The young woman sits in my truck passenger seat. She is 19. Her hair is red. Scottish red. Luminously red. People always comment on her hair first. 

Today she attended a presentation I gave at the library. Everyone at the library asked about her. They noticed her red hair and assumed we were related since my hair is also red. 

At first, I explained that we weren’t related. Then I’d tell the story of how we met, when I first wrote about her, some years ago. But after a while we got tired of explaining ourselves and we started calling her my niece. 

The young woman attended my presentation because she is very supportive of me. Although heaven knows why. We come from different generations. She’s a college kid in a sorority. Whereas, yesterday a salesperson enrolled me in AARP to save 15 percent.   

Currently, as we drive through Birmingham traffic, my “niece” is using her GPS to navigate aloud for me. She is better at using phones than I am.

She is

tranquil and collected, delivering important driving instructions as I wage battle with the homicidal motorists of Jefferson County. 

“Turn here,” the girl says calmly, using the same tone a driver’s ed instructor might employ. “Go past this light.” “Use your right blinker.” “The lady in the left lane is flipping you off.” “I believe she is using both fingers.”  

The child is well-mannered. Smart. Polite. Talented. Thoughtful. And I don’t think I’ve met anyone with more genuine optimism. 

It’s her optimism I marvel at the most. 

She lived in the hospital for nearly 230 days last year. For nearly a decade, she has struggled with an itemized list of medical issues that would make most grown men crumble. 

Paralyzation. Vision impairment. Diabetes. Relearning to walk. Twice. She lives on a feeding tube. She hasn’t eaten solid food since June. And yet she smiles. 

Our young heroine…

She shall remain anonymous.

Her classroom was out of control. Had been for a while. The kids in her “at-risk” fourth-grade class were about as organized as a prison riot.

That’s what we call them in today’s world. “At-risk youth.” Once upon a time, in a less modern era, we might’ve called them “troubled youth.” But such words are unsavory in today’s modern and unbiased age.

Either way, the kids never listened. They did not pay attention. They seemed to always have their hands where little hands should not be. Their indoor voices were loud enough to change the migratory patterns of most varieties of waterfowl.

The endless behavioral issues were upsetting the young teacher’s life. She was trying so hard to reach them, but she left class each day feeling like a Stretch Armstrong doll on Christmas morning.

Then.

The teacher had this idea. The next morning, instead of their regular lesson plan, she paired the kids off. Everyone got a partner.

The kids

were required to find a private spot in the room and talk to one another. Their assignment was to write biographies on their partners. They were to do research.

Most of the kids groaned and protested. But in the end, they did it. They all got together and started talking about their lives. Really talking.

“It was the most engaged I’d ever seen them…”

Over the span of two days, kids were connecting with each other. They were empathizing. They were exercising compassion. There were no behavioral issues in class.

“You could see everyone’s moods shift,” she said. “It was incredible.”

This went on for a week. Until one morning, when the teacher was running late for class.

There had been a wreck on the interstate, so a substitute watched over the classroom until the teacher arrived.

When the young teacher walked…

I have been doing a lot of walking. More walking than I’ve ever done in my life. More walking than I thought possible.

We wake up; we start walking. We go to bed; I’m walking in my dreams. My feet are so used to endless stepping that my feet subconsciously move while I use the bathroom.

But we have to walk. Got to keep training. Got to be prepared. In a few weeks we will be in Spain. And then it will all be real. We will be walking the Camino de Santiago every day. Walking will be our full-time job.

You can learn a lot about yourself by walking. I don’t know how this is possible. But walking does something to you. To your soul. You hear a voice when you walk. A still, small voice you would have never heard otherwise. A wise and ancient voice that speaks directly to your heart.

The voice keeps telling you, “You are insane.”

And we

are insane. Namely, because we’re carrying heavy backpacks as we walk. The packs are not all that heavy in regular life. In fact, they’re pretty light. They’re just normal backpacks. No big deal. But after several miles uphill, your backpack becomes a mid-sized Nissan from hell.

This is why you are constantly thinking about ways to reduce your pack weight. But you can’t, of course. Everything inside is a necessity. You’ve already reduced your belongings to a few pounds.

Your shampoo is a tiny bar of special camping soap. Your toothbrush has the handle cut off to save .0004 ounces. You carry only enough toilet paper to accommodate the needs of a small hamster.

Funny thing is, when people find out you’re walking the Camino, they offer friendly advice. Everyone has a useful tidbit. You quickly learn that everybody on planet earth must’ve known about the Camino except…

I have here a letter from 19-year-old Erin, who lives in Bristol, Virginia.

“Dear Sean,” she begins, “I want to be happy, but I’m not…

“My family is stressing me out, big-time. Especially my mom. My therapist actually recommended that I write to you, seeing if you have any insightful thoughts about happiness.”

Hi, Erin. My first insightful thought is: Fire your therapist. If he or she is recommending that you reach out to me, your life is in serious trouble.

If you want pure happiness, however, you should visit the guest laundry facility at my hotel. Which is where I am right now.

It’s a room about the size of a residential bathroom. I am trapped in this room with an all-boy soccer team.

There must be 841 little boys crammed in this space. They are loud. They are unbelievably happy. Testosterone waves are crashing against the walls, compromising the structural integrity of the Hampton Inn & Suites.

I don’t know anything about soccer. Namely, because we did not have soccer when I was a

kid. During childhood, we only had two choices athletics-wise: (1) baseball, and (2) First Methodist choir.

Naturally, we boys gravitated toward baseball. I loved baseball. Baseball made me happy. I played first base. Granted, I wasn’t great, but I wasn’t good, either.

I don’t mean to toot my own kazoo, but I set a few Little League records. For example: I still hold the record, for example, for eating an entire birthday cake in under two minutes.

But that’s the kind of everyday happiness we experienced as kids. Just like the soccer players in this laundry room. Because when you’re that age, you’re always happy. You’re pretty much cheerful all the time.

Sure, sometimes things stress you out, but almost nothing can threaten your overall kid-happiness. So my question is: Why did we grow up?

The American Psychological Association states that childhood offers unique…

Maryland. The old cafe is mostly empty this time of night. Music plays overhead. Pedal steel guitar.

The cook is cleaning his flattop. The waitress is reading a magazine. Thank God magazines still exist in our AI Age.

I smell cured pork and onions. There are globe lamps hanging over the bar. Half of my American youth happened in places like this. The only thing missing is the smoking section.

I sit at the counter. My waitress is named Sharon. I know this because it’s on her name tag. She speaks Alabamian. I can hear it in her voice:

“You doin’?”

“Good,” I say. “You?”

“Better’n I d’serve. Choo drinkin’?”

“Coffee, please.”

She gets out a pen and pad. Thank God pens and pads still exist.

“Knowcha want, sweetie?”

“Two eggs. Bacon. Hash browns.”

“White’r wheat?”

“White.”

“‘Bout them eggs?”

“Sunny.”

“‘Thing else?”

“You got any chocolate milk?”

Smile. “You sound like my four-year-old.”

I’ve been on the road for days, performing my one-man spasm before audiences. It’s been fun, but I miss home.

I stay on the road for a living. Sometimes you get homesick. Last night, for example, I got out of bed to use the restroom and walked face first into my hotel room wall.

But it’s the little things that keep you grounded. Familiar food. Pedal steel guitars. And a familiar accent.

My food arrives.

“Your accent,” I say to my waitress. “Where’re you from?”

“Close to Troy.”

People from small towns almost never tell you the name of their town first. They always start with the nearest big city and work their way inward.

“Where around Troy?”

“Brundidge.”

“Pike County.”

She smiles. “Shut up. You know it?”

“How long you been gone?”

Her face is still wearing a smile, but it’s the kind of smile that…

Once upon a time there were three little ants. The ants had an unusual home. They lived atop an elephant. 

Long ago the ants’ mother had reasoned that an elephant would be a wise place to lay eggs to keep them from danger. 

“No predators shall ever find my eggs on an elephant!” their mother thought. Their mother was also insane. 

And so it was, the ants grew up on the elephant. The little ants wandered hither and yonder, all over the mammoth body. They found scraps of food within the great animal’s hairs. They drank from droplets pooled on the beast’s immense back. When it was cold, they burrowed in the warm folds of the elephant’s wrinkles. 

One day, a ladybug hitched a ride on the elephant. The traveler was impressed with the ease of the ants’ lives compared to the tiresome lives of regular ants. 

The ladybug asked, “What is this marvelous creature you live upon?”

“Creature?” said the little ants. “What doth thou mean?” For ants always spoke in Middle English.  

“Why,” the

ladybug said, “this host whom thouest inhabit, who feeds thou, who keeps thou safe from spiders and birds who would devour thee?” 

The ants looked at themselves confusedly. They knew nothing of any such creature. 

And so it was, the ants resolved to discover the host upon which they resided. They searched the entire behemoth body for answers. 

Later, they reunited on the elephant’s ear. They conversed freely, unaware that the elephant could hear their voices.  

“The thing we live upon is a rock,” reasoned the first ant. “For it is strong and mighty. Alack, I cannot dig through its skin for it is impenetrable.” 

“Nay,” said the second. “This is no rock. We live within a forest. For I wandered the multitude of hairs and whiskers upon the crown of our host. The hairs must be trees.” 

“Both art wrong,” said the third.…

My sister and I sit cross-legged on the front porch, playing cards. I am losing. Not that this matters.

We are really into the game right now, slapping cards on the porch floor.

The sun is low. Random cars pass our neighborhood. The five o’clock train is singing in the faroff. A robin is building a nest in one of our hanging ferns, talking to herself while she works.

It’s been a long time since I’ve played cards. Not since the reign of Queen Elizabeth II. The irony is, I used to play cards all the time.

There for a while, my mother and I would play casino almost every night. Or rummy. After my father died, we were big card players. Sometimes, my mother and I would play for hours without saying more than a few words. And once every 10 or 12 hands, I might even win.

My sister has never played casino before. So I teach her. It takes a few seconds

for her to fully grasp the rules well enough to thoroughly kick my aspirations.

Casino is one of the better card games out there. It’s quick. It’s all about numbers. It’s a card game my dad taught me. I don’t know why that matters.

I look at my sister sitting across from me. She looks like my dad. In fact, she has all my father’s best attributes and she doesn’t even know it.

His long, lean frame, and fast metabolism—she can eat an entire pizza and you will still see the veins in her abs. Whereas all I have to do is look at a single slice of ham and suddenly I look like a church deacon.

She has his laugh. My old man had a unique laugh. I liked to watch him laugh. His head would go back. His teeth would show. It was a full-body…

So, here’s your life.

You’re born into a good family. You’re a Roman citizen, back in the fifth century Britain. You wear a tunic. You’re a nice-looking guy. At least your mom thinks so.

You’re 16. One day, you’re hanging out, shooting the bull with friends, when a horde of thugs comes through your village, setting fire to houses, pillaging, and doing unspeakable things to townswomen.

The bad guys kidnap you. They put you on a boat. You’re below deck, in chains, bleeding, and you're crying. You’re junior-in-high-school age, not old enough to shave, you’ve probably never even been kissed. And, boom, now you’re a slave.

These evil men take you to their country, which the Romans call “Hibernia.” Although the locals call it “Éire Land.” The place is cloudy, very green, and the locals are in serious need of a qualified dental care professional.

You are sold on the auction block, naked, for a low price. Your master makes you a shepherd.

For years, you are homeless.

You sleep with animals. You eat with animals. You are always cold. You cry yourself to sleep each night.

It is here that you find God.

Then, when you’re 22, as your sheep are grazing near the seaside, you see some sailors. They speak a weird language. They seem like good guys so you beg them to take you home. Turns out, they aren’t good guys. THEY make you THEIR slave.

Anyway, somehow you escape. Years later, you finally make it back home. So now it’s time to rest. Relax. Maybe start a family of your own. But you just can’t.

How do you lead a normal life now? You’re scarred, battered, beaten, abused; you just can’t just go home and cut the grass.

Instead, you become a priest. And once you’re a legit priest, where do you beg your bishop…

It was a big storm. The television showed weather updates. The radar looked like red-and-yellow vomit.

“Find shelter!” the weather guy kept saying. “There’s a tornado on the ground in Calera!”

I texted my friend in Calera.

“You okay?” I texted.

“We’re good. But you should hear it outside. Pray.”

Pray, he said.

As I write this, 34 are dead across Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Texas, and Mississippi. Maybe more by the time you read my words.

Who knows how many are injured. Who knows how many are missing. Who knows how many are waiting to be found. Who knows how many hundreds of thousands are without power.

Pray.

Well, I have been praying. And I really mean that. As in: I have physically folded my hands, closed my eyes, said amen, and everything.

This might not sound like a big deal, saying a simple prayer. But for me, it is a big deal. Namely, because when I was younger I used to

tell people I’d pray for them and never actually do it.

“I’ll pray for you” was just something my people said.

It’s not that I didn’t feel compassion for others, I did. But this phrase was purely verbal reflex. The words popped out before you could call them back. You were just required to say them.

If you DIDN’T tell someone you were praying for them, you were a big fat jerk who was probably a communist and added sugar to your deviled eggs.

I can’t tell you how many people throughout my life I said I’d pray for, and yet I never even uttered a word on their behalf. Heaven only knows why I didn’t.

What was I so busy doing? It takes, what, a minute or two to say a sincere prayer? I’ve spent more time picking belly button lint.…

This is my fourth week with a flip phone. My “unintelligent” cellular phone is manufactured by Nokia, and the phone’s primary selling feature is that it sucks.

Service is spotty. The screen is the size of a Cheez-It. But there is one plus. The phone has an FM radio feature. You can listen to the radio, but only if you hold the phone to your ear like you’re making a call.

Oftentimes, my wife will find me with phone pressed against my ear, wearing an urgent look on my face, and she’ll ask in a whisper, “Who are you talking to?” Whereupon I’ll cover the mouthpiece and say, “I’m listening to talk radio.”

It is technically possible to send texts with this “dumb” phone, but this is such a painfully tedious process that, frankly, you’d be better off using Western Union.

Usually, texting is such a pain in the astronomy that I end up calling the individual. Which sometimes takes people by surprise. Apparently voice calls aren’t common anymore, inasmuch as whenever

I call someone people assume something is wrong.

“Omigod,” the person will answer the phone. “Is everything okay?”

“Sorry, my phone won’t text. Surely you don’t mind me calling.”

“Not at all. And don’t call me Shirley.”

Of course, this is only a sample conversation provided someone actually ANSWERS their phone. Which they usually don’t. Probably because whenever I call they don’t know it’s me. This is due to the fact that my name now shows up on caller ID as “Rene Birdfield.”

I don’t know who Rene Birdfield is. I don’t know if she is a real person. But somehow ever since switching phones my service provider has transitioned to identifying me as Rene.

The following is a verbatim transcript of an actual phone conversation with our plumber:

ME: Hi, I was calling about our appointment to look at…