Blog

Ever hit your thumb with a hammer, then drop the hammer on your foot? If not, congratulations, you are either a saint, a professional carpenter, or one of those people who hire someone else to hang a picture frame. But for the rest of us, let me tell you, some days, the supply of available curse words is insufficient to meet the demand.

It happened to me the other morning. I was minding my own business, trying to be helpful around the house.

My wife, Mary, had been dropping subtle hints that the new towel rack in the bathroom might look less decorative and more functional if it were actually attached to the wall. Fair enough.

Armed with my trusty hammer, I set out to prove that I was still the man of the house, the master of tools, the descendant of rugged pioneers who built their own barns with little more than grit and a bad back. I lined up the nail, took aim, and swung.

That’s when the hammer decided it had other plans. Instead of striking the nail, it performed a detour worthy of a drunken pigeon and landed squarely on my left thumb.

Now, I am not a man who uses foul language lightly. But in that moment, I discovered that the human brain can string together a dozen curse words in seven different languages without ever having studied them.

Unfortunately, my creativity was cut short by gravity. You see, the hammer slipped from my hand, and because my foot was standing loyally by to support me in my hour of need, it bore the brunt of my failure.

Thumb throbbing, foot screaming, pride shattered, I stood there like some tragic figure in a slapstick play, waiting for the audience to laugh. Mary peeked into the bathroom and raised an eyebrow.

“Need some help, Hercules?” she asked.

Now, that’s love. Not the kind they write in poetry books, mind you, but the everyday, roll-your-eyes, try-not-to-laugh-while-he’s-in-pain sort of love.

As I hopped around, trying to decide whether to cradle my thumb or my foot, I realized life is full of hammer moments. You line things up, aim carefully, swing with the best of intentions, and then, whack, life smashes your thumb and drops a little extra on your foot for good measure.

The natural response is to curse, shout, maybe invent new words that would make even sailors blush. But after the sting fades, you’ve got to laugh, because if you don’t, life will hand you another hammer.

I finally managed to attach that towel rack. It wobbles a little, like it’s reconsidering its career choices, but it’s there.

Every time I hang a towel on it, I get reminded that being human is mostly about fumbling, stumbling, and still finding ways to get the job done, even if it looks like a raccoon with a caffeine problem did it.

Here’s the thing: hammers don’t care about your pride. Nails don’t care about your plans. Feet don’t care about gravity until they’ve had a date with cold steel. But the people who love us, well, they care enough to bring you an ice pack, tease you mercilessly, and then hang the picture frame themselves when you’ve given up.

And maybe that’s the lesson. The world is never short on hammers waiting to teach you humility. But if you can meet those moments with a grin, a muttered curse, and a towel rack that more or less holds towels, you’re doing all right.

Besides, it could have been worse. I could’ve hit my head, and let me tell you, I’m running low on curse words as it is.

It’s hard to teach this old hound new tricks. Lord knows, I’ve been trying.

For years, I’ve relied on the double dash as if it were an old friend that never let me down. Two little lines that could hold a thought, change a direction, or land a punchline better than most words could.

Then one day, I was told they weren’t proper, weren’t clean, weren’t “professional.” That stung a little.

I took it on the chin, though. Sat down, rolled up my sleeves, and told myself I’d learn to do without ’em.

That was about a month and a half ago, and let me tell you, it’s been about as natural as a pig at a prom. Every time I go to write, my fingers itch for that second dash the way a smoker reaches for a lighter after dinner.

Old habits aren’t just stubborn, they’re loyal.

Now, you’d think after sixty-some years of doing things one way, a man would earn the right to keep his quirks. But apparently, the world’s got other ideas.

Everything’s “streamlined” now, “standardized.” Seems like everybody’s trying to polish the edges off life until it’s too smooth to hold onto. I reckon that’s why folks slip so much these days, no grit left for traction.

Still, I’m trying. Because learning, even when you don’t have to, keeps a man from growing moss.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, right after I grumble about how much simpler things used to be. It’s funny how your brain and your heart can sit on opposite sides of the same fence, arguing over what’s right.

The brain says, “Adapt or die.”

The heart says, “Don’t you dare change a thing.”

And in the middle stands the rest of you, like a referee who’s too tired to blow the whistle.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve always been partial to what’s comfortable.

The same coffee mug every morning, the same chair, the same routine of watching the sun stretch its arms across the pasture. You get to a point where repetition isn’t laziness, it’s peace. So when someone tells me to start doing something new, I don’t jump like a pup at supper time. I circle it slowly, sniffing it out, deciding if it’s safe to bite.

The trouble is, the world doesn’t wait for old dogs like me. It keeps trotting along, ears up, tail high, leaving us in the dust if we stop too long to scratch.

That’s fine, though. I’ve learned to move at my own pace, as there’s a kind of wisdom in that, knowing you don’t have to keep up with the pack to enjoy the hunt still.

The funny thing about this whole “learn new tricks” business is that it’s not really about punctuation. It’s about pride.

About realizing that just because you’ve been doing something a certain way for decades doesn’t mean it’s the only way. And that’s a hard lesson to swallow, especially when you’ve built a life around believing your instincts were usually right.

I remember an old hound, Red. He was a mutt with more heart than sense, but he never gave up trying to please.

I could holler at him all afternoon for chasing chickens, and he’d still bring me my slippers come sundown, tail wagging, hoping for a pat on the head. Red didn’t care about being right; Red cared about doing right.

Maybe that’s the bone I’ve been missing here. Trying to be right instead of just doing right by what I love writing. Whether I use dashes, commas, or ellipses, it’s the story that matters.

The heart behind the words. The truth that sneaks out between the lines, no matter how you break them up.

So, I’ll keep trying to unlearn my little quirk. I’ll do my best to play by the rules, at least most of the time.

But I’ll also keep a few dashes tucked in my pocket, like an old lucky coin. Because sometimes, when you’re telling a story, you need that pause, the one that says, “Hang on now, something important’s coming.”

Maybe that’s what life is, too. A dash between what we were and what we’re becoming.

Some folk fill that space with noise, others with silence. I fill it with stories, little pieces of who I am, scattered like bones in the backyard.

And if I bury one too deep or fetch it out too soon, well, that’s just part of learning. The good Lord, or an editor, knows I’m trying.

So, give this old dog a bone. I still got some bark left in me, and I’m learning to wag even when the rules change.

After all, a hound’s worth isn’t measured by how many tricks he knows, but by how faithful he stays to his master’s call—and to himself.

When a man makes it to 95, you figure he’s learned most of what life has to teach. But then, life has this habit of sneaking in a few extra lessons when you least expect it.

My neighbor across the fence, whose sharp eyes dulled some by time, steady hands slowed a bit by age, has been living alone since his wife passed away from cancer. Not long ago, his faithful dog followed her, and the silence around his little house settled in like an unwelcome squatter.

Grief has its own weight. You don’t just carry it; you live inside of it.

I worried about him, though he’s the sort who insists he’s “just fine, thank you.” His curtains stayed drawn a little longer in the mornings, and the mailbox filled up a little quicker in the afternoons.

A man can say he doesn’t mind the quiet, but you can see the truth in how he lingers in conversation, stretching out a “good morning” like he’s thirsty for the sound of another voice. Enter Sunny.

Sunny is our escape artist hen, a Rhode Island Red with more personality than common sense. She’s not much for fences and seems convinced the world is her coop.

Every morning, she wriggles out of our yard with the confidence of someone clocking in for work. I thought she was scratching up the neighbor’s flowerbeds or stealing bugs from his garden, but it turns out she has a higher calling.

Sunny started showing up at his porch. He didn’t chase her off; instead, he pulled up a chair.

She hopped onto the step, clucked like she was scolding him for being alone, and settled right beside him. Before long, she was eating little crumbs of bread straight from his hand and letting him stroke her feathers as though she were a lapdog reincarnated.

Now, every day without fail, there they are, our neighbor and the red hen. He talks to her about the weather, about how coffee doesn’t taste the same since his wife passed, about how his knees ache more in the morning.

Sunny listens, tilting her head this way and that, clucking like she agrees. Sometimes, he chuckles, the kind of laugh that starts rusty but smooths out, like an old engine coming back to life.

It’s funny how a chicken can know what people don’t. Sunny didn’t need an invitation.

She didn’t ask if he was lonely. She just went and sat with him, because sometimes love doesn’t bother with questions. It just shows up.

One afternoon, I walked over and apologized for Sunny’s daily trespassing. He waved me off.

“She’s company,” he said, patting her like she’d always belonged. “Don’t you dare try to keep her home.”

I realized then that what I thought was mischief was actually mercy. That hen had sensed what we hadn’t. The man needed a companion, feathered or not.

There’s a lesson tucked in there between her stubborn little feet and his wrinkled hands. Maybe it’s that companionship doesn’t have to come in the shape you expect. It’s that love doesn’t care if you’ve feathers, fur, or gray hair, it just knows where it’s needed and walks right through the fence to get there.

I still worry about him, because that’s what neighbors do. But now, when I see Sunny perched beside him, both of them soaking up the sun in their own quiet way, I don’t worry as much, because he’s got someone, and someone’s got him.

Funny thing, too, he started leaving his curtains open again. The mailbox isn’t so full anymore either, because he’s up early enough to meet the mailman halfway. He’s even baking bread again, which I know for a fact because Sunny waddles home in the evenings with crumbs stuck to her feathers.

Life can be cruel at times, stripping us down to empty houses and quiet rooms. But every once in a while, it hands us a small miracle dressed in red feathers, and in those moments, it’s clear as day that Sunny knows best.

They say opposites attract. I’m here to tell you that’s true, but only because two people who are the same are too busy irritating each other to get along.

Case in point, I recently met a man with the same attitude as mine. You’d think it’d be refreshing, like meeting a long-lost twin who finally “gets” you.

Nope. It was like looking into a mirror that not only shows your face but also plays back every snarky comment, stubborn streak, and questionable joke you’ve ever made.

Imagine arguing with yourself and losing. That’s what it felt like.

Now, I’m not saying I’m difficult, although my wife might. I’m particular.

I’ve got my ways of doing things, my little shortcuts, my sense of humor that not everyone appreciates. And this guy?

He had my playbook, the same dry wit, “common sense” solutions that sounded brilliant until you realized they were about two degrees left of practical. And the same habit of interrupting with “Well, here’s the thing…”

I nearly choked on my coffee the first time he did it.

“Well, actually, you can’t fix that with duct tape,” he told me.

Well, actually, sir, you can. And I’ve got a coffee table, a mailbox, and one pair of eyeglasses to prove it.

We didn’t so much have a conversation as we had dueling monologues. The fella’d start a story, and I’d jump in with mine.

I’d make a point, and he’d double down with the same point but louder. Somewhere in the middle, we both realized we weren’t listening—we were waiting for the other guy to stop talking so we could keep hearing ourselves.

And here’s the kicker, I found him irritating. Not just mildly, either.

I mean itch-you-can’t-scratch, sand-in-your-shoes, radio-static-during-your-favorite-song irritating. And if he was irritating, then by logic, I must be irritating, too.

That was a hard pill to swallow. Nobody thinks of themselves as irritating.

We all think of ourselves as charming, funny, maybe a little misunderstood. But it turns out my quirks in stereo are a lot to handle.

I had two choices. Write the man off as unbearable and keep pretending I’m easygoing, or admit I might need to sand down a few rough edges.

I would love to tell you I took the noble path of self-reflection immediately, but no, I first tried to out-irritate him. If he was telling a long story, I had a better tale to tell.

If he had a strong opinion, mine was stronger. At one point, I caught myself doing the same head tilt and eyebrow raise he did, and I thought, “Wait, oh no. I can’t live like this.”

That’s when it hit me that maybe God had sent this man as a reminder that the world doesn’t need two of me. One is enough, and two is punishment.

So, I did the only sensible thing I could: I started laughing. The dude asked what was funny, and I told him the truth: “You remind me so much of myself that I can hardly stand you.”

He stared at me, then burst out laughing too. Turns out he’d been thinking the same thing.

From then on, our conversations went smoother, not because we changed, but because we both realized what was happening. Every time one of us started to get under the other’s skin, we’d grin and say, “Yup, that’s me too.”

Now, I won’t say we became best friends. The world can’t handle that level of combined sarcasm.

But we did part ways with a handshake and a shared understanding. It’s easier to be patient with someone else’s flaws once you realize you’re carrying the same ones around.

And the funny thing is, I walked away feeling a little lighter, less defensive, more aware, and a little less irritating, too, or maybe that’s just what I like to think.

Either way, when you meet your mirror, don’t argue with it. Smile, laugh, and take the hint, because if two of you in the same room is too much, maybe it’s time to work on making the one you’ve got a little easier to be around.

My friend, Kathy Covey, lost her bestie today. I say lost, not like she misplaced him behind the barn or set him down on the kitchen counter and forgot where she put him.

No, she lost him in the sense that there was no other choice left but to let her horse go. His front legs had given up the bone and cartilage that had carried him faithfully all those years, and though horses come with more grit than most men I know, no amount of determination can outlast biology.

And so, Kathy did what every animal owner dreads. She called in a veterinarian and, with the dignity such a fine animal deserves, said goodbye.

If you’ve ever stood in that space, between loving a creature and letting it go, you know it’s not something you get used to. You can expect it, you can prepare for it, you can tell yourself you’ll be strong, but in that moment, it still feels like the world dropped from under you.

I couldn’t help but think of Honey when Kathy posted about her horse. Honey was ours, a big-hearted dog who made it her business to keep us company and keep the yard properly patrolled.

In July 2025, her heart grew so enlarged that it wouldn’t work right. On her last day, Honey struggled to breathe, her steps uneven, her body tired.

And yet, just before the veterinarian gave her that final shot, she wagged her tail. She smiled, or at least gave us the version of a smile that dogs save for their humans.

If you’ve seen it, you know the one. Ears back, eyes bright, corners of the mouth pulled up just enough to break your heart.

I imagine it was much the same for Kathy’s horse. A last flicker of joy at seeing her, a recognition of the bond they shared, and then, gone.

That’s the cruel little arrangement we sign up for when we let an animal into our lives. We know going in that we’ll probably outlive them.

Dogs, cats, horses, rabbits, and even goldfish have shorter life spans than humans. If you’re lucky enough to grow old with them, you’ll also grow old without them.

No loopholes, no exceptions. Still, we do it anyway.

Why? Because life with them is better than life without them.

Take Honey. She was no genius, she’d chase her tail into a fence post if you let her, but she had a knack for finding joy in the simplest things.

A patch of sunshine. A forgotten sandwich on the counter. A ride in the truck bed with the wind in her face.

She could turn an ordinary Tuesday afternoon into something worth smiling about. And isn’t that the whole point of being alive?

Kathy’s horse had that same gift. Big animals often do.

They aren’t subtle about it, either. A horse doesn’t hide its feelings.

If he’s glad to see you, he’ll prance, and if he’s cranky, he’ll swish his tail and stomp. If he trusts you, he’ll let you climb onto his back and carry you wherever you ask, and that’s no small thing.

So when one of these animals leaves us, it leaves a crater in the day-to-day rhythm. I know Kathy’s mornings are off.

Imagine her still walking out to the barn at the same time, coffee in hand, expecting to hear that welcoming nicker. Silence is a strange kind of cruelty.

I know the feeling. The first morning without Honey, I went to fill her food bowl.

My hand froze halfway through the scoop, kibble rattling back into the bag. The bowl sat empty, and so did I.

But here’s the other side of it. Those silences remind us of what we had. If there’s no grief, then there was no love, and if there was no love, what on earth were we doing with a horse or a dog in the first place?

Grief is the bill we pay for the joy. That sounds grim, but I don’t mean for it to.

In fact, it’s a bargain most of us would take every time. One wagging tail for ten years? Worth it.

One nicker at the barn door in exchange for a decade of rides and company? Sign me up.

Of course, people who’ve never had an animal might think we’re a little soft in the head. “It was just a dog,” they’ll say. “Just a horse.”

To which I’d like to reply, “It was just my best friend.”

Animals don’t ask us for much. A full belly, a safe place to sleep, a scratch behind the ears or along the withers.

In return, they give us more loyalty and patience than most humans ever manage. They forgive our bad moods.

They put up with our quirks. And when we stumble in the dark, they sit close enough to remind us we aren’t alone.

Kathy probably feels guilty, like she’d betrayed her horse by giving that final order. I would like her to know, and I’m sure she does, that the final act of love is a letting go before the pain outpaces the joy.

We don’t shorten their lives. We prevent their suffering from stretching on longer than it should. It’s not betrayal, but mercy, and if mercy breaks our own hearts in the process, well, that’s part of the deal too.

There’s a kind of humor in all of this, though it might take a little distance to see it. Honey, for example, had a habit of stealing my socks.

Not the clean ones, mind you, but the sweaty, end-of-the-day, peel-them-off-your-feet socks. Honey’d parade around the yard with them like she’d discovered buried treasure. Once, she dragged one into the neighbor’s yard and left it on their porch like a peace offering.

Kathy’s horse had its own quirks. He’d tilt his head sideways when she talked to him, as though he were deeply considering her words.

Probably, he was hoping for an extra handful of oats, but to Kathy, she’ll swear he understood every word. And maybe he did, because animals understand more than we give them credit for.

It’s those silly, ordinary details that keep them alive in us after they’re gone.

Those memories sit beside the grief, and eventually they start to outweigh it. I don’t know if we’ll ever figure out exactly why we humans love creatures that we know will leave us, but I suspect it’s because they remind us how to live.

Horses, dogs, cats, they don’t fret about next week’s bills or yesterday’s mistakes. They don’t worry about what someone said about them on the Internet, or care if they’ve put on a few pounds.

They’re too busy enjoying the sunbeam, the walk, the treat, the ride. And if we’re paying attention, they teach us to do the same.

So yes, Kathy lost her horse, her best friend. And yes, we lost Honey, too.

But in truth, we also gained something that doesn’t leave when the tail stops wagging or the barn goes quiet. We gained years of companionship, laughter, comfort, and lessons we probably couldn’t have learned any other way.

It hurts now. It will hurt tomorrow.

But one morning, Kathy will hear another nicker. Maybe it’ll come from a new horse, or just from the memory of her old one, but it’ll remind her that love doesn’t end when a life does.

And one day, when I find another sock missing from the laundry, I’ll smile instead of ache. Until then, we honor them the best way we know how, by remembering, by laughing, and by loving the next creature who trots into our lives.

Because the truth is simple, silence after loss is heavy, but the sound of a wagging tail, a horse’s nicker, or even the jingle of a food dish is worth carrying the weight of goodbye. That’s the deal, the gift.

And if you ask me, it’s a pretty fair trade.

Did I ever tell you, I once lived just a stone’s throw away from a family that all died of mysterious head injuries? Now, before you let your imagination run wild, let me assure you it wasn’t me. I may be many things, absent-minded, a little too fond of coffee, occasionally loud at the wrong times, but I am not in the business of lobbing rocks at neighbors.

Still, it made for one of those strange small-town stories. Everyone whispered about it, like the time Earl Johnson’s goat got into the post office and ate two letters and a stack of government forms. Nobody wanted to say it out loud, but everybody knew something wasn’t right.

Now, I lived just close enough to this family to hear the odd clatter on a roof, or the thunk of something against a shed wall. At first, I figured it was squirrels, or maybe kids tossing baseballs where they shouldn’t.

But then, the rumors started. “Mysterious head injuries,” they’d say, lowering their voices and raising their eyebrows like they were auditioning for a soap opera.

One morning, I asked my neighbor Ed, who knew everything before it was anybody’s business, “What’s this about the head injuries?”

Ed puffed on his pipe like he was conjuring wisdom, “Well,” he said, “either someone’s got terrible aim or the universe doesn’t like that family much.”

That was Ed’s way of being helpful, never clear, always quotable.

Now, common sense told me there was probably an ordinary explanation. Roof tiles falling loose, tree limbs breaking off in the wind, maybe even the occasional clumsy ladder accident.

Life has a way of throwing things at your head when you least expect it. But the town loved a good mystery, and this one was ripe for exaggeration. By the time the story reached Main Street, you’d think the family was getting chased by a Bigfoot wielding a slingshot.

It didn’t help that their house sat in that eerie in-between state, not quite falling apart or holding together. The screen door never shut properly, and the paint peeled as if it were shedding secrets. If a place could whisper, that house would’ve been mumbling all day.

The thing is, I never knew that family well. They kept to themselves, waved politely, but never stopped to chat. Sometimes that’s all it takes to become a legend in a small town: keep your distance and let the rest of us fill in the blanks with our own wild guesses.

After the last funeral, the house stood empty. Weeds crept up the walkway, shingles fell one by one, and the place began looking more like a cautionary tale than a home.

Kids dared each other to run up to the porch at night, like it was ghost-infested. I never did.

I don’t need to test my bravery against shadows and cobwebs. I already know what fear feels like. I’ve tried public speaking without my notes.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder if that family’s story was less about mystery and more about misfortune. Life has a way of stacking troubles like bricks until the wall topples over.

Maybe they just got a bad deal, one head bump after another. If that’s the case, well, I can only hope they’ve found peace where nothing more injurious than a feather ever falls.

And as for me? I moved a few years later, and every time I tell this story, people lean in closer, waiting for the twist, expecting I’ll confess something.

“Did you throw the stones?” they’ll ask with a grin.

I laugh and shake my head. I wouldn’t waste good rocks on something like that. Rocks are for skipping on water, building fire pits, and weighing the corners of a tarp in the wind, not for throwing at people.

Living a stone’s throw away from that family taught me something. Life will throw enough at your head all on its own.

And the best you can do is duck when you can, laugh when it misses, and be grateful for the days when the only thing falling is sunlight through the trees.

I went shopping today at Walmart, which is already risky enough without adding screaming children into the mix. You can’t so much as sneak in for a loaf of bread without tripping over a pallet of “seasonal must-haves” you didn’t know you needed.

But today wasn’t about me—it was about the show that unfolded in Aisle 7. I found myself behind a grandfather and his grandson.

Now, I’ve seen plenty of kids melt down in stores before—heck, I probably had a few public meltdowns of my own back when Kennedy was in office—but this boy was putting on an absolute Broadway-level performance.

He screamed for candy, cookies, soda, and anything with bright packaging, the whole works. The grandfather, though, was calm as an oak tree in a breeze.

“Easy, William, we won’t be long,” he said in this steady, measured voice.

You could almost imagine soft jazz playing behind his words. The kid escalated, shrieking as if the shelves of Oreos had personally offended him.

But granddad just kept going, “It’s okay, William. Just a couple more minutes and we’ll be out of here. Hang in there, boy.”

By the time we reached the checkout line, the little one had reached peak chaos—throwing items from the cart like a major-league pitcher warming up before the big game. Cans were rolling on the floor, a box of Cheerios made a daring escape, and I swear I saw a cashier silently praying for early retirement.

And still, the man never flinched, “William, William, relax, buddy, don’t get upset. We’ll be home in five minutes. Stay cool, William.”

I tell you, it floored me. My blood pressure goes up just standing in line behind a slow coupon clipper, and here’s this man dealing with a live tornado disguised as a child, and he sounds like he’s narrating a meditation app.

So naturally, when we all ended up in the parking lot, I couldn’t keep quiet.

As he was loading groceries and a still-wiggling boy into the car, I said, “Sir, it’s none of my business, but I just want to say—I was amazed by you in there. The patience, the calm, no matter how disruptive little William got, you stayed collected. He’s very lucky to have you as his granddad.”

The man smiled, shook his head, and said, “Thanks, but I’m William. The spoiled brat’s name is Kevin.”

I stood there blinking, then laughed so hard I nearly dropped my sack of coffee and dog food. The whole time, inspired by the grandfatherly patience, it turns out the man was talking himself down from the ledge.

And you know what? That might actually be the brightest trick I’ve ever seen.

We all need a “William” in our back pocket—some calm, imaginary version of ourselves we can talk to when life turns into a checkout-line circus. Kids or no kids, there are days when it feels like everything is loud and demanding and wants candy right now.

Maybe we should all take a breath and say, “Easy, William. Just a couple more minutes. Stay cool.”

Common sense tells me the world isn’t getting any less chaotic, but humor, tenderness, and a little self-talk might keep us sane, and if nothing else, it beats yelling at the Oreos.

So here’s to William—whoever he is for you. May he always keep you steady when Kevin shows up.

I was there when it happened. That’s a phrase nobody wants to earn, but I carry it just the same.

Two planes, two men, two masters of the sky touched wings where they shouldn’t have, and that was all she wrote. Chris Rushing and Nick Macy, gone in an instant.

The Reno Air Races had been roaring across Nevada skies since 1964. The kind of event where engines rattled your chest, kids wore earplugs too big for their heads, and ol’ men leaned against the fence line with the posture of boys.

That September afternoon in 2023, the sun had that late-summer glaze, making everything shimmer like a heat mirage. It was supposed to be the grand finale, Reno’s last hurrah before the races moved on.

Instead, the desert sky gave us a heartbreak we didn’t ask for.

Chris had just won the T-6 title, wringing every bit of speed out of Baron’s Revenge. Nick, chasing hard in Six-Cat, had crossed the line a heartbeat later, second place.

Both men were veterans—old pros who’d flown more hours than most of us have spent behind a steering wheel. But flying, even in the hands of experts, is a dance with margins.

The report came later, as reports do. Pages, and paragraphs dissecting angles and turns, tower clearances, sun glare, and human focus.

Chris became fixated on the runway while Nick swung wide, but the procedures in place were not clear enough to keep the two apart. Somewhere in those fine lines of analysis, two paths converged in the worst way, about 300 feet above the ground.

Now, if you’d never been to the Reno Races, let me tell you something: airplanes don’t just fly there, they thunder. They rip through the sky like a preacher tearing into sin.

They make you believe man is part bird, even if we still trip over our own shoelaces. That’s why the shock was so hard to swallow; watching two veterans collide wasn’t just tragic, it was unthinkable.

But here’s the thing about tragedy: it doesn’t erase joy. It seamlessly integrates into the story. Chris and Nick weren’t reckless hotshots.

They were men who loved the air more than most of us love solid ground. They knew the risks, accepted them, and lived for the chance to chase each other across blue horizons.

I think about that sometimes, especially when life tries to knock me down with its own collisions. Two things can be true at once: it’s a helluva way to go, and it’s also a life lived to the hilt.

Not everybody gets to die doing what they love. Most of us go out while arguing about who left the porch light on.

The Reno Races won’t roar through Stead Field again. The desert has fallen quiet.

But the races aren’t dead, they’re packing up, moving to Roswell, New Mexico. The sky there will learn what we knew when those engines spool up and the planes lean hard into the wind, it feels like eternity itself just shifted gears.

Chris Rushing and Nick Macy; their names aren’t just part of an accident report. They belong to the history of men who dared gravity to do its worst and often won.

They belong to the sound of children gasping as silver wings carve the sky. They are part of a community that expresses grief audibly and loves profoundly.

I was there when it happened. I wish I hadn’t been.

But I was also there every year when the engines sang and the crowd cheered and the horizon looked wide open. Maybe that’s what I’ll hold onto: the reminder that every ending, no matter how sudden or sharp, comes from something that was once worth living for.

The planes touched, the skies fell quiet, and yet, the race goes on.

Since I couldn’t sleep last night, I decided to wander outside with Buddy to see what all the fuss was about the so-called Super Moon.

Supposedly, it was going to be bigger and brighter than usual, though, to me, the moon has always looked plenty super. Still, I figured I might as well see it for myself, because sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon.

The air had that chilled, damp feeling that hangs around in early autumn, and the kind of stillness that makes you second-guess every little sound. Buddy trotted beside me, tail swishing like a metronome, happy to be part of any adventure that didn’t involve a bath or a visit to the vet.

For the first time in weeks, the sky was clear. No smoky haze, no high clouds to blur the view, just a dark canvas freckled with stars and the brilliant, round moon hanging like a lantern over the neighborhood.

I stood there, looking up at the Man in the Moon, half expecting him to wink back at me. The moonlight painted the yard in silver and shadow, the kind of light that makes ordinary things, like the garden hose and the barbecue grill, look like relics from another world.

Buddy, for his part, wasn’t as interested in astronomy. He stared at me like I’d lost my mind for standing motionless in the grass, head tilted back, mouth half open.

Dogs don’t understand celestial beauty. They appreciate food, play, and whether or not something might be hiding under the shed.

Then, from the darkness beyond the fence, came a sound so vile and unexpected it nearly stopped my heart.

If you’ve never heard a peacock scream, count yourself lucky. It’s not a dignified “caw” or a noble “cry.”

It’s a banshee’s wail trapped inside a tropical bird. It’s the sound of pure panic squeezed through a feathered throat.

Buddy yelped so loud he startled himself, then took off like a shot toward the back door. He didn’t even look back. His claws tore up a patch of grass, and his tail disappeared into the safety of the porch light before I could so much as whisper his name.

I was still laughing about it, just a chuckle, nothing mean, when the peacock screamed again.

Now, I’m not a man easily rattled, but something about that sound hit a nerve I didn’t know I had. It wasn’t just loud, it was personal, like the bird had looked directly into my soul and decided to scare the living daylights out of it.

My spine went cold. My knees twitched.

Then, before I knew what was happening, I was running too, legs pumping, slippers flying, the whole bit. I made it to the back door, slammed it shut, and twisted the lock like the Devil himself was on my heels.

Buddy sat there panting, eyes wide, as if to say, “You see what I’ve been telling you all these years? The outside is dangerous.”

For a minute, the two of us just stared at each other, breathing heavy, trying to figure out what had just happened. Then I started laughing again, full and hard this time. Buddy tilted his head, unsure whether to join in or call for backup.

“That,” I told him between gasps, “is one unholy bird.”

The peacock belonged to our neighbor, Mrs. Danner, a retired art teacher who collects stray animals the way some people collect salt shakers. Over the years, she’d taken in everything from feral cats to an injured goat. The peacock was her latest project, a rescue from a petting zoo that had gone out of business.

According to Mrs. Danner, his name was Percival, but according to me, it is Spawn of Chaos.

The next morning, I saw her out by the fence scattering feed. Percival strutted beside her, his tail feathers dragging like a royal train. The sunlight hit those feathers just right, and for a second, I almost forgave him for last night’s auditory assault.

“Morning, Tom!” she called out cheerfully. “Wasn’t that moon something?”

“Oh, it was,” I said. “Almost as impressive as your bird’s singing voice.”

She laughed like she’d heard that one before. “He does get a little vocal after dark. He doesn’t like the moon. I think he thinks it’s another peacock trying to outshine him.”

I stared at her, waiting for the punchline, but she just went on tossing grain like that was the most reasonable explanation in the world.

“Percival doesn’t like competition,” she added. “That moon last night probably set him off.”

I nodded slowly, pretending it made sense. “Well, you might let him know that he scared ten years off my life, and Buddy hasn’t left the couch since.”

Mrs. Danner apologized, a sparkle in her eye. She liked that bird, and I could tell she thought of Percival as some misunderstood genius of the poultry world.

This morning, after work, I sat out on the back porch again, Buddy beside me, the two of us watching the yard with quiet suspicion. When Percival started up again, it wasn’t nearly as jarring.

Maybe I was expecting it this time, or the absurdity of it had worn off. Either way, it just sounded like part of the night—like the crickets or the hum of the streetlight.

Buddy still didn’t like it. Every time the bird screamed, his ears went flat, and he’d glance at me as if asking, “Why don’t we move to the city?”

But I stayed put. Something about that wild, ridiculous sound, so full of attitude and life, seemed to fit my mood perfectly.

It reminded me that the world doesn’t always behave the way we expect it to. Sometimes, beauty comes with a shriek instead of a song.

Sometimes, the neighbor’s peacock sounds like an exorcism in progress. And sometimes, the only thing you can do is laugh, run for cover, and then come back outside anyway.

Buddy sighed and lay his head on my foot.

I thought about heading in, but I didn’t. Instead, I sat there, listening to the soft rustle of the trees, the quiet chirping of insects, and yes, the occasional infernal scream from Percival.

Some nights just aren’t meant for sleep. They’re for moonlight, laughter, and a reminder that life, even at its strangest, is still worth stepping outside for.

Buddy gave a little snore, the kind that sounds like a rusty hinge, and I smiled.

And somewhere over the fence, the devil bird screamed again, reminding us who was really in charge.

My friend Glenn recently shared one of those moral lessons online. You know the type. simple, wise, and meant to make us all nod and say, “Hmm, so true.” His point was that anger only hurts the one who clings to it.

Solid advice, but of course, being the smart aleck I am, I couldn’t just leave it alone. No, I had to wander into myth and medicine with a Caduceus in hand.

See, Glenn’s story was about a mighty snake that decided to wrap itself around a sharp sword. Naturally, it cut itself.

Instead of letting go, the snake got mad. Really mad.

So it squeezed tighter, slicing itself into neat little snake confetti. Moral achieved–anger hurts you more than it hurts the sword.

But then I thought of the snake’s twin siblings, you know, the ones entwined on the Caduceus, the symbol of medicine. Unlike their sword-hugging brother, they coiled politely around an olive branch.

All nice and peaceful at first, until, in true sibling fashion, they managed to strangle the very branch holding them up. And just like that, the whole healthcare system has been gasping for air ever since.

And just when you think three snakes are enough, along slithers a fourth, the one from the Garden of Eden. You remember him.

Smooth talker, shiny scales, big on fruit. He didn’t wrap himself around a sword or a branch.

He just whispered, “Go on, take a bite, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Next thing you know, humanity’s running around in fig leaves and arguing about whose fault it was.

So there you have it, the Trifecta of Trouble. One snake bleeds itself dry, another strangles the system, and the third gets us kicked out of paradise. And somehow, we humans looked at all that and said, “Yep, let’s use snakes as a symbol for healing.”

Brilliant.

So Glenn’s right, anger will cut you down, but I’d argue his story needs an appendix. Sometimes, even when you think you’re choosing peace, teamwork, and healing, or healthy eating, you can still end up choking the life out of the very thing you were trying to support.

Either way, snakes make lousy role models.