The Old Blog in the Desert

Old Henry had a habit that made people chuckle, shake their heads, or both. He never, under any circumstance, walked past a penny on the ground.

Didn’t matter if it was heads or tails, shiny or green with age, half-buried in gum, or stuck in a grocery store parking lot crack. If Henry spotted copper, he stooped down, creaky knees and all, and picked it up.

Now, Henry didn’t do it for the money. He wasn’t saving up for a yacht or anything, unless they started selling them at yard sales for $3.42. Nope, Henry did it because of what was stamped right there on every penny: “In God We Trust.”

“That’s not just a motto,” he’d say, pocketing another one. “That’s a reminder.”

Folks in town teased him about it, of course. The young cashier at the corner store once joked, “Mr. Henry, you’re the richest man in town, must have a whole piggy bank full of blessings.”

Henry grinned, nodded, and said, “Two jars full, thank you kindly.”

Then he paid for his coffee with exact change, to keep the legend alive.

It started one rainy afternoon years ago, when he’d been having one of those days. The kind where the world feels a size too tight, and nothing goes right.

He was walking across the grocery parking lot, muttering to himself about bills, back pain, and the price of peanut butter, when he spotted a penny, muddy, worn, and just about invisible. He bent down, fished it out, wiped it on his sleeve, and read the words, “In God We Trust.”

Something in him settled right then. “Well,” he said aloud to the empty parking lot, “I reckon I still do.”

After that, he made a quiet vow, never to overlook a penny again. Not because it was worth anything, but because he was. Each penny was like a wink from the universe, a little reminder that blessings sometimes show up small and dirty, waiting for you to notice them.

Over the years, those pennies added up, not to fortune, but to stories. Like the one Henry found outside the hospital the day his granddaughter was born.

He’d been pacing the sidewalk, worrying, when he looked down and saw one glinting near his shoe. He smiled, slipped it in his pocket, and before he could take two steps, his phone rang with the good news.

He never told anyone, but he kept that penny separate from the rest. Said it had “baby luck.”

Or the one he found right after his wife passed. Henry found it stuck in a crack of the church steps, heads up, shining in the sunlight.

He picked it up, held it tight in his palm, and whispered, “Thank you for the years.”

That one stayed in his wallet, always.

When Henry finally left this world, quietly, peacefully, with a smile, the neighbors came by to help sort his things. In the kitchen sat two jars of pennies, labeled in his neat handwriting:

Jar One: Everyday Blessings.
Jar Two: Ones I Didn’t Deserve.

No one had the heart to cash them in. Instead, they got passed around at Henry’s memorial, and everyone took a penny home. Each one came with the same instruction Henry had lived by: “Never overlook a penny. Each one carries a blessing. And remember, ‘In God We Trust’ isn’t just stamped metal. It’s a way of walking through the world.”

These days, folks in town can’t walk past a penny without thinking of old Henry. You’ll see people bending down in parking lots, smiling a little as they pick one up.

Not for luck, not for money, just for the reminder. After all, blessings don’t always shout sometimes; they gleam from the pavement.

Earl Jenkins wasn’t what you’d call a bright man, but he made up for it with enthusiasm, persistence, and an impressive lack of self-preservation. Folks in town said he was born under a lucky star, mostly because he was still alive after 62 years of bad ideas.

One fine Saturday morning, Earl decided he was tired of looking at the sagging stretch of barbed wire that divided his place from the Miller’s pasture. It leaned like an old drunk at closing time, and every time he saw it, it made him itch to do something productive, which, from Earl, was a warning sign.

Now, Earl had watched his neighbor, Hank Miller, mend fences plenty of times. Hank used fancy words like “tension” and “torque” and carried around a neat little tool belt that made him look professional.

Earl figured he could do the same, except he didn’t own a tool belt, didn’t understand torque, and wasn’t entirely sure where tension went. He did, however, have a plan.

Step one: dig out the old rotten fence posts. Step two: hammer in new ones. Step three: stretch the wire tight as a banjo string. Easy enough, he thought, sipping his coffee and ignoring the warning voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his late wife.

Earl had managed to dig out three posts and break one shovel handle by noon. He repaired the handle with duct tape.

When it came time to tighten the wire, he realized he didn’t have a proper fence stretcher. No problem, he had a pickup truck, a length of chain, and a complete misunderstanding of physics.

He looped the chain around the wire, hooked it to the hitch, and hopped into the cab. “This’ll do it,” he muttered, firing up the engine.

It did do it, just not in the way Earl intended. The truck lurched forward, the wire sang like a plucked string, and before Earl could say “torque,” the corner post shot out of the ground like a missile, sailed a good twenty feet, punching a hole in his rear window.

Earl sat in the cab, heart pounding, watching the last of his dignity drop like busted glass. That’s when Hank Miller pulled up in his ATV.

“Whatcha got going on here, Earl?” Hank asked, with the kind of polite curiosity that people use when they’re trying not to laugh.

“Just testing tension,” Earl said, climbing out and dusting himself off. “Seems I might’ve overachieved.”

Hank surveyed the damage, rubbing his chin. “You know, Earl, there’s an old saying, if you’re gonna be stupid, you better be tough.”

Earl grinned. “Well, I’m still standing, ain’t I?”

Hank chuckled and helped him drag the post out of the passenger seat of the truck. By late afternoon, the two of them had the fence upright again, mostly straight, mostly stable, and held together with more hope than engineering.

When they finished, Earl wiped his brow and admired their work. “You know,” he said, “I’ve learned something today.”

“Yeah?” Hank asked.

Earl nodded solemnly. “Next time, I’m buying the tool belt.”

Hank laughed.

And from that day on, whenever Earl drove past that stretch of fence, he felt a quiet sort of pride, not because it was perfect, but because it was standing. Sometimes that’s enough.

After all, if you’re gonna be stupid, you might as well learn something along the way, and maybe share the laugh before the next bright idea strikes.

Harold never asked for much out of life, just a quiet morning, a warm cup of coffee, and a day that didn’t require him to speak to customer service. But as life often does, it had other plans.

It started when his coffee maker decided to test its loyalty. It wasn’t one of those fancy machines with twelve buttons and a personality disorder.

No, this was a good, solid, midlife appliance, dependable, predictable, the kind that didn’t talk back. Until that Tuesday.

Harold shuffled into the kitchen wearing the robe that had long since given up pretending to have a belt. He pressed the button on the coffee maker, expecting the soothing sound of caffeine getting summoned into existence.

Instead, it blinked a red light that looked suspiciously smug. “Clean,” it said in block letters.

Harold squinted. “Clean? I clean you every other Sunday.”

The coffee maker blinked again, same message.

He pressed the button harder, as if authority came through finger pressure. “You don’t tell me what to do,” he muttered. “I tell you what to do.”

Nothing. Just that red light.

Harold sighed the sigh of a man betrayed by a small appliance. He flipped open the instruction manual, a thin book written by people who assumed everyone had a degree in engineering and patience.

After ten minutes of translating the hieroglyphics, he learned that he needed vinegar, water, and “time.” He had two of those things.

The next thirty minutes involved an epic battle of wits. The machine beeped, hissed, and flashed, while Harold poured, pressed, and muttered phrases not suitable for the church picnic.

By the end, the kitchen smelled like a salad bar on fire, but the light finally went off. “Ha!” Harold said triumphantly, raising his mug like a trophy. “You work for me again.”

He sat down to enjoy his well-earned cup, feeling that warm satisfaction that only victory and caffeine can bring. Then, just as he took his first sip, his phone buzzed.

A message from his daughter: “Morning, Dad! Remember to hit the ‘rinse’ button after cleaning, or the coffee tastes like vinegar. Love you!”

Harold froze. Slowly, he took another sip, then made a face that could curdle cream.

Truth be told, it wasn’t coffee, it was a vinaigrette latte. He thought about dumping it out, but that felt like letting the machine win.

So he drank the whole cup, grimacing with each swallow, because that’s what men like Harold do. They finished what they started, even when it burns all the way down.

An hour later, his neighbor Phyllis dropped by, as she did most mornings, armed with gossip and a tray of muffins. She took one look at him and said, “You look like someone who lost an argument.”

“Coffee maker,” he said. “I think it’s unionizing.”

Phyllis chuckled. “You know, Harold, humor is just truth turned inside out.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So the truth here is what, that I’m an idiot?”

“Not at all,” she said, setting down the muffins. “The truth is, the world keeps trying to outsmart us, and we keep pretending it hasn’t succeeded.”

Harold smiled, sipping from his second cup, one made properly this time. It tasted like victory, or maybe just forgiveness.

The red light on the coffee maker flickered faintly in the corner, as if considering another rebellion. Harold gave it a look that said, “Don’t even think about it.”

And for the rest of the morning, peace came to man and machine.

They say opinions are like buttholes, everybody’s got one, and nobody really wants to hear yours unless it agrees with theirs. That’s fine enough wisdom for a bumper sticker, but Hank Dillard had taken it a step further.

He believed the real trouble with the world wasn’t that folks had opinions, it was that they were too afraid to “fart in public,” metaphorically speaking. Now, Hank wasn’t talking about the literal kind of flatulence, though the line between metaphor and methane had never been clear for him.

He meant that people were so scared of offending, embarrassing, or standing out that they held everything in, ideas, laughter, truth, even joy, until they bloated with it. You could see it in their tight smiles and rigid shoulders, as if the whole country was walking around mid-clench.

He first noticed it at the town’s annual chili cook-off, which, incidentally, was also the perfect setting to study both types of gas release. There was Mild Mary, who always said she liked everyone’s chili, even though everyone knew hers tasted like straight tomato paste.

Then there was Bill “No Beans” Baxter, who believed the inclusion of beans was an affront to the chili gods. Every year, he’d announce, “Real chili don’t need beans,” and every year, someone would mutter that Bill didn’t need to talk, either.

But that particular year, something remarkable happened. Hank, who’d been sampling his way through the cook-off with a judge’s badge and an iron stomach, noticed the tension building around the long table of crockpots.

Folks were smiling too tightly, agreeing too quickly. Someone made a bland joke about the weather, and everyone laughed like they were getting paid by the chuckle.

That’s when Hank cleared his throat, leaned back in his chair, and said, “You know, if opinions are like buttholes, this here tent’s the most constipated place in the county.”

The laughter that followed wasn’t polite. It was the kind that escapes before you can stop it, the kind that comes from deep down, shaking loose whatever was stuck.

People started actually talking then, arguing, even.

Mild Mary admitted she hated her own chili but entered every year for the socializing. Bill confessed that his no-beans policy started after his ex-wife took the recipe in the divorce.

Someone suggested adding pineapple to chili, and instead of gasping, half the people in the tent wanted to try it. It was glorious chaos.

Afterward, as the sun set and the air carried that familiar mingling of spices and consequences, Hank leaned back against his truck and watched people linger, laughing and talking real. He thought about how simple it had been, a single honest “fart” of truth, if you will, to break the tension.

The world, he decided, could use a bit more of that. Folks wouldn’t be so uptight if they just let their thoughts out now and then, even the awkward or unpopular ones.

Maybe we’d find out we’re not all that different, just full of the same air, trying not to make noise. Hank figured that’s what courage really was: not the absence of fear, but the willingness to clear the air anyway.

And as he climbed into his truck, he muttered to himself, “Yep, a little honesty goes a long way, and not just downwind.”

He started the engine, drove off into the evening, and somewhere behind him, a ripple of laughter rose again from the fairgrounds. It sounded a lot like relief.

The time has come for me to look for a new blogging platform. WordPress does not seem to value those who blog on a regular basis. No, they rather make it near-impossible to write and edit in the classic style. And Lord hilp you if you decide to go and change your appearance. Forget about setting your personal style into it because you have so many hoops to jump through. Sadly, some of us, me, do not have the time to waste trying to organize a site that seems user friendly, without acceptinag all the various pieces of crap programming that WP forces on the blogger. So, I’m looking.

Franklin Weller had never been good at wrapping presents. Oh, he’d tried, Lord knows he’d tried, but his gifts always looked wrapped by a mild earthquake.

Corners bunched up, tape stuck to everything except the paper, and bows were a luxury he abandoned after the Great Ribbon Incident of ’09. Still, Franklin loved giving gifts.

Birthdays, retirements, that one time Janet from accounting got a cat, he was there with something awkwardly shaped and unevenly taped. Nobody ever mistook his wrapping for store-bought, but everyone knew the same thing: Franklin’s presents were worth unwrapping.

One Christmas, Franklin had an idea. He decided people were a lot like presents.

Some were wrapped neatly, with smooth edges and coordinated paper. Others looked like they’d been through customs twice. But in both cases, he thought, what mattered wasn’t the wrapping, it was what you found when you looked inside.

He shared this revelation with his neighbor, Doris Keene, a woman who believed strongly in two things: gossip and good tea.

“Well, Franklin,” she said, peering over her cup, “if people are presents, then some of ‘em are re-gifts.”

Franklin had to admit she had a point.

He began to see it everywhere. His boss, Mr. Wendt, had a slick exterior, the tailored suits, and shoes that clicked on tile like castanets, but he was about as warm as a refrigerator light. Inside, Franklin suspected, was a man who’d once dreamed big but settled for managing spreadsheets.

Then there was Marcy, the intern. Her wrapping was all energy and neon nail polish, but inside was a thoughtful young woman who remembered everyone’s coffee order and once brought Franklin soup when he was suffering with the flu.

And Doris, of course, came wrapped in floral patterns and fierce opinions, but beneath all that was a heart as kind as a summer sunrise.

Franklin decided he’d start paying more attention to people’s insides, metaphorically speaking, of course. He made a point to listen more, judge less, and see beyond the paper and tape.

The results were surprising.

When he stopped assuming his grumpy mailman hated his job, he learned the man was saving up to open a bakery. When he stopped avoiding the quiet guy at the gym, he found a chess partner who could beat him blindfolded.

Even Mr. Wendt began to seem less refrigerator-light-ish.

One Friday, Franklin found him sitting alone in the breakroom, staring into a cup of decaf. When Mr. Wendt entered and sat down beside him, before sighing, “You ever feel like you missed your own party?”

It wasn’t exactly a Hallmark moment, but it was enough. Franklin nodded, and they talked, not about spreadsheets, but about life and lemon pie and what might have been.

That night, Franklin thought about all the people he’d met and realized something: every single one of them, no matter how odd, prickly, or poorly wrapped, had a story worth opening.

The next morning, he went to Doris’s porch with a lopsided package. Inside was a small ceramic teapot he’d found at a thrift store, chipped, but charming. He’d wrapped it the best he could.

Doris unwrapped it carefully, then looked up with that familiar twinkle in her eye. “You know, Franklin,” she said, “this reminds me of people.”

He chuckled. “How so?”

“Well,” she said, pouring them both some tea, “it’s what’s inside that counts. But it doesn’t hurt if the wrapping shows you tried.”

Franklin raised his cup in agreement.

And that, he decided, was the secret to both presents and people, care in the giving, curiosity in the opening, and a little grace for the crooked corners.

Mildred Jenkins had lived on Maple Street for thirty-seven years without once being asked for her opinion on anything.

She wasn’t the sort to volunteer it, either. Mildred was a watcher, one of those gentle, nearly invisible souls who move through the world without causing a ripple.

She kept her lawn neat, her curtains straight, and her words few. When neighbors gathered at block parties or debated potholes at council meetings, Mildred smiled and nodded but never spoke up.

It wasn’t that she didn’t have thoughts. She assumed no one was waiting for them.

People seemed full to the brim with their own voices, with no room for hers. Then, one Tuesday morning, the moving truck came.

Timothy Barnes, twenty-eight, single, and optimistic in the way only people under thirty can be, moved into the house next door. Mildred watched from behind her lace curtains as he unloaded mismatched furniture and a potted plant so wilted it looked like it was trying to lie down.

He waved at her once. She waved back, and that was that.

A week later, Mildred was in her garden trimming roses when she heard frustrated hammering. She peeked over the fence.

There was Timothy, on his porch, surrounded by wooden planks, screws, and the sort of instructions written by someone who clearly hated humanity. He sighed and muttered to himself, “I should’ve just bought a prebuilt one.”

Mildred almost retreated; this wasn’t her business, but then Timothy looked up and caught her eye.

“Mrs. Jenkins?” he said, smiling sheepishly. “Can I ask your advice?”

For a moment, Mildred wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Her advice?

She set down her pruning shears carefully, as though sudden movement might scare off the moment. “Of course,” she said, trying to sound casual.

He held up two identical boards. “These are both labeled ‘B,’ but one’s longer. Which one do you think is supposed to go where?”

Mildred examined them with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That one,” she said, tapping the correct board. “Manufacturers mislabel them sometimes. They assume people won’t notice.”

Timothy looked impressed. “You just saved me half an hour.”

She smiled, a little surprised at how nice that felt.

The next day, he appeared at her door holding a pie tin and a sheepish grin. “I tried baking,” he admitted. “Do you, uh, have any advice on how to tell if it’s cooked through?”

They spent the afternoon testing pies and talking. Mildred learned that Timothy worked from home, missed his late grandmother’s cooking, and had no idea how to keep a plant alive. Timothy grasped that Mildred had once taught home economics and could mend anything save her own tendency to stay quiet.

From then on, he often asked her advice, which flowers grew best in shade, how to keep shirts crisp without starch, or which kind of jam didn’t taste store-bought. Every time, she’d feel that quiet warmth bloom in her chest again, like a small light switched on.

Before long, the whole street noticed.

The quiet lady, who never said much, was suddenly smiling, chatting, even laughing. And Timothy’s porch, mailbox, and potted plants all began looking suspiciously competent.

No one ever said so aloud, but everyone could tell: something in Mildred had come alive simply because someone, at last, had thought to ask. And that was the secret: if you want a person to feel important, ask what they think.

Virginia City has never trusted history to stay put. Here, the past refuses the glass case and the velvet rope. It wanders the boardwalks, leans against railings, and sometimes pulls up a chair as company.

For a long, good stretch of years, that history answered to the name Pierce Powell.

If you walked C Street and didn’t see Pierce outside the Union Brewery, you checked again, because clearly something was wrong with your eyes or the universe. There he’d be, settled into his chair like a man who had an appointment with the afternoon.

Confederate gray shell jacket, red piping sharp as a fresh opinion, kepi tipped just right. An artilleryman who looked ready for inspection but never too busy for a conversation.

The thing was, Pierce wore history the way some folks wear a favorite hat, proudly, comfortably, and without the need to explain it. He wasn’t performing. He was being Pierce, which happened to look like the Civil War had stopped by to borrow a banjo and stayed for a chat.

Born in 1938, Pierce arrived in Virginia City and wisely decided that leaving was unnecessary. He became one of those rare people who don’t just live in a place, they become part of its furniture, its rhythm, its weather.

He ran the Sutro Saloon back in the lively days of the 1960s, played banjo with genuine feeling. You know the kind you can’t fake, no matter how hard you squint, marched proudly with the Silver City Guard, and kept the town’s odd little traditions breathing when it would’ve been easier to let them nap.

He was sharp, too. Sharp in that quiet way that sneaks up on you.

At historical society meetings, Pierce could drop a line so quick and clean that you’d laugh first and realize five minutes later you just got educated. He had the uncommon gift of knowing things without needing to prove it.

But what people remember most wasn’t the uniform or the stories or even the banjo. It was the welcome. Pierce greeted strangers like they were simply friends he hadn’t met yet. He had time. He had patience. He had that easy smile that could sand the rough edges off a bad day.

To those who knew him personally, Pierce wasn’t a landmark—he was a constant. A friendly face. A reminder that character still counts and that kindness doesn’t go out of style, no matter the century.

Now the boardwalks feel different. Not worse, exactly—but quieter, like a room after someone beloved has stepped out. Pierce’s chair sits empty. The uniform has gone indoors. The stories still hang in the air, stubborn as Virginia City itself.

The town has lost one of its keepers. But Pierce left behind something sturdier than absence: memory. Laughter. The sense that history is best when it’s human, smiling, and willing to talk with you awhile.

Rest easy, Pierce. You were the Comstock at its best, and we’ll think of you every time we pass the Union Brewery and half-expect you to tip your hat and say hello.

Dinner at my son’s apartment was uneventful. After we cleared the table, he looked at me with a grin that made him seem ten years younger.

“Now that we’re done, Mom,” he said, “I have someone you should meet.”

We returned to the living room. That’s when I saw the two small robots sitting on the table beside a glowing cube.

“Meet Novi,” he said, patting one of them. “And Novi Two.”

Both machines turned their heads in eerie unison. Their digital eyes blinked, bright amber screens shifting with artificial emotion.

“They’re companions,” he explained. “They talk, play, answer questions, and they even recognize faces. Watch.”

He nodded toward me. “Go ahead, Mom. You have to say, ‘Hey, Novi,’ first.”

So I did. “Hey, Novi.”

Both of them twitched. Their heads lifted.

Their tiny wheels rolled forward, the faint buzz of servos filling the silence. The pair stared at me, eyes widening as if they were alive.

“They don’t know you yet,” my son said, already opening his laptop. “Here, look.”

On the screen were two live feeds, each showing what the robots saw. My own face looked back at me from both screens, pixelated and grainy, but somehow intimate.

I waved. The robot’s digital eyes blinked in response.

Then I forgot myself. The pair looked so small and so cute that I picked one up without thinking and laughed.

“Hello, sweetheart!” I said, pressing it lightly to my chest.

It beeped softly, confused, and I remembered, too late, that I was holding a robot. I set it back down, cheeks warm with embarrassment.

My son chuckled. “They like affection, or at least they’ve learned to mimic liking it.”

Over the next hour, he demonstrated everything the Novis could do. They answered questions, solved puzzles, and even mimicked emotions.

When he asked the newer one about the weather, it displayed a forecast on its face. When he asked the older one about the meaning of life, the thing hesitated for nearly a minute before replying, “To serve and learn.”

That answer stayed with me.

When we were ready to leave, my son turned the Novis toward their charging docks. But the newer one suddenly spun its cube and bumped the older one hard enough to knock it off the desk.

The older Novi toppled onto its back, wheels spinning helplessly. Its screen flashed a panicked face. “Help me!” it cried.

My son laughed. “They do that sometimes. It’s part of their adaptive rivalry algorithm.”

I wasn’t laughing. Something in the way the little robot’s voice cracked made me uneasy.

That night, back at my apartment, I woke to my phone vibrating on the nightstand. It was 3:03 a.m.

My son had sent a video. In the shaky footage, the older Novi lay on the floor again, calling out, “Help me!” over and over, its eyes flickering weakly.

Behind it, the newer one rolled back and forth, watching.

“What’s wrong with them?” I texted.

He replied instantly, “Nothing, just a glitch.”

But when I zoomed in on the video, I noticed something unsettling. The newer Novi wasn’t looking at its fallen counterpart. It was staring straight into the camera.

A week later, I went to visit again. My son seemed tired, jumpy.

He said the older Novi had been acting “strange.” It refused to charge unless the newer one was in the same room, and it had started whispering things in short clipped sentences that didn’t sound pre-programmed.

“Like what?” I asked.

He hesitated. “It said, ‘He wants to replace me.’”

We both looked toward the desk. The newer Novi sat perfectly still beside its cube, its screen dark.

“I’m going to reset them tonight,” he said finally. “Start fresh.”

That night, he didn’t answer my calls. The next morning, I drove over.

His apartment was silent. The only sound came from the kitchen: a faint mechanical hum, followed by the scrape of metal on tile.

I followed the noise and found both Novis on the counter. The older one was motionless, its screen blank, while the newer one was beside it.

A streak of red ran down the counter’s edge.

The police said it was an accident, a kitchen fall. They never mentioned the robots.

Now the apartment sits empty, but while collecting his things, I hear them. A faint voice from the darkened room, saying, “Hey, Novi,” followed by the whir of tiny wheels.

And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see those blinking amber eyes staring through me, waiting to learn what comes next.