When my grandfather was born, they still used horses and buggies.

One third of Americans were farmers. Irving Berlin was a household name. Newspapers were the only form of mass communication available except for maybe shouting.

Entertainment was different, too. People entertained each other. Books were luxury items. Silent movies were around, sure, but you had to live in a big city to see one.

Baseball was king. Football was still a new invention. Nobody ever heard of basketball.

There were no radios. Victrola record players were only owned by the well-off, and the sound quality was crap. So music was a HUGE deal. Namely, because it was so rare. The only time you ever heard actual music was when you made it yourself.

There was refrigeration, either. So your eating habits reflected this. No McDonald’s. No fast food. Food was not fast. Food was incredibly, ridiculously, implausibly, unmitigatedly, outrageously, incomprehensibly, unreasonably slow.

Vegetables were always fresh. Meat was a luxury item, and super expensive, not an inalienable right. Plus, meat wouldn’t keep without cold

storage. So there was a lot of salting, curing, smoking, pickling, and preserving going on. The average American diet was three quarters vegetarian.

People sent telegrams. Nobody had telephones, unless you were born with a silver spoon shoved up your you-know-what. And even if you DID have a telephone, who the heck would you call? The Rockefellers?

Average people didn’t use lightbulbs. Especially not in the rural parts, not until the 1930s. So poor families like my grandfather’s went to bed with the sunset. They woke up with the chickens.

In those days, ordinary people weren’t insulated from the horrors of life. When someone died in the community, for example, the community dealt with it themselves. Undertakers were too expensive for country people. So you WERE the undertaker.

Let’s say your elderly aunt Lucy died at the ripe old age of 53.

First, someone’s kid…

The following is a true story. The little girl was walking with her mother. They were taking a stroll through the hospital garden, bathed in the dappled sunlight of early afternoon, looking at all the flowers in bloom.

“Mama,” said the child, “who planted all these flowers?”

Mother replied, “The gardener, I guess.”

The mother wore chemo headwear. She was frail, and much younger than she appeared. Her hands were puffy. Her vision was going bad. She had lost her tastebuds.

According to recent news, she would not be long for this world.

As they walked through the garden, they could see the landscaper, working in the soil, planting new flowers. He was on his knees, digging in the beds.

“Why does the gardener dig in the dirt like that?” the child asked.

“Because that’s how you plant flowers.”

“You mean he LIKES getting dirty?”

“I don’t know,” said Mom. “I mean, I guess so. Why else would anyone be a gardener?”

The little girl was silent, taking it all in.

The girl pointed to another grouping of yellow flowers. She didn’t know what kind they were. The

gardener noticed her pointing. He said they were Asiatic lilies.

“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” said the gardener. “I just love Asiatic lilies.”

“Did you plant those, too?” the girl asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a note of personal pride. “I planted all the flowers you see in this garden.”

“The whole garden?” the girl replied.

“Yes’m. Everything.”

“And the trees, too?” the child asked.

“Yes, I planted the trees, too. The crepe myrtles, the tea olives…”

“What about the bushes?” asked the little girl, gesturing to the shrubs.

The gardener looked at the hydrangeas and the rhododendrons. “Yeah, those too. I planted everything you see out here. Both big and small.”

The little girl approached the man. “Why?”

The man had to laugh.

Then he shrugged. “Don’t know. Because I love…

Happy National Redhead Day. I’d like to tell you about a redhead I admire.

Her name is Morgan Love. She is 20. Her hair is Little-Orphan-Annie red. Her countenance is Saint Mother Teresa.

She has spent more of her life in a hospital than outside. And yet, I have never seen her complain. She has been on life support more than once. She has cheated death more than anyone I know.

She is a medical student. A Delta Gamma sorority sister (Anchors up!). But because of her health, her life is filled with obstacles.

She receives nutrition via feeding tube, carrying the feeding apparatus in a backpack. And yet, she rarely misses a class. She made the president’s list. She aces every test. If she ever earned a B grade, it would probably kill her.

There is a lot I could tell you about Morgan, but I’ve said it all before. I’ve written about her a lot. There are people all over the nation praying for her.

And each time they pray, their prayers work. Each

time she goes into the hospital, the doctors gaze at Morgan and get this serious tone. They prepare her for the worst. They let her know that this hospital stint could be the final curtain.

Then everyone in the room gets quiet, exchanging looks.

Whereas Morgan just smiles and tells the doctor, “Let’s just take it one step at a time.”

She’s frequently out of the hospital in another few days, riding various waterslides, trick-or-treating, or going on National Epilepsy Walks.

My favorite memory of Morgan is when we visited the Tennessee Aquarium. Morgan really wanted to go to the aquarium with us, even though it was against her doctor’s orders.

Her family decided that it was okay, and so Morgan disconnected her feeding tube so she could accompany us on our road trip.

Which meant she would go days without nutrition. But the…

LAVINA, Calif.—It was an average day. A sunny September morning, with highs approaching the 100s. Hot enough to melt commercial truck tires and sauté small woodland creatures on the pavement. (But it’s a dry heat.)

It was a rural area. Hundreds of acres of almond trees. The scent of organic fertilizer filling the air.

Two farmworkers were repairing a broken tractor near Avenue 8 and Road 23 ½ in Madera County. That’s when they noticed something.

The men saw a school bus on fire.

There it was. A big yellow vehicle sitting in the nearby intersection. A Madera United School District school bus, emitting massive plumes of black smoke.

There were children aboard.

The two workmen dropped their tools and rushed toward the bus. They charged aboard, fighting through billows of dark smoke to reach the final children who sat in the back rows.

They removed all the children from the bus only moments before the vehicle burst into flames.

Within minutes, the yellow school bus was completely engulfed. And as the vehicle’s steel frame

creaked and groaned beneath high heat, and as tongues of fire consumed the body of the vehicle, 20 school children waited on the shoulder of the highway. Alive. And safe.

Miraculously, nobody was hurt.

Recently, the two men were honored by Madera County board of supervisors, along with a crowd of people who gathered to recognize them.

The two workers showed up in jeans, boots, work shirts, and ball caps. The uniform of the American farmer.

The men were quiet, unassuming, meek. They gently accepted their certificates, posed with county officials for photo opps, and even gave a few interviews to local news stations.

But beneath the celebrative activities, you could tell these men were uncomfortable in the spotlight. Most real heroes are.

Even so, the whole story seems remarkably unreal. Think about it. A bus catches fire in a remote area, surrounded by farmland,…

On Interstate 71, just outside Carrollton, Kentucky, stands a lone highway sign. It’s a small sign, DOT-green, no frills. Easy to miss.

But it’s there.

The sign reads, “SITE OF FATAL BUS CRASH—MAY 14, 1988.” That’s all.

Thousands of cars pass this sign on their way to work. Heading toward Cincinnati. Maybe tens of thousands. I wonder how many remember what happened here.

The Carrollton bus collision was one of the deadliest bus crashes in US history. The collision involved a church youth-group bus, and an ‘87 Toyota pickup.

The former school bus was filled with mostly teens. The Radcliff Assembly of God youth group had been returning from King’s Island amusement park. It had been a sunny day.

Just before midnight, a drunk driver’s pickup struck the front of the bus. The bus’s suspension broke, a detached leaf spring rammed into the bus gas tank. The front door was jammed shut. The fire started immediately.

Passengers started evacuating through the narrow emergency door, squeezing through the tiny opening.

But when you have 60-odd teenagers crammed into a 12-inch

aisle, all pressing towards the same miniature exit—the only available exit—you have disaster.

The crush of bodies was too much. The kids were gridlocked, unable to move. Within four minutes, the entire bus was on fire. Children were screaming. Metal was creaking. Smoke everywhere.

Twenty-seven died. Most victims were between ages 13 and 14. Their bodies were recovered facing the rear exit, trying to escape.

But that’s not the story here. The real story is what happened afterwards.

Thirty-six years later, the survivors of this crash are still out there. And they haven’t exactly been sitting on their hands.

I’ll tell you about a few.

There is Harold Dennis, who survived with severe burns, and intense facial scarring. He could’ve given up. He could’ve quit. But he went on to play football for the University of Kentucky. Today, he travels the…

The hotel lobby. Early morning. The dining room is filled with people all eating complimentary breakfasts of plasticized food-like matter.

The demographic is mixed. Lots of middle-aged married couples. You can tell they’re married because they don’t speak except to mutter something random like, “Randy texted.” Then the couple will fall quiet again for another two, maybe three presidential administrations.

Also, there is a group of young professionals in the dining room. They are all dressed sharply. There are heavy cologne fumes emanating from their side of the room.

They are all on their devices, also not speaking. Thumbing away rapidly, like the fate of the Free World depends on whatever they’re doing.

But the real star of our dining room this morning is a young man. Late twenties. He is a big guy, with a bushy beard. He is wearing pajamas. And he has kids.

Two children, to be exact. One of them is a baby in a carrier. The other is a little boy, he is maybe 5.

Everyone in the dining room

is minorly ticked off at the young father. Namely, because his baby is holding a rubber-encased iPad, blasting loud music which features a female voice singing explicit lyrics about what exactly the wheels on a school bus do.

His other child is also holding a device, which is playing some sort of superhero video, at high volume, with lots of yelling, laser sounds, and various explosions.

Now and again, one of the older people looks bitterly at this young man, then clears their throats in such a way that you can almost feel the hate rays coming from their eyeballs.

But the young dad looks too tired to care. He simply eats his breakfast.

Soon, people in the dining room are all exchanging looks.

“This is ridiculous,” I overhear one woman say to her husband.

“How inconsiderate,” murmurs another.

You can practically see what the…

Today is All Saints Day. A holiday that was started during ancient Rome, when Christians were killed for sport.

“Hallows Eve,” was simply a prayer vigil traditionally held on the night before this holiday. A holiday intended for remembering martyrs.

So, I’d like to tell you about a few recent ones.

People like Qamar Zia, a Pakistani woman, born in 1929.

As a young woman, Qamar escaped an arranged marriage by running away. She worked in orphanages and mission hospitals. She lived with American Presbyterian missionaries, attended Bible school, then became a teacher.

She visited poor villages, traveling the countryside by bicycle, preaching love and acceptance.

Qamar broke longstanding Pakistani social norms by teaching women to read. She also worked alongside these women in the cotton fields.

In the end, Qamar pissed off the wrong people. Her death was sudden. In 1960, she was found brutally murdered in her bed.

Today, a statue of Qamar Zia stands over Westminster Abbey.

Then there’s Doctor José Gregorio. Born in 1864 in a small village in Venezuela. He

came from humble means. His mom cleaned houses.

He became a doctor, but never made any money. Namely, because he treated the impoverished for free. He bought everyone’s medicine out of his own pocket.

During the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918, he treated hundreds, if not thousands. All for free. They called him the “Doctor of the Poor.”

Soon, villagers across the country were seeking him out. Nobody was turned away. He always began his treatment by praying for them. Oftentimes, miracles happened.

One day, while José was delivering medicine to an elderly woman, he was struck by a motorist. He is one of the first recognized saints of Venezuela.

Miguel Pro. In 1927, Mexico was a frightening place to live. Under the presidency of Plutarco Elías Calles, it was practically illegal to practice Christianity.

Churches were burned. Priests were imprisoned. Nuns were killed. This…

I sort of raised myself.

My dad died when I was a kid. He died by suicide, shortly after he’d been released from county lockup on bail. His death was dramatic. It made the papers. On his final night, he almost took my mother to the grave with him.

I was 11 years old. And at the time, I thought this was pretty old. I mean—hello?—I was practically 12. In some cultures, my cousin once told me, boys were starting families at 12.

But the older I grew, the more I realized what a baby 11 was. I was an infant.

As a result of losing my father young, I learned a lot about life. I learned lessons my peers, thankfully, didn’t need to learn.

Foremostly, I learned how to make crappy decisions. I made TONS of bad decisions. One right after the other. This goes with the territory. Boys without dads don’t have the luxury of someone making decisions for them.

One of my first idiotic decisions was to quit the baseball team. I

did this because I couldn’t face the guys anymore. They didn’t understand me. They’d quit calling, quit asking if I could come outside and play.

They sat on the opposite side of the lunchroom. Didn’t speak to me. Acted like I had plague. It wasn’t their fault. It’s just how kids are.

My second bad decision was to drop out of school. This happened in seventh grade. I declared to my mother that I would never go back. She was going through so much post-trauma of her own, she said, “Whatever.” And that was that.

Truancy officers came to our house sometimes, but eventually they quit showing up. And I kind of disappeared. My name fell into oblivion.

Everyone pretty much forgot about me. I became a nonentity. I worked crap jobs. I was cosmic debris. I was white trash. At least that’s how I…

It was a social experiment. Nothing more.

We were in an elevator. Me and Bill. Bill is an academic researcher, dealing in human behavior. Also rats. He knows a lot about rats. Whereas I am a redhead.

It was a large elevator. There were maybe 14 passengers. The supermarket downtown is swanky. The big elevator carries you from the parking garage to the main level.

“Pay attention,” said Bill, as we boarded the sardine can.

“What do you see?” he whispered into the redhead’s ear.

For starters, almost everyone in the elevator was young. And by “young” I mean the oldest among them was probably early 20s.

“That’s because this supermarket is located near the college,” said Bill.

The elevator stopped. More people got on. All young people. The lift stopped at another floor. Another young group shuffled aboard.

There might have been 20 of us now. Everyone was a baby compared to Bill and me, who are both old enough to remember when Lawrence Welk officially went off the air.

“Are you paying attention?” Bill asked.

I nodded.

Although, I wish I hadn’t been. Because I was immediately struck with an eerie feeling in this elevator. Namely, because everyone was staring at a device. And I mean everyone.

Nobody made eye contact. Nobody seemed to WANT to make eye contact. Nobody offered the quick, polite social smiles our mothers taught us to give others. Nobody acknowledged boarding elevator passengers with warm looks and brief nods.

Nobody seemed aware of anything. They just stood there. Numb. Head craned downward. Staring at the iridescent blue, opiate glow of their touchscreens.

The elevator doors opened. We were on the main level now. The elevator emptied.

“Follow and observe,” said Bill.

Together, we sort of followed the young people around the store. At at distance.

The kids were awkward. Their interactions were awkward. Sometimes it was downright cringy. Like the kids didn’t know…

KAILUA, Hawaii—It’s dark outside. It’s late. Or is it early? Hard to remember. Been a long day.

Here she comes. Jogging. People are cheering. They should be. She just finished swimming 2.4 miles, pedaling 112 miles, and running 26 miles.

With finish line in sight, she trips. She falls. The race should be over for her right here. But it’s not. She stands. She starts jogging toward the finish again. Unstoppable.

She crosses the tape.

Natalie Grabow, of Mountain Lakes, New Jersey, has just become the oldest woman to finish the Ironman World Championship Triathlon. Amazingly, Natalie only learned how to swim around age 60.

Today, Natalie is 80 years old.

“It’s never too late to take on a new challenge,” says Natalie.

LONDON—Here’s another challenge. Sixty-five-year-old Denise Bacon from East Sussex, England, was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. She lost the ability to do her favorite things like play clarinet.

Until the other day.

She underwent a procedure called DBS—deep brain stimulation. If the procedure was successful, it would restore motor function. DBS is offering new hope to patients with Parkinson’s,

like Denise.

The doctor told Denise to bring her clarinet just in case. Mid-operation, the surgeon told the techs to fetch her clarinet.

And so it was, the surgical team stood behind a plastic sanitary guard as Denise lay on the table, still under local anesthesia, under powerful lights.

She held the clarinet to her lips. And played for the first time in years. And not only did she play, the operating room sounded like an Artie Shaw performance.

“I’m already experiencing improvements in my ability to walk,” says Denise. “And I’m keen to get back in the swimming pool, and on the dance floor.”

CAPE BRETON BEACH, Nova Scotia—Here’s another challenge worth mentioning. It occurred when three pilot whales were stranded on the beach.

Low tide was fast approaching. The three whales were stuck. They would die on the…