There was this kid. In the supermarket. I saw him walking through the store.

He was pushing a buggy. He was maybe 18 years old. He was skin and bones. And I mean skinny. He would have had to stand up five times just to make a shadow. Your standard issue, all-American kid.

His cart was brimming full. It’s not every day you see an 18-year-old doing that kind of intensive shopping.

We were in the canned seafood aisle. He was comparing cans of tuna. He asked me what the difference was between white albacore and chunk light.

“Everyone knows the difference,” I said confidently. I inspected the cans. Then, drawing on my training as an English major, I replied, “I have no idea.”

We got to talking.

His mother has been on chemo. Her breast cancer keeps coming back. She hasn’t been responding well to the radiation, either.

He had to drop out of college to help her. He wanted to major in English, which only shows you how confused this poor child

is.

Caregiving became his life. At 18. He’s learned all the tricks. How to transfer a weak person from a wheelchair to a bed. How to feed someone. How to step into the shower with his mother, fully clothed, bear-hugging her, to bathe her.

“I even had to learn to help Mom use the bathroom,” he said.

Then his grandmother got ill. It was like a cruel joke from On High. So the boy took on caregiving duties for her, too. The elderly woman was hospitalized for pneumonia. It almost killed her. The boy stayed at her bedside. Day and night.

He bathed his grandmother, too.

So this year has been a tough one. He recently moved his mother and his grandmother both into the same rental house. A house he found online. Three bedrooms. Two baths. It was perfect.

His mother let the lease on…

I collect old cookbooks. Small-town cookbooks, mostly. Self published ones. The kinds of books that were pieced together by hand, using old comb binding machines and mimeograph paper.

Often, these books were crafted by ladies from civic leagues, community groups, United Methodist congregations, and NASCAR Ladies Associations.

I have an entire shelf full. People send them to me. Sometimes, when I have nothing better to do I read them.

There is one such cookbook on my shelf from First Baptist Church, Slocomb, Alabama (1978). They don’t get too worked up in Slocomb.

There is a recipe entitled “Company Potatoes,” by Cora Casey. If this dish doesn’t change your life it will—at the very least—change the life of your company.

I have one from Pintlala Baptist Church. Pintlala isn’t the edge of the world, but you can see it from there. There is a recipe for ice-box lemon pie, submitted by Nana, Lillie Evans. In our house, we lovingly call this dish “Baptist Crack.”

There is an antique cookbook from a tiny town in Maryland, from a Unitarian

church.

If you’ve never been to a Unitarian service, they’re notoriously bad singers. Mostly, because they’re always reading a few lines ahead to see if they agree with the lyrics. My favorite recipe is the one for Kool-Aid pickles.

There’s one from Brewton, Alabama’s civic league. My wife’s hometown. They have recipes for squirrel, possum, and even skunk. A man has to be pretty hard up to eat a skunk.

There’s one from the Fort Lauderdale, Florida Ladies Association for Responsible Feminism, from the 1970s. There is a recipe called “Bra Burner Casserole.”

I have one from a Tennessee Church of God. The opening foreword is written by the pastor. He writes, “Why does a $10 bill look so small at the grocery store, but so big at church?”

One of my favorite books is entitled “Cooking in Wyoming: The Centennial Women’s Suffrage…

“I am nineteen,” the note began. “...There is a boy I like. He’s nice to me, but I don’t if he actually likes me back. I’m not super pretty. I’m okay, I guess, but not much to write home about. How can I get him to like me back?”

“Sincerely,
“SLEEPLESS-IN-SPOKANE.”

DEAR SLEEPLESS:

First thing’s first. Relax. Take a deep breath.

Males are no deep mystery. The internet gurus, female experts, and editors of Cosmopolitan magazine would have you believe that males are complex animals. The truth is, we are painfully simple.

I’m not saying we’re stupid. Our brains are just different, and less organized than females. This is evidenced by the way males load dishwashers.

Basic male differences begin before birth. During the first seven weeks in the womb all babies are female. After gestation, testosterone floods the womb and ruins the male brain.

But it’s okay inasmuch as testosterone makes males less susceptible to pain. Nature’s way of toughening us. Our culture embraces these differences. You can see this demonstrated at birth.

When a girl is born, what

does she get? Pink booties, pink ribbons, pink blankets. When a boy is born, what does he get? Circumcised.

There are, however, some things you can do to stand out from the crowd when it comes to getting this guy’s attention.

Firstly, let’s talk about something called the Benjamin Franklin effect.

Franklin was famous for asking favors from people who he wanted to like him. After doing the favor, suddenly the person would be, more or less, a friend.

This theory has been tested hundreds of times, throughout history, consistently proven. And there’s a reason why it works.

I should point out that I’m not a psychologist, I’m just a hillbilly with an overbite. But the reason this trick works is because of something called cognitive dissonance. Which is a fancy way of saying that the brain can’t hold…

There is a right and wrong way to say grace. I learned this when I was a kid. We were all gathered at my aunt’s house for Thanksgiving. One of the younger relatives said grace.

There were lots of uhs and ahs between the aforesaid relative's words. The kid even picked his nose before getting to the Amen.

Dinner guests were soon looking around, mid-prayer. We were wondering who should interject before my aunt castrated the boy with a serving fork.

The problem is, essentially, that there is a time honored way of saying the incantation. It’s important to get it right.

This is why many families usually ask a professional to say the blessing. At family gatherings there’s always a preacher lying around somewhere.

“Go get Brother Jacob to say the blessing,” my mother once said at a gathering.

“But,” I replied, “I don’t know where Brother Jacob is.”

“I do. He’s in your father’s liquor cabinet.”

In the absence of a professional, there are always a few classic prayers you can use. These are standard-issue prayers. Faithful

oldies. Like the prayer our preacher used at potluck socials:

“Dearest Lord of Mercy,
“We all need your blessin’,
“When this unrefrigerated food,
“Develops botulism.”

There is also a common prayer many of us learn in Sunday school, which is still uttered by all ages. You probably already know it:

“God is great, God is good,
“Let us thank Him for our food,
“By his hands we all are fed,
“Except for Uncle Joe,
“Who is dead.”

Even our non-religious people say grace at meals. Because, in this part of the world, not saying anything at supper just feels odd, no matter what you believe.

Take my uncle Peter. He was not a religiousman, but he always said a few words before each meal.

“I don’t believe in God,
“But wouldn’t it be…

Yeah, I believe in angels. Oh, I haven’t always. And truthfully, I wish I didn’t believe in angels. It would be easier not to.

It all started in third grade. My teacher, Miss Williams, read to us from a book. It was a mass-market paperback. A book about angels.

She read stories about impossible rescues, and unlikely redemptions. Then, she told a story of her own.

She was a little girl. She fell through a second-story window. She was bruised and battered. The paramedics said she would die.

But a man came to her. A man who only she could see. He said she would be in the hospital for a while, but she would be all right, if she could just hold on. She eventually taught third grade.

Yes, she was as crazy as a sprayed roach. But I believed her. And I still do.

There is another guy I know. He talks about being in the hospital, after an accident. The doctors said he was going to die, too. He

was in his bed in a coma.

A nurse came into his room. She was a large woman with ebony skin and white scrubs. She leaned over his bed, held him tightly, and sang to him. She sang, “God is going to deliver you.”

When he woke up, nobody believed him. It was a hallucination, they said. He asked medical staffers who the woman was. They said no employees fit her description.

I know a guy from Alaska. He wrote to me and said that his son suffered brain stem damage after a hunting accident. The kid was going to die. No doubt about it.

When his son was unconscious, a strange woman found him and kissed his face and said he would not die, for he still had work to do on earth.

Today, that kid is 46 years old and he works as a volunteer with…

BIRMINGHAM—Samantha had a baby. He was eight pounds. Even.

The kid needed emergency open heart surgery. He had a critical congenital heart disease. Doctors rushed him into the OR. Surgery took an eternity. The kid survived.

Today, he’s a teenager. Yesterday, when he got home from basketball practice, he had an epiphany. He told his mom he wanted to go into pediatric medicine. He wants to be a surgeon maybe. Wants to be in cardiac medicine.

“Why, sweetie?” Mom asked.

He shrugged his bony shoulders. She can still see the ropy scar on his sternum, beneath his sweaty tank top.

“Just ‘cause,” he said.

Teenagers.

FORT WORTH—There was a guy who had a car accident. A log truck pulled in front of him on the interstate. No blinker. Bam. It was nasty.

The guy was lying in a vehicle that resembled a crumpled Weltmeister accordion. Logs everywhere.

The fire-medics cut him out of the car. Officials were shocked to find that there were only a few scratches on him. He was dazed, but otherwise fine.

When the highway patrolmen

asked him about it, the guy said there was a man in the vehicle beside him during the accident. The man just appeared. The stranger wore white clothes. He had white hair. White beard.

Mid-wreck, the stranger had cradled the man’s head, bear hugged his body, and said, “You’re going to survive this.”

Today, that guy is in his late 70s.

VIRGINIA BEACH—She was walking home from work. She worked in fast food. She was still wearing her uniform. A dog started following her.

It was a Lab mix of some kind, and it was dragging two back legs. Even from a distance, she could see the legs had been crushed. Completely mutilated. A lot of blood.

The vet said it was probably a hit and run. The dog’s ribs were fractured. His head was damaged. Both back legs had been…

I get a lot of questions via email. Without wasting any more space, I’ll get to work answering a few.

Q: I am 20, male, I live in Indiana… I don’t have any hair on my chest or any facial hair. I don’t know what to do, man.

A: Get on your knees and thank God. Because some of us have back hair.

Q: I am an aspiring writer, I write every morning in a journal, but I don’t know how to get started TRULY writing. Any suggestions?

A: First off. If you’re writing, you’re not aspiring. You ARE a writer. Call yourself one. The only way to write is to do it. Which you are. Keep going. Keep driving, the right exit will appear.

Q: I don’t know how to talk to my teenage son. His father just died, and we were divorced for nine years. I don’t know what to say to my son, he’s just shut down on me. He’s doing some things he didn’t used to do, not necessarily bad things, but he’s

been spending time with bad friends I don’t approve of, and I feel so lost. How do I reach him?

A: You’re not going to get through him with disapproval. I’m not saying you have to support his choices, but you don’t have to punish him, either. Grief looks different for everyone. And nobody tells you that grief feels like fear. Keep in mind, I am no expert. But I do know that unconditional love is never the wrong answer.

Q: Someone told me to read your work, and my first thought was, “He’s just some idiot on social media.” But now I know that you are a fake and a liar, and all liars shall have their part in the Lake of Fire. Except ye repent ye shall perish.

A: Thank ye for the letter. Methinks ye shall end up in the…

I’m making changes this year. Little changes. The big changes never last. It’s little ones that stick. So I’m going to start by making my bed every morning.

When I was a kid, my mother believed, firmly, that making the bed set the tone for each day. So each morning I let her make my bed.

But now that I’m older, I’ve decided to make our bed every morning. Namely, because my mother believed that a man who makes his bed won’t ever be too disappointed in himself inasmuch as he accomplished at least one task today.

I’m also vowing to practice moderation. It will be my policy to drink only one beer at a time.

Another change I’m making: I’m going to play with my phone less. Phones are time-suckers. So I’m not going to play on my phone. Instead, I’m going to spend quality time playing on my wife’s phone.

I’m going to eat more bacon. Life is too short to deprive oneself of bacon. A woman named Susannah Mushatt Jones of Brooklyn, New York, lived until

age 116. She ate a serving of bacon every day. But frankly, I don’t want to live to 116, so I will also eat queso dip to offset things.

I’m going to give to homeless people more often. Every time I drive past a homeless guy I think to myself, “He’s just looking for drugs.” But my conscience knows better. Addicts need lunch too.

I’m going to do more meaningful stuff this year. I don’t exactly know what that means, but I mean it.

I’m going to run some 5Ks or 10Ks, for good causes. I’m going to do this because I enjoy running, because I like meeting people, and above all, because there is usually free beer at the finish line.

I’m going to attend more baseball games. My old man died young, and a few nights before he died,…

The misperception about New Year’s is that it’s supposed to be a happy occasion. Sort of like Christmas. Or a birthday party.

But it’s not Christmas. New Year’s represents the end of something. And goodbyes are not joyous.

New Year’s is also a beginning. Beginnings are not entirely happy affairs, either. Beginnings are frightening. You have no idea what you’re in for. Could be good. Could be bad.

This year your wife could win the lottery. And when you get home, she might scream, “We won the lottery, honey! Pack your bags!”

“What?” you might reply. “Should I pack for the beach or the mountains?”

“I don’t care!” she might answer. “Just pack your bags and get out of my house!”

Sometimes the worst news you can get is good news.

In many ways, last year was a rough one. Six of my close friends died. I was a pallbearer twice. That wasn’t happy.

But last year was also a year I accumulated new friends.

It all started when I adopted a blind dog. Which I wrote about in this

column. Which led to me getting invited to schools for the blind.

I spoke at the Helen Keller Art Show. There, I met Henrietta, who has blindness due to a mitochondrial disease. She has practically grown up in hospitals. One of the happiest people I know. “I’m not fearless,” Henrietta said. “I’m brave. There’s a difference.”

I learned how to use a white cane in the hallways of the Callahan School for the Deaf and Blind. Whereupon a little blind girl traced my face with her little hands and sang “You Are So Beautiful.”

I visited Alabama Institute for the Blind and Deaf, where a little boy felt my face, and said, “Will you hug me so I know what you feel like?”

I met a cheerful 17-year-old girl named Morgan. We were at the Service Dogs Alabama training facility.

I saw them at the airport. The loading zone. The kid was standing there. Wearing his uniform.

OCP fatigues. Boots. Patrol cap. His backpack was about the size of a Buick. His face was youthful and round. His cheeks were rosy. He looked like Wally Cleaver.

Beside him was his mom, waiting by the idling car. An SUV. One of those small Japanese SUVs, about the size of a roller skate, only with less legroom.

At least I think it was his mom. The mom was probably in her fifties. Although it’s hard to tell when a mother has gray hair. Which she did.

Airports are sterile, ugly places. There is nothing romantic about goodbyes. Not in an airport, when you know TSA employees are about to touch you inappropriately without first buying you dinner.

The mom straightened the kid’s collar. She told him she loved him, then gave him a shoulder touch.

It was the classic motherly goodbye.

She told him to remember to call his daddy sometimes.

The kid was vaping. The air smelled like strawberry. “I will,” said the kid.

“Your dad worries about you.”

The kid mumbled something.

“And don’t forget to text me,” said Mom. “Just let me know how you’re doing. I know you can’t tell me everything, but, tell me what you can.”

“Okay.”

A long silence. The kid let go a cloud. Travelers came and went. Young passengers hauled expensive luggage inside. Uber drivers dropped people off and hustled for their tips.

The Mom smiled at her boy. It was the kind of smile only mothers can give. It’s an I’ve-known-you-since-you-were-in-diapers smile.

“You, alright?” Mom said.

“I’m good.”

Mom nodded.

“I know you’re going to do great,” she said.

More mumbling. The kid didn’t want his mom pep-talking him. He’s in the Army now.

“I better go,” he said.

“Yeah.”

The kid gave her a hug. The hug evidently meant more to…