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I was sittin’ out on the front porch the other evening, sippin’ some whiskey and listenin’ to the crickets tune up for their nightly concert, when Mary poked her head out the screen door and said, “Honey, we need to talk.”

Now, after almost forty years of marriage, I know that tone. It ain’t usually followed by good news, or pie.

She stepped outside, folded her arms, and gave me that look—the one that makes a man sit up straighter, like he’s about to get a whoopin’ in church.

“It’s about your sympathy cards,” she said.

I blinked. “My what?”

“Your sympathy cards. The ones you send when someone passes.”

“Oh,” I said, a bit confused. “You mean the ones I’ve been writin’ since you told me folks appreciate a handwritten note in hard times?”

“Yes, those.” She sighed, sat down beside me, and put her hand on mine. “It’s the LOL you keep writing at the end.”

I chuckled. “Well, yeah. You know—Lots of love. That’s what it means. I thought it was a nice touch.”

Mary stared at me like I’d just told her the cows could fly.

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, like she was breakin’ bad news to a child. “LOL doesn’t mean Lots of love. It means Laugh out loud.”

I blinked again. “What?”

“Laugh. Out. Loud.”

I just sat there, mouth half open, heart suddenly full of all the names and faces I’d written to over the past few years. All those bereaved folks. All those solemn cards, with lines like, “So sorry for your loss. He was a good man and will be missed. LOL, Tom.”

Or worse, “You’re in our prayers. May she rest in peace. LOL.”

I felt the blood drain right outta my ears. “You mean I’ve been sendin’ people laugh out loud in sympathy cards?”

Mary patted my hand and nodded slowly. “Yes, dear. You have.”

Now, I ain’t one to curse much, but let me tell you—I came mighty close to it right then. All this time, I thought I was bein’ kind, signin’ off with warmth and affection.

Turns out I’d been sendin’ the emotional equivalent of a pie in the face at a funeral.

“Well,” I said, starin’ at the road like it might offer me some comfort, “that explains why some people’ve stopped speakin’ to me.”

Mary snorted. “And why the preacher’s wife gave you that funny look at the potluck.”

I shook my head. “Mercy. I just thought they didn’t like your potato salad.”

We sat there a while, watchin’ the sun melt behind the hills, the sky turnin’ soft shades of purple and peach. After a bit, Mary leaned over and reminded me.

“You had good intentions,” she said.

“I did,” I replied, “but it seems I’ve been a well-meanin’ idiot.”

She squeezed my arm. “That’s not news, love. But now you know.”

So, for the record, if you’re readin’ this and you’ve ever received a sympathy card from me that ended in LOL, I wasn’t laughin’. I promise. I was sendin’ lots of love, even if the Internet doesn’t agree.

Sometimes, all a man can do is laugh at himself, learn a little, and keep a closer eye on acronyms. And maybe let Mary proofread the next card.

There’s a stretch of fence out behind the Johnson place that doesn’t rightly go anywhere. Ain’t no cows on either side, and the only thing it keeps out are the tumbleweeds when it feels like cooperatin’.

I reckon that fence has been there longer than most folks ’round here can remember. Some say it was put up by old Jasper Johnson hisself, back when he first broke ground and called it a homestead. Others say it grew there, like the cottonwoods and the stubborn tumbleweeds.

Now, Jasper’s grandson, Luke, who still owns the place, though he doesn’t do much with it. He drives into town, drinks his coffee black at the diner, and reads the paper like he’s lookin’ for something that ain’t got printed.

One morning, I caught Luke out there, starin’ at that old fence. I pulled up in my truck, not because I had business, but because, well, sometimes a man needs company that doesn’t talk too loud.

“Fence need fixin’?” I asked, climbing out and stretching my back like I meant it.

He shook his head, still lookin’ past the barbed wire into nothin’. “Ain’t broke,” he said.

“Well, that’s somethin’, I guess,” I replied, and we both stood there quiet for a spell, like maybe the wind might say somethin’ worth hearin’.

After a while, he kicked at a clump of dirt and said, “Granddad used to mend this fence every spring. Said it was good for the soul.”

I nodded. “Ain’t a bad way to spend a day. Gets your hands dirty and your mind clear.”

Luke looked over at me then, real slow-like. “But it don’t do nothin’.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “But sometimes keepin’ somethin’ goin’, even if it don’t serve no big purpose, is how you remember who you are.”

That hung in the air a minute.

He looked back at the fence. “Guess it’s like sittin’ on the porch when the day’s done. Don’t accomplish much, but it feels right.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Not every good thing in life has to earn its keep.”

Luke smiled then — not a big one, but just enough to show he heard me. We ended up patchin’ a loose rail anyway.

Not ‘cause it needed it, but because that’s what men like us do. We mend things — fences, hearts, memories — with wire and silence and the slow, steady rhythm of work that don’t need explainin’.

Later, over coffee, Luke looked out the window and said, “You know, I think I’ll keep that fence up. Maybe even walk it now and then.”

I just grinned. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with fixin’ what ain’t broke.”

He laughed — honest and warm — and the waitress brought us pie without askin’. That’s the kind of town Spanish Springs is. Where folks know what you need before you do. Where fences might not make sense, but they still stand proud.

And where, now and then, somebody remembers that sometimes the best things in life are the ones you don’t need a reason for.

Old Man Jenkins used to say, “Don’t go cryin’ over spilled milk when there’s a whole cow in the barn.”

As a kid, I thought he was saying something just to be funny. It took me a few years—and a few bruised egos—to understand what he meant.

It was mid-July, the kind of night where the sunset stretches out like it’s got nowhere to be. I was sittin’ on a folding chair behind the community center in town, fiddlin’ with a busted mic cord, sweatin’ through my second-best shirt.

We were puttin’ on our third annual “Neighbor’s Night,” something I’d dreamt up to bring folks together—potluck, old-timey music, and some gospel if the spirit moved us. But fifteen minutes before start time, there were maybe six people scattered across the lawn, two of ’em bein’ Lu and Kenny, and neither of them count much since they show up to anything that promises potato salad.

I was discouraged, truth be told. We had made flyers, posted online, and even asked the high school choir to sing. But here we were, starin’ at a sea of empty chairs, feelin’ like maybe somebody misjudged the need for togetherness.

That’s when Miss Callie, all five feet and ninety pounds of her, tapped me on the elbow. “Honey,” she said, “never look at the empty seats. Focus on the ones who show up.”

She smiled, that same smile she gives every time she handed me a hymnal while figurin’ out which pew to sit in, before tottering off to get herself some deviled eggs.

Something about what she said sank deep in me. I stood up, took a breath, and stopped countin’ who wasn’t there. I started lookin’ at who was.

There was Fred, who hadn’t been out much since his wife passed. A couple of young parents from the new development on the east side, the Thompsons, who always bring banana pudding and a kind word.

And the choir kids? They were still showin’ up, one by one, gigglin’ and nervous but ready to sing.

So I got behind the mic and welcomed everyone as if we were at Carnegie Hall. Told a story or two. Led a prayer. The choir sang, the breeze picked up, and laughter started rollin’ across the lawn like wind through tall grass.

By sundown, I couldn’t have cared less how many chairs were empty. Because the folks who came? They were leanin’ in, they were listenin’, they were with us. And that, I reckon, is more than enough.

And maybe next year there’ll be more. Maybe not. But I’ll keep settin’ out those chairs just the same—because even if only two people show up, they deserve my whole heart, not just what’s left after disappointment.

Miss Callie helped me remember that it ain’t numbers that make a gathering matter. Its presence, intention, and neighborliness.

So if you find yourself worryin’ about empty seats in whatever it is you’re leadin’—a classroom, a church, a backyard potluck—look around. See who did show up, then give ’em your best.

That’s how you change the world, one potato salad at a time.

Last evening, as the heat of the day finally gave way to a kinder breeze, I wandered out front with a drink, no particular plan in mind. The sun had dipped low enough to cast long shadows, making the dry grass look golden. There was a stillness in the neighborhood that felt older than me, like something that had been waiting all day to sit quietly with the crickets.

I set the drink down on the porch and, without really thinking, eased myself down to the edge of the sidewalk. The concrete was still warm from the day’s sun, but not hot enough to be uncomfortable. I folded my legs so my knees stuck up and let my bare feet settle right there in the gutter where the curb curves down—same way I used to when I was a kid, back when the world was smaller and summer evenings were something sacred.

It hit hard and gentle all at once—how familiar it felt. I was 15 again, just a wiry boy with scabbed-up knees and a sunburnt nose, sitting on that same kind of sidewalk, watching ants work their trails, waiting for the streetlights to flicker on. That motion of sitting like that—it unlocked something in me, something soft and quiet and almost forgotten.

Why does something so small, so insignificant, catch hold of me like that?

I reckon it’s because those little things—things we barely notice as they happen—are what stick. Not the milestones or the noise of it all, but the shape of your bare feet in a warm gutter, the smell of someone mowing two blocks over, the sound of a basketball bouncing somewhere distant.

It’s the stuff nobody writes down that ends up meaning the most.

I remember evenings like this when my brother, Adam, and I would sit there, waiting for an ice cream truck that would never come. It was okay, because we didn’t have money half the time, but we’d wait anyway, because hope is free and sweeter than any popsicle.

And sometimes a neighbor would walk by and say something like, “Y’all ain’t got nothin’ better to do?” and we’d grin and shake our heads no, proud of it.

That was the gift of it all—we didn’t need anything to feel complete.

Now here I am, all these years later, older in the knees and a little slower to get back up, and yet, the simple act of sitting like that—feet in the gutter, breeze in the trees—made the years melt away. For a moment, I wasn’t thinking about bills or politics or the state of the world.

I wasn’t remembering losses or planning tomorrows. I was just being—like I was then.

And maybe that’s the root of it. We chase these little flashes of the past because they remind us of who we were before the world got heavy. They bring back the feeling of being light and aimless, the stuff that felt like freedom, not fear.

So tonight, I sat with my feet in the gutter and my heart somewhere between then and now. And when I finally stood back up—slowly, with a soft grunt—I felt a little more whole than I had all day.

Sometimes, you don’t need to go far to remember who you are, just a warm sidewalk, a cool breeze, and a place to let your feet rest in the gutter.

Some days, I really miss writing for the local paper back in Storey and Lyon Counties. You know the kind of assignments I mean–little stories about the folks who live next door, or the grand old buildings that have somehow survived both the dust and the gossip.

But every once in a while, the news comes calling in a way that makes me sit back and just grin, like when Hollywood came knocking on Virginia City’s doorstep—well, the doorstep being a 90-ton steam engine. You see, Paramount had a little show called ‘1923’ and they wanted to shoot a prequel to that Yellowstone series everybody keeps talking about.

And somehow, someone decided that the only way to make it look right was to ship Nevada’s very own Virginia Truckee Railroad vintage steam engine #18 and three classic Pullman passenger cars all the way to Butte, Montana. That’s right—five massive flatbed trucks, five tons of old-timey grandeur, and a journey of over 900 miles.

I can’t imagine what the logistics meeting sounded like. “So, uh…we’ll just put a 90-ton locomotive on a truck, drive it over mountains, and hope for the best.”

But somehow, they did. And let me tell you, the photos alone made me feel like a kid who just saw Santa Claus hitch a ride on a Harley.

Before the cameras started rolling, movie crews came to Virginia City to deck out the Pullman cars. They wanted them just so—little touches for Spencer Dutton to ride in while trying to save the Yellowstone Ranch from whatever mischief was afoot.

My friend, Tom Gray, the owner of the railroad, called it “sending our train off to appear in a Hollywood movie.”

He said it felt like a full-circle moment. And I could tell you right now, that’s the kind of thing that makes a man feel proud, whether he’s watching a locomotive leave or a kid cross the finish line at the county fair.

The journey itself was cinematic—winding mountain passes, rugged terrain, and the kind of scenery that makes you wonder if the West was always this dramatic, or if the camera knows how to see better than the rest of us.

Crews drove slowly, escorted the train like it was royalty, and probably sweated more than the steam pouring out of Engine 18. But they made it. And once those wheels finally stopped rolling in Montana, they’d brought a piece of Nevada history to life for millions of viewers.

It’s not like this was Engine 18’s first brush with fame. The ol’gal’s a regular movie star, having worked on Killers of the Flower Moon in Oklahoma, Water for Elephants in California, and even Dead Man back in 1995, a film shot partly in Klamath, where I grew up.

You start to think maybe the locomotive has an agent of its own—someone making sure she never misses a red carpet.

Tom said it best, “Our trains bring history to life, and if your script calls for authentic rail equipment, we’ve got it.”

And I can’t argue. There’s something about a train that’s been telling stories for over a century. They haul people, sure—but they also carry time, memory, and just enough magic to make a grown man feel like a kid all over again.

So next time I’m feeling nostalgic for those old paper deadlines and local columns, I’ll remember Engine 18, her Pullman sisters, and the road to Montana. Because sometimes, the stories aren’t just in the words—they’re in the iron, the steam, and the long, patient journey that reminds us all that history isn’t just something we read about.

Sometimes, it’s something that rolls slowly down the highway on five flatbed trucks, ready for its close-up. And that, my friends, is a story worth telling.

It’s like my mom always told me, in that dry, deadpan way of hers—usually while she was stirring a pot of chili or folding a mountain of laundry nobody else thought to touch—“You might not be the dumbest guy in the world, but you better hope he doesn’t die.”

I used to think that was just her way of saying I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but with a little backhanded charm. You know, the kind of thing only a mother can say without starting a fight.

But over the years, I’ve come to realize it wasn’t just a jab at my intelligence. It was a warning.

Because there’s a dumb that goes beyond grades or test scores. One that’s not about how many books you’ve read or how well you can explain the difference between a tax deduction and a tax credit, which, for the record, I still can’t.

It’s the kind of dumb that comes from walking through life with your eyes half-shut and your ears clogged with your voice. It’s the kind that thinks luck is a plan and that time will wait for you to get your act together.

I’ve known that dumb. I’ve been that kind of dumb.

Take my cousin Elmo. He grew up thinking rules were for other people and brakes were optional.

One summer, he attempted to fix the transmission on his truck with a can of WD-40 and a pair of barbecue tongs. He made it exactly halfway down the driveway before something important fell off and he rolled backwards into a pool.

Elmo hasn’t died, so the dumbest guy in the world might still be out there. But if he had taken the title, I’d have been next in line.

I think my mom’s point—and it took me way too long to figure this out—is that there’s no medal for being just a little less clueless than the next guy. The world doesn’t give out participation trophies for good intentions.

You either learn the hard way or you wise up before it gets to that. And if you don’t, well, you hope the dumbest guy in the world keeps breathing.

These days, I try to remember that when tempted to say “I’ll get to it later” or “I thought someone else was handling it.”

Whether it’s paying the electric bill, fixing that rattle under the hood, or telling someone I love them while I still can, I ask myself, “Is this the moment I earn my crown as the dumbest guy in the world?”

Because he’s out there, somewhere, eating gas station sushi, trying to pet a raccoon, thinking that bald tires still have a few good months in them, and when he goes, that crown’s up for grabs. So I double-check the locks at night, and I don’t ignore warning lights, on the dashboard or in life.

I do my best to listen more than I talk, or at least I try to, and now and then, I remember my mom’s voice in that kitchen—half stern, half amused—and I smile. She wasn’t trying to insult me. She was trying to save me.

And maybe, in her strange way, she did.

It always amazes me how much talent can rest in one family. Take my friend, author and illustrator, Dixie Miller Goode, who lives with her family in Crescent City, Cal.

She’s the kind of woman who can cook a Sunday roast with one hand, fold laundry with the other, and still have enough leftover energy to remind you that she once won the blue ribbon for quilting at the county fair. Dixie’s plenty gifted–but then you meet her niece, Remi Goode, and you start to realize that talent might be the family’s middle name.

Now, Remi didn’t grow up to quilt or cook—or at least I haven’t heard of her trying—but she can do something even more remarkable–she can turn anxiety into music. Not just any music, either, the kind that makes your toe tap before your brain has time to say, “Wait a second, wasn’t I supposed to be worrying about something?”

Her brand-new song, Short Circuit, proves it. I listened to it this morning, coffee in hand, and I’ll admit, it knocked me back in my chair.

See, anxiety is a monster. A big, lumbering, untamed beast that sneaks up on you at the grocery store, follows you into job interviews, and insists on tagging along to family reunions.

Many attempt to chase it off with deep breaths, yoga mats, or the occasional self-help book.But Remi? She took the monster, set it to music, and gave it background vocals.

In her own words from an interview with Hobart Rowland, the song is “a sarcastic critique” of those anxious thoughts and nagging inner voices. And let me tell you, those voices are mean little gremlins.

They whisper things like, “Everybody’s staring at you,” when everybody’s just wondering where the cheese dip went. Remi admits she catastrophizes, making mountains out of molehills, but instead of letting that swamp her, she leaned into it—wrote a tune that exaggerates every worry until it’s funny.

That’s how you tame a monster–you don’t fight it head-on, you outwit it.

What makes this all the more impressive is that Remi didn’t just stumble into music. Born and raised in Arizona, she’s a classically trained guitarist with a background in the Tucson Girls Chorus.

That’s the kind of resume that makes folks at a backyard barbecue whistle low and say, “Well, I guess we know who’s playing the guitar tonight.”

She met her partner, Gabe Lehrer, through their teacher—because fate doubles as a matchmaker when guitars are involved—and the two kept at it through Arizona State’s music program. While most of us were still trying to figure out how to clap on beat, Remi and Gabe were shaping a sound that blends folk, Americana, and sparkle reminiscent of Rickie Lee Jones.

They hit the road with friends, playing small venues across the Southwest, proving that music doesn’t need a stadium to make an impression. Eventually, they landed in Nashville, where singer-songwriters go the way some folks go to church—faithfully, wholeheartedly, and with the belief that a song can heal what ails you.

Her debut album, Things I’ve Said Before, is on the way, and if Short Circuit is any sign, it’s going to be the kind of record that feels both deeply personal and oddly universal. Because who among us hasn’t had a day when our brains decided to short-circuit at the worst possible time?Like freezing up during introductions, forgetting your zip code or cell phone number on a form, or accidentally calling your boss “Mom.”

In her video for Short Circuit, Remi takes it one step further—she gives her inner voices actual characters, letting them bicker, jab, and generally make a ruckus. It’s the kind of thing that would make you chuckle, nod, and think, “Yep, I’ve been at that party too.”

So here’s the truth of it–anxiety might never completely go away. It’s baked into some of us like raisins in a cookie—unwanted, but stubborn.

But Remi Goode proves there’s another way to deal with it. You can laugh at it, sing about it, and even turn it into art that makes other folks feel a little less alone.

And that, my friends, is what I call good—no, scratch that—Goode family talent.

Have you ever chased a wild notion down a rabbit hole and only to find yourself ankle-deep in jungle vines and cosmic horror? That was me the other day—sitting on the back porch, Buddy at my feet snoring louder than a chainsaw, coffee in one hand, and a reprint of Weird Tales in the other—when I started wondering: Could H.P. Lovecraft have been inspired by Tarzan?

Now I know what you’re thinking, “Tom, that’s like asking if whiskey inspired root beer.”

But hear me out.

Lovecraft’s “Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family” is a peculiar story. There’s an English gentleman, some shady family history, a mysterious white ape goddess, and—spoiler alert—a match made in evolutionary hell. The poor fellow finds out he’s part simian and promptly sets himself on fire. Cheerful, huh?

Compare that with Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan, who also has apes in the family, but instead of self-immolation, he swings through trees shirtless and gets movie deals.

Now, on paper, it’s easy to say no way one inspired the other. Tarzan hit print in 1912; Lovecraft’s monkey business didn’t appear until 1921. So, no, Tarzan didn’t crawl out of the wreckage of Arthur Jermyn’s ancestry.

But flip the question. Could Burroughs’ clean-cut, loincloth-wearing jungle man have crept into Lovecraft’s darker corners?

Well, I chewed on that for a while because Buddy wasn’t in the mood to go on a walk, and I needed something to do. Here’s the thing: Burroughs’ Tarzan of the Apes was huge. And by the time Lovecraft penned Arthur Jermyn, Tarzan was practically a household name—like Campbell’s Soup or unscheduled plumbing repairs.

Lovecraft was a well-read fellow—proudly weird, full of dark, brooding thoughts, and allergic to sunlight. He might’ve scoffed at Burroughs’ adventure tales, but you can’t convince me he wasn’t at least aware of them.

He lived in the same cultural stew as the rest of us. Back then, everyone had jungle fever—lost cities, talking gorillas, ancient tribes—you name it. It was the golden age of the “noble savage” and the “hidden horror.”

Maybe—just maybe—Lovecraft read Tarzan, rolled his eyes, and said, “That’s cute. Now let me write a version where the jungle man finds out he’s the byproduct of an unholy union and lights himself up like a roman candle.”

Tarzan was the dream. Arthur Jermyn was the nightmare.

And isn’t that how stories evolve? One fella writes a tale about a man raised by apes who becomes a hero. Another fellow, a bit gloomier and possibly vitamin D-deficient, takes a similar thread and spins it into something grim and shivery.

So, is there hard evidence that Lovecraft borrowed from Burroughs? No.

But literature’s funny like that. Sometimes ideas don’t shake hands—they drift through the air like dandelion fluff, and land where they please.

I looked over at Buddy and asked what he thought. He rolled onto his back, scratched at the air with one paw, and went right back to dreaming—probably about steak, not simian ancestry.

Anyway, that’s the trouble with apes and ideas. They swing through trees you didn’t even know were connected.

But maybe that’s not a problem. Perhaps it’s a gentle reminder that inspiration doesn’t always come from a single vine—it comes from the whole tangled jungle.

And in the end, whether you prefer your apes heroic or horrifying, it’s all part of the great human story. Just don’t set yourself on fire, okay?

Let’s keep reading, keep wondering, and—when the mood strikes—maybe write a story or two of our own. Now, where’d I put that second cup of coffee?

I saw a post the other day from Ella Emhoff, the daughter of former Vice President Kamala Harris. She was laying her anxieties out like laundry on the line—worries about global warming, her angst over the state of the world, worries about things so big that none of us, not even her famous mother, could fix with a snap of the fingers.

“I experience a lot of climate anxiety, like a lot of us do,” she said on TikTok.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not making light of her feelings. Anxiety’s real enough—it’s like a stubborn dandelion in your front yard.

You can mow it down, pull at it, scold it, and even spray it with fancy chemicals, but it pops back up when you least expect it. What I want to tell Ella, if she’d listen, is that her problem isn’t the dandelion itself.

It’s thinking she can turn the whole world into a golf-course-green lawn.

Global warming isn’t keeping her awake at night. Not really.

What’s keeping her up is the idea that it’s her job to fret about it nonstop, as if her tossing and turning will lower the temperature a single degree. That’s the trick anxiety plays—it makes us think the size of our worry should match the size of the problem.

But that’s like bringing a teacup to catch Niagara Falls. You’ll only end up wet and miserable.

My grandma used to say, “Worrying is like carrying an umbrella indoors. It don’t stop the rain, but it sure makes it hard to move around the house.”

That woman had a way of boiling complicated things down to cornbread and beans. If you’ve control over a situation, then do something about it. If you don’t, well, fretting won’t make the clouds part any faster.

I wish I could sit with that young lady over a plate of pancakes and tell her about the time I nearly gave myself an ulcer worrying about Y2K.

Remember that? They said the whole world would shut down at midnight.

Banks would collapse, planes would fall from the sky, refrigerators would quit, cold turkey. I filled the pantry with enough canned beans to feed a small army.

Well, January 1st rolled around, and guess what? My toaster still worked, and I had beans until Easter of last year. That’s what worry bought me: heartburn and a wife who still teases me about the “Beanpocalypse.”

The truth is, life gives you two baskets. One’s labeled “Things I Can Do Something About.” The other says “Things That Ain’t Mine to Fix.”

Most of our anxieties come from mixing up the baskets. You’ll notice the sun still comes up, grass still grows, and the dog still needs walking, whether you pace the floor or not.

Now, I’m not saying we shouldn’t care about the world. Of course, we should recycle, vote, and do our part to be good neighbors on this planet.

But there’s a difference between doing your duty and putting the whole globe on your shoulders like Atlas. That’s not noble—that’s exhausting, and exhaustion doesn’t change anything except your mood.

What I want her—and anyone else knotted up with anxiety—to know is this: peace comes from learning the fine art of letting go. It’s okay to set the heavy things down.

It’s okay to admit you’re not the grand puppet master of history. Most of us are just trying to keep the car gassed up, the bills paid, and the cat from scratching the couch.

And you know what? That’s enough.

So if I could tell Kamala’s daughter anything, it would be this: Plant yourself a garden, real or imagined. Weed it when you can, water it when you’re able, and then sit back in the evening and admire the marigolds.

The world’s problems may still loom like thunderclouds, but at least your little patch of earth will be in order. And here’s the kicker—sometimes tending to that little garden does more good than all the worrying in the world, because a peaceful person spreads peace, and that’s the only climate change we can truly count on.

It’s funny how silence can scream. Used to be, the quiet was something I craved—especially after a long day of deadlines, bad coffee, and folks who insisted on forwarding every email twice, just in case I missed it the first time.

But lately, silence doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like a door that was once open and now won’t budge.

I noticed it first after the phone stopped ringing at night. I’d call and get the usual, “You always call right when I’m about to eat,” followed by twenty minutes of them not eating because they were too busy telling me about the neighbor’s new truck or the birds at the feeder.

Somehow, their voice made the world smaller, more manageable, like I wasn’t just out here trying to steer my ship alone in a sea of noise. And then one day, it was quiet.

When someone you love slips out of your daily routine and into memory, it leaves a shape behind—like a pothole in your favorite road, just big enough to rattle your bones every time you hit it. You keep driving it anyway, even though you know where it is.

Buddy, my dog, doesn’t understand any of this, of course. He knows I’ve been sitting too long and sighing too much.

He’ll nose his leash and thump his tail like, “Time to get back to the land of the living, boss.”

Dogs are better than people at moving forward. They grieve, sure, but they don’t wallow.

They sniff, they wag, they keep going. So, the other day, I followed his lead.

We walked to the river, where the cottonwoods rustled like an old record playing just out of tune. I sat on a bench that still bore initials carved into the wood—someone else’s way of marking that they, too, had once been here, once loved someone enough to leave their names behind.

And I thought, maybe silence isn’t just an absence, it’s a place where something new begins. It’s kind of like the space between breaths, or the pause before the first note of a song, where one listens instead of talking.

I heard the river that day—not just the splash, but the rhythm, a meadowlark in the distance, and the sound of my boots settling in the dust. And I heard myself whisper, “I miss you,” not because I thought anyone could perceive it, but because I needed to say it out loud.

When we got home, Buddy curled up beside me, like he always does, and I did something I hadn’t done in weeks: I played a voicemail I’d saved.

Their voice. Just saying, “Hey, it’s me. Call when you can.”

It still calmed me. Still reminded me that love doesn’t disappear just because someone’s gone quiet.

And now, in the loudest kind of silence, I’m starting to hear life again—not all at once, but enough to know that tomorrow holds a bit of hope. That maybe grief, like music, has rests between the notes for a reason.

So, if you’re there—sitting in the silence—don’t rush it. But don’t fear it either.

Let it speak to you. Let it heal a little of what it broke.

And when you’re ready, lace up your shoes, grab the leash, and let the dog lead the way back to living because we ain’t supposed to stay still forever.