Yesterday. It was 4 P.M. Carol turned off cable news and picked up her phone. She announced there would be an emergency club meeting.

It was “URGENT!” she texted her friends.

It was urgent because within Carol’s 73 years, she has never seen anything more disheartening than the events she saw unfolding in Washington D.C. that afternoon.

“This country needs healing,” says Carol. “Just like any sick person would.”

Carol is no stranger to healing. She leads the quintessential small-town church prayer group. These are elderly women who get things done.

The older ladies have been getting together for 18 years to do things like raise money, volunteer, eat congealed foods prepared with liberal amounts of mayonnaise, and of course, pray.

These women have prayed so hard their knees have gone bad. They’ve prayed for rowdy husbands who are bad to drink. For children who are ill. For couples who fall upon the rocks. They have even prayed Carol through her cancer. Twice.

“I could tell you stories ‘bout healings we’ve prayed for,” says Carol. “It’d shock you, the kinda miracles we've seen

happen over 18 years.”

When the pandemic hit, Carol started holding their weekly meetings online instead of in-person. It was the smart thing to do since most ladies are older, and three members have compromised immune systems. Carol herself is on oxygen.

But social distancing never sapped their enthusiasm. There are nine group members in total. And on this particular day, after the horror in the U.S. Capitol, the world needed all nine of their healing prayers.

Carol sent out her first text to Kelly, and their conversation went something like this:

“HAVE YOU SEEN THE NEWS?”

Kelly texted back: “Yes! Watching now! Scary!”

“TEXT EVERYONE! LET’S MEET!”

“In person?”

“IDK, MAYBE IN OUR CARS.”

“Cars? Really?”

“YES!”

“Why are you writing in all caps?”

“BECAUSE I LOST MY GLASSES AND I SEE BETTER THIS WAY!”

“[Thumbs…

The world is a dang mess. And I have gone fishing.

It’s been a long time since I’ve held a rod in my hands. Too long. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I sat on this overturned five-gallon bucket, perched upon the shore of this Choctawhatchee Bay, staring at this water.

Some people don’t understand fishing. Take my wife. She can’t figure out why any rational man would spend hours on a bucket not talking. She says it’s boring.

Boring? No. To go fishing is to embark upon a great intellectual competition, attempting to outsmart the cleverest creature on earth. You might not think fish are intelligent, but believe me, they are much smarter than humans.

A redfish, for instance, would never drain his kid’s college fund to purchase a 17-foot Tracker Pro Team 175 TXW boat package simply to go catch his limit of humans.

Today I came to this bay because earlier I was watching the news and it made me sick to my stomach. The headlines du jour were

giving me literal palpitations. The irony is that I was having a pretty good day until I saw the state of our world.

You have to worry about us sometimes.

So I packed my tackle and left. And I’m glad I did because bay water can work wonders on a man’s soul.

Try to visualize this. I am looking at 129 square miles of brackish, blue water that spans two counties, and has a watershed that covers roughly 3,339,632 acres. Out here there are no radios, no screens, no phones. No traffic. No billboards. I only have a rod, a bucket, and the ghosts of my ancestors.

Fishing.

I come from a long line of fishermen. Most were mediocre anglers, but others were gifted like my uncle Ray Ray. Uncle Ray Ray could communicate with fish through extra sensory techniques. Sadly, the only message he could…

I thought about you this morning, Miss Margaret. When I heard the Carter Family sing “I’ll Fly Away” on the radio, you were in my heart.

The tinny sounds of a 1930s shellac record filled my den. Maybelle Carter played guitar like a twelve-fingered prodigy. Their magnificent Virginian voices sliced through the monotony of life and made me smile.

This particular Carter Family song reminds me of something that happened a few weeks ago.

I was out for a walk when I noticed something on the pavement. It looked like an insect had been smashed by a passing vehicle. Which is exactly what happened.

It was a butterfly. She was still alive. Sort of. Her wings were shredded, but still moving. Her antennae squirmed lazily.

I sat on the highway shoulder and held her broken body in my hands. This creature was suffering, about to expire, and there wasn’t a thing I could do. It was awful. After a few minutes, she finally died. I felt hot tears falling from my eyes.

I don’t mean to

be gloomy here, but have you ever noticed how this earth is indifferent to us? It robs us of every wonderful thing, then bills us for the damages. Nothing—not one thing—lasts, and it stinks.

Show me a beautiful day, and I’ll point to an approaching thunderstorm. Show me a handsome young man; I’ll show you a guy who will one day keep his dentures in a glass of water. Introduce me to a stunning mountain range; I’ll show you the future construction site of a T.J. Maxx.

I dug a small hole in the ground with a stick, I buried the butterfly, and said a few words. I felt like a fool when I recited the 23rd Psalm to a deceased flying insect, but it had to be done.

Then something happened. Something you will probably think I’m making up, but I’m not.

On…

I have here an email from a high-school senior in Texas who told me he wants to become a writer. He asked if I had any advice. Here is an excerpt from that letter:

“...Please help! I want to know how to pay my bills with writing! Any advice on this career path is appreciated.”

For starters, I have no advice. I’m terrible with advice. I’m even worse at paying bills, which is why my face is on posters at the local post office.

But I can tell you a story. And this story opens on a drizzly night in Atlanta. I was 24 years old. I sat in a little cafe, after hours, with an old man who I’ll call Moe. My band had just finished playing at a nearby beer joint. Moe had filled in as our substitute guitarist that evening.

In the back of the diner, a waitress was trying to force feed an elderly man in rags who was barefoot and shivering. Merle Haggard sang overhead.

Music is what I did before I became a writer. I played guitar with no-name bands. I did construction before that, but I quit that job to pursue music fo a while. Which was a huge mistake. This meant I had to “pay the bills” with music.

I was suddenly forced to take every gig that presented itself, from Chiefland to Timbuktu. So for years I played in ugly joints your mother warned you about. Occasionally, I also played at the Moose Lodge on bingo night. Or I played piano at revivals.

I quickly started to hate music. I discovered that the professional bar-musician life was not the carefree experience I once thought. I slept in crud-covered motels. I ate fast-food. I missed my wife.

I learned that the easiest way to kill what you love is to treat it like a career. I know this sounds painfully trite, but…

On an empty neighborhood street near my home a father teaches his son to ride a bike. The boy sits on a tiny two-wheeled machine wearing a helmet roughly the size of a prize-winning watermelon. The father balances the bike and offers reassuring advice.

“Keep your head up, and just keep pedaling, and…”

Scattered on the driveway are disassembled training wheels which have been removed from the kid’s bike. The nuts and bolts lie on the pavement like memories of a bygone infanthood.

This boy is about to be one of the big kids today.

The child sits on his saddle wearing the face of Neil Armstrong before blastoff. It is the same facial expression Chuck Yeager had before breaking the sound barrier. The same look I once wore when I realized my income taxes were considerably late.

“I’m scared, Dad,” says the kid.

“You’re gonna be fine.”

“What if I fall?”

“I’m here.”

“What if I can’t do it?”

“You can.”

Meantime, I’m watching from a distance. They don’t see me eavesdropping.

Right now I am having a few

memories return to me. Not memories of bicycles, but of times I once sat in the proverbial saddle and asked myself similar questions.

Can I do it? Can I withstand failure? How about rejection? What about embarrassment? Or pain? Will I make a fool of myself?

There was the time I worked up the bravery to ask Dorothy Lynn to couple skate at the fifth-grade roller-rink party. I was nauseous about it. I felt as though I would vomit all over my shoes.

Dorothy was the most popular girl in fifth grade and I was a chubby redhead whose T-shirts always seemed too snug. Boys like me did not ask Dorothy Lynn to couple skate. Boys like me held the regional record for the most rice puddings consumed during a single cafeteria period.

But I asked Dorothy anyway. I ignored…

A newsroom. I was in my mid-20s. Unruly red hair. Big nose. A necktie that was suffocating me. Don’t ask me how, but I had a job interview. I was pure nerves.

I had no business being there. But then, I have a well-documented history of being in places I shouldn’t be.

“No journalism degree?” the editor said, squinting at my resume which read like a Hardee’s breakfast menu.

“No ma’am.”

“So, what’s your degree in?”

I explained that, at the time, I was in my ninth year of community college. And I was showing true potential as a promising liberal arts major.

“Aren’t you a little old to be applying?” she said. “What exactly is it you want, here?”

Her question paralyzed me. I didn’t know how to answer. She waited. I made no human-like sounds. She asked me to leave.

Goodnight, John Boy. Thanks for playing.

I loosened my necktie. I ordered three tacos from a Mexican dive downtown. The tacos came doused in a red sauce that would forever burn the protective lining from my lower gastrointestinal tract.

I sat

on a curb. What DID I want?

I saw a group of young men, walking the street, wearing suits and neckties. They did not look like me. They were cleancut, perfect teeth.

They probably had vocabularies which did not contain words like, “y'all,” and “twelve-pack.”

It was at this moment that I was interrupted.

Across the street, I saw a young woman struggling to lift a wheelchair from her trunk. I approached her and offered to help. She asked if I’d lift her sister from the vehicle and place her into the chair. I did. I sort of had to bear-hug her sister to lift her out of the passenger seat.

And this did something to me. I discovered what I wanted.

And I’ll share it with you, if I may:

First: I want my friends to…

His name is Moose. I don’t know much about him. We were first introduced yesterday evening when he pressed his cold nose against my skin, which is the age-old gesture of friendship between dogs and humans.

Moose is roughly two-foot tall with a short tail, black muzzle, wide-set eyes, brindle coat, and linen-white paws. He’s a boxer, and he has a temperament so calm he makes the Pope look like a troublemaker.

Moose belongs to our friends, Steve and Elvira. My wife and I were at our friends’ house celebrating New Year’s last night. All evening I was transfixed by Moose because, judging by the look on his face, he didn’t understand what we were celebrating. I guess Moose has never heard of New Year’s Day.

“It’s New Year’s, Moose,” I explained. “Are you gonna wish me happy New Year?”

Moose blinked once. Then he licked himself and left the room.

Because, hey, he’s not here to participate in our weird human holidays. No, Moose is merely an observer within frantic People World.

Although from

the corner of my eye I could see the old boy paying attention to our peopleish conversations with genuine interest. He looked like a spectator at a tennis match. His head would move left, then right. Left. Right. Left. Then he’d pause to do more intimate grooming.

We humans were having some animated discussions too. We were talking about things like pandemics, and problems the virus has created. And we talked about the New Year, and how 2021 is going to be a better year.

The whole time, Moose just watched us. Because for dogs, you see, there is no such thing as pandemics or New Year’s Day. In fact, to a dog there is no yesterday, no next week, and no 2021. There is simply right now.

A dog’s world involves no clocks or calendars. It’s nothing but food, naps, and visits to the…

I don't like endings. I hate goodbyes. I dislike the last day of vacation, the morning after Christmas, the final slice of pizza. I am sad when I finish a carton of rocky road, the last biscuit makes me weep, I grieve when baseball season ends. Endings are the pits.

Then again...

The end is also the best part of a good book, or a timeless song, or a movie. Take “Casablanca.” The final scene of this classic film shows the hero, nightclub owner Rick Blaine, delivering his gut-punching poetic lines to the lovely Ilsa.

The last dramatic minutes between him and Ilsa make the whole movie worth it. The entire film has been tediously mounting, building, climbing, and leading to Rick’s tearful farewell in which he tells Ilsa:

“...Ilsa, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that. Now, now... Here's looking at you kid.”

Here’s looking at you kid.

Boy. What a finish.

So endings are vital. Just think about it. The ending of a ballgame is when Sid Bream’s teammates smother him on the infield after he slides into home plate. Where overjoyed ball players dogpile atop each other until they break each other’s ribs.

The ending is the crescendo of a Brahms symphony, swelling to unsurmountable heights. The ultimate few bits of a masterwork which represent the fruition of a composer’s entire career boiled down to 120 seconds. The crashes of cymbals, the sustained whole notes from a string section. La fin. Das ende. Finis. конец. 終わり. The end.

Which is why I want to share something with you that might gross you out, but it’s kind of important. So hang in there.

I speak of a recent study that was done wherein volunteers were taken off the street to…

The last time I went to Kentucky, I got lost. Ten minutes after I crossed the state line my GPS quit working and I found myself on a two-lane highway, adrift within an ocean of wild green hills that never ended.

The first thought I had was: “I think I’ve found heaven.”

I’ve read claims about certain U.S. states that boast the most greenery. Well, I think Kentucky is up there with the champs. We’re talking about a place that’s roughly 12 million acres of woodlands, which comes out to nearly 49 percent of the state.

Kentucky is also home to one of the biggest elk herds east of the Rockies; cradle to the Boy Scouts of America; the birthplace of Mother’s Day; also Abraham Lincoln; and the home of perhaps the greatest philosopher, thinker, and role model of our time, Jim Varney.

Which is why I was pleased to get a letter recently from Eastern Kentucky, sent to me from a man we’ll call Frank.

Frank has been working construction for

43 years. And last week, after a long day at work, he was riding home, feeling depressed because he had this nagging feeling he was about to be laid off before the New Year.

The company Frank works for has fallen on hard times since the pandemic hit; there have been lots of layoffs. Frank believed he was next to go because, in his own words, “I’m too old.”

Frank is in his 60s. His younger coworkers work for cheap, and are considerably more spry. You fall off a ladder at 23, you get up and keep working. You fall off a ladder at 60-something, your boss calls the local funeral home.

So Frank’s truck was rolling through a heavenly rural highway. It was already dark outside, the moon was out, and he saw something in the road.

The small object looked like an upside-down bowl, inching forward.…

It’s my birthday and I’m writing this before sunrise. I don’t know why. I guess, like all aging people, I have changed over the years. I don’t sleep like I used to. Once upon a time I could fall asleep during a pep rally, but now I wake up hours before my neighbor’s deranged rooster, Virgil.

Virgil is a piece of work. He crows at odd hours. And once he starts crowing, he goes all day, no matter how many blunt objects are hurled at him. Virgil is one of those chickens who, when he looks at you with his two crazy eyes, you know he’s only got one oar in the water.

The first thing I do this morning is start the coffee on the stove. Then I listen for Virgil at the back door, but he isn’t up yet.

Thank God for birthday blessings.

To kick off my big day, I play my guitar, quietly, so I won’t wake my wife. The Folgers perks on the stove while I play “After You’ve Gone.” I’ve

been picking a guitar since I was 9 years old, and in all that time I think I’ve actually managed to get worse.

The percolator starts bubbling. I put the guitar down and turn the coffee off.

This porcelain Corningware percolator was a wedding gift from my mother. I remember the day I got it. No sooner had I announced to Mama that I was getting married than she wrapped up her 1950s coffeepot in paper grocery bags and gifted it to me.

“You’ll need coffee if you’re gonna be married,” she said. And I nearly started crying because in that brief moment, before I left her home forever, life seemed so existentially real to me. I can’t explain it.

I pour a steaming cup then walk outside before sunrise.

On my porch I discover that it is colder than brass undergarments out here.…