVERY HOUR.

Drug commercials have no aesthetic or emotional value. They have become their own clichéd advertising subgenre. Nobody likes them, everyone makes fun of them, and yet they persist. Sort of like Congress.

What’s worse, the commercials are all the same. Common pharmaceutical commercial tropes include:

The prototypical late-middle-aged male, wearing jeans and Carhartt, walking through a cornfield, talking sincerely about hemorrhoids.

Or the sad woman, mid-40 to early-60s, gazing out a window.

Usually, she is talking about depression medication with an sci-fi-sounding name such as, say, “Xenios.”

Meantime, a fast-paced, highly motivational, Tony Robbins-style narrator saying (a) “Take control of your life, and ask your doctor about Xenios,” and (b) “Xenios causes suicidal thoughts.”

No sooner has the announcer said all this, than the announcer begins blatantly telling you NOT to take Xenios. The announcer specifically uses those words: “DO NOT TAKE XENIOS...”

“DO NOT TAKE XENIOS if you are allergic to eggs or flu vaccinations; DO NOT TAKE XENIOS if you are pregnant; DO NOT TAKE XENIOS if you have ever been pregnant, or known anyone who has ever been pregnant; DO NOT TAKE XENIOS if you have never taken XENIOS.”

Yes, ads are a part of life. We don’t even notice them anymore. They never stop. They are loud. Numerous. And they all want something from you.…

FROM THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES:

Whereas it is the duty of all Nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey his will, to be grateful for his benefits, and humbly to implore his protection and favor…

And whereas both Houses of Congress have by their joint Committee requested me “to recommend to the People of the United States a day of public thanksgiving and prayer to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many signal favors of Almighty God especially by affording them an opportunity peaceably to establish a form of government for their safety and happiness.

Now therefore I do recommend and assign [the last Thursday of November] next to be devoted by the People of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being, who is the beneficent Author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be—

That we may then all unite in rendering unto him our sincere and humble thanks—for his kind care and protection

of the People of this Country previous to their becoming a Nation—

For the signal and manifold mercies, and the favorable interpositions of his Providence which we experienced in the course and conclusion of the late war—for the great degree of tranquillity, union, and plenty, which we have since enjoyed…

For the peaceable and rational manner, in which we have been enabled to establish constitutions of government for our safety and happiness, and particularly the national One now lately instituted—for the civil and religious liberty with which we are blessed; and the means we have of acquiring and diffusing useful knowledge; and in general for all the great and various favors which he hath been pleased to confer upon us.

And also that we may then unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications to the great Lord and Ruler of Nations—

And beseech him to pardon our national…

We have this place in our kitchen. It’s a wall. It used to be a door, some 102 years ago, when the house was built.

There used to be stairs outside this kitchen door, leading to the backyard. But the doorway has been sealed off. Now it’s just a big blank space in our kitchen.

The wall is painted with black chalkboard paint. So it’s basically a big blackboard, just like the kind you once used for working out algebra problems in front of your whole class.

We write things on this board. My wife and I. The writings always change.

Usually you walk into the kitchen, and you’ll just happen to notice that someone has erased the old writing, and added something new.

My wife writes messages like, “Welcome home, you’ve been on the road for two weeks, we missed you!”

“The dogs say ‘We ‘ruff’ you, Daddy.’”

“Happy birthday, Sean. I cannot imagine my life without you.”

Little messages. Little words. Small words. But words carry power. Words are not lightweight.

In the mornings, as I

make the coffee, standing in the kitchen with a bad case of bedhead, I stare at this chalkboard. And sometimes, in my half-waking state, I get lost in the chalkboard text. Gazing into the black-and-whiteness of it all.

During the Thanksgiving season, my wife writes messages to—well—to God, I guess. She writes things she is thankful for.

And as the coffee percolates, I shuffle over to the chalkboard for deeper inspection. Then, I and add my contribution to the lot.

The dogs see me squatting, writing with a small piece of chalk. Squatting, of course, puts me closer to their eye level. So, because I am hunching low, my dogs naturally assume I must have ham.

And they attack me.

Soon, I have lost my balance. I am now on the floor. Flat on my butt. With three dogs swarming, trying to…

The headlines are bad. Here are a few from today’s roundup:

“Shutdowns continue.”

“Baby formula recall. Infant botulism on the rise.”

“Bridge collapses in China; 11 die in disaster.”

“Over 850 flights cancelled today, due to government shutdowns. More expected.”

“Geomagnetic storm forecasted to hit Earth, ‘unprecedented’—potentially disrupting infrastructure.”

“Wendy’s to close 300 stores. ‘Where’s the beef?’”

But what about the headlines you never see? Does anything good ever happen? How come you watch the news and see all the godawful things that happened, but never see anything positive, save for a 45-second wrap-up story about a domesticated pig at a nursing home.

What about these headlines, which are also from this week:

“Breakthrough gene therapy gives deaf child hearing—young girl born deaf has hearing restored.”

“Green turtles are no longer considered endangered in many areas, thanks to rescue efforts.”

“Three sisters earn Eagle Scout all at once—Cedar Fitzpatrick, Macy Fitzpatrick and Maya Fitzpatrick of Troop 778 in St. Louis made history as the first Black sisters to earn the Eagle Scout rank together.”

“Missing cat in Western North Carolina returns

home more than a year after getting lost during Hurricane Helene; family thrilled.”

“Global deforestation rate has slowed for third decade in a row, forests on the rise.”

“In less than 24 hours, Chicago suburb launched a community-wide food drive to help neighbors—over 100 volunteers signed up overnight.”

“Man in Miami recognized for personally removing over 17 tons of trash from Biscayne Bay.”

“Gun violence in U.S. cities is on a steep decline—analysis of 150 cities found that shootings dropped massively last year.”

“Free‑food vending machines launched in New York to support food‑insecure families—nonprofit vending machines offer eggs, meat, and produce, distributing free food to over 1,100 families.”

“Extinction rates rapidly slowing for plants and animals—study finds extinction rates among many plants, land vertebrates, arthropods have sharply declined in the last years.”

“New device can pull 1.5 litres of…

She was born in 1821 in the humble town of Winchendon, Massachusetts. She must have been a spirited baby because she was a spirited woman.

She was a tomboy. Her family moved to New Hampshire, and eventually she grew up to become a public school teacher.

Not only did she help students learn and grow, she began writing. In fact, she quickly became a prolific writer. Mostly, on serious socio-political matters, such as abolition and other moral issues.

Her work started appearing in magazines. Then people started asking her to lecture. So she began lecturing. If you’re wondering whether it was common for a woman to lecture in the mid-1800s, the answer is no.

At age 40, she finally got married. She was a late bloomer. He was a minister, named John. Those were turbulent times. It was 1861, a Civil War was tearing the nation asunder.

Only days into their marriage, the country came calling. The reverend was made chaplain of the 8th Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry Regiment, and expected to muster off to

war.

And I wish I could’ve heard the reverend break the news to his wife inasmuch as it probably didn’t go well. Because no sooner had her husband informed her he was shipping off, than she replied: “I’m going with you.”

And she did.

Together, they joined the 8th Infantry, a hard fighting regiment, scrappy and unrelenting. They were known for their mascot “Old Abe,” a war eagle whose image, emblazoned on a tattered flag, struck fear into their opponents.

Namely, because the 8th Infantry didn’t screw around. These guys were tough. So tough, in fact, their screaming eagle mascot would be later adopted by the US Army’s 101st Airborne Division.

The regiment participated in the major battles of Iuka, Corinth, Vicksburg, Nashville, the Red River Campaign and too many others to list. Bloodlettings. Each one. Horrific campaigns that wiped out thousands.

And she was there.

“You can’t say that word anymore,” snapped the female cashier.

She was reprimanding an older man customer in the supermarket. The cashier was very matter-of-fact, glaring at the elderly man from across the cash register like he’d just drop-kicked a kitten.

Meantime, a teenage girl was bagging his groceries, eyes averted downward.

“Wait,” the man replied. “I can’t say WHAT anymore? What’d I say?”

The cashier nodded to the teenage employee. “You called her ‘sweetheart.’ You can’t say that. It’s disrespectful and inappropriate.”

Inappropriate? Nobody in line could believe what we were hearing. For starters, the man in question was old enough to be someone’s grandfather. Secondly, this is Alabama. I’ve had police officers call me “sweetheart” after traffic violations.

The old man seemed genuinely surprised by the rebuke. He looked like he was almost in tears after being scolded publicly by a cashier who was younger than most articles of his current wardrobe.

Someone in line stepped forward to defend the man.

“I don’t think he meant any disrespect,” offered the unfortunate Samaritan, a middle-aged man who was about to be verbally neutered by the

cashier. A middle-aged man who might or might not be writing this column.

“It’s called gender respect,” the cashier shot back. “He don’t know her, she don’t know him. It’s gender shaming.”

“I don’t think calling someone ‘sweetheart’ classifies as shaming,” said the castration victim.

Nobody knew how to respond any further. So we didn’t.

The old man took his groceries quietly. “I apologize,” he said. “I call my grandkids sweetheart all the time. It was an honest mistake.”

The teenage girl was still looking at her shoes. She said quietly, “I thought it was nice.”

The older man took his groceries and left.

And that’s when I got to thinking about the ever-growing list of things you can’t do anymore.

And I’m not talking about the big things, such as smoking unfiltered Camels…