The Old Blog in the Desert

They took a shot at Charlie to send a message. That message was as clear as the crack of the rifle, “Be quiet. Don’t rock the boat. Keep your head down, or else.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but whenever someone tries to tell me I can’t say something, my mouth gets itchy. It’s the same itch I got as a boy when my mama told me not to eat a slice of bread before dinner.

Naturally, I ate two. Not because I didn’t respect my mom, but because the forbidden often smells better than the allowed.

Charlie Kirk’s voice was loud, and it was direct, and it ruffled feathers. The kind of voice that doesn’t just fill a room but makes people sit up straighter.

Someone, somewhere, decided they couldn’t stand it anymore. So, instead of plugging their ears like sensible people, they tried to plug the man himself.

But here’s the thing about silencing voices–it rarely works. Ideas don’t bleed out when bodies do. Ideas spread like spilled ink on a white shirt—you think you’ve scrubbed it out, only to find the stain grew bigger.

I’ve seen men try to scare other men into silence before. Sometimes with fists, sometimes with guns, sometimes with whispers.

It works for a while. Folks get nervous, they hush their words, they look at the ground instead of into each other’s eyes.

But then something shifts. Somebody else—maybe quieter, maybe humbler—steps up and says what needs saying.

Then another. And another. Before long, the silence is noisier than the voices they tried to stop.

Now, I ain’t naïve. Speaking up has always been dangerous.

It’s not new. Socrates had to drink the hemlock for speaking the truth. Lincoln paid with his life. Martin Luther King Jr. fell to a bullet, too. Each time, the message was the same: “Shut up.” And each time, the world got louder instead.

Charlie’s message was simple—agree with him or not, he wasn’t afraid to say it. Such fearlessness doesn’t disappear with the man. If anything, it grows in those left behind.

It plants itself like a stubborn weed in a sidewalk crack, pushing up through concrete. You can stomp on it, you can pour hot water on it, but give it a little sunlight, and it comes back greener.

So here’s the choice–crawl into a corner and hush, or take Charlie’s cue and speak louder. I know which one he’d pick, and I know which one keeps me sleeping at night.

The world doesn’t need fewer voices. It needs braver ones.

It needs folks willing to say what they mean without checking if it’s fashionable first. That doesn’t mean shouting all the time, or being cruel, or stomping around like you’re the only rooster in the barnyard.

It means opening your mouth when your heart insists, even when your knees are shaking.

A good friend once told me, “Courage doesn’t mean you’re not scared. It just means you talked and didn’t run.”

That sticks with me, mostly because he said it right before he asked his high school sweetheart to marry him. His voice cracked, his palms sweated, but he got the ‘yes’ that made his whole life.

So don’t let the shadows spook you into silence.

Say your piece. Write your truth. Tell your neighbor what’s on your mind. Speak it kindly, speak it firmly, maybe even with humor if you can, but don’t swallow it whole.

The bullet that tried to stop Charlie only proved his voice mattered. The real tragedy would be if we all got so spooked we forgot our own voices matter, too.

And if you’re ever unsure about speaking up, remember this: the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and I’d rather squeak than rust in silence.

This morning, I sat down at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a strawberry cream cheese muffin in the other, or at least, that’s what the label said it was. The muffin had strawberries, sure enough—sweet, tart little bursts baked right in—but the cream cheese part was about as absent as my hairline.

Now, I don’t know about you, but when something says “cream cheese” on the package, I expect to encounter cream cheese. I didn’t need it to be fancy, just a little pocket of tangy, smooth goodness hiding inside, like a bonus prize for showing up early to breakfast.

Instead, I bit through the muffin top, then the middle, then the bottom, and not a lick of cream cheese was found. I felt betrayed, not deeply betrayed, like finding out your neighbor borrowed your lawnmower and ran off to Mexico with it, but betrayed in a small, breakfast-sized way.

Still, disappointment only lasts so long when there’s a warm muffin in your hand. Strawberries or no strawberries, cream cheese or not, I ate it right down to the crumbs and licked my fingers for good measure.

I figure life’s too short to stay mad at a muffin. That got me thinking, though, how many times in life we expect cream cheese and end up with just the muffin.

We set our hearts on the extra, the bonus, the promise written on the package. And when it doesn’t show up, well, it can throw off our whole day if we let it.

Take fishing, for instance. Every time I head out to the creek, I imagine pulling in a trophy trout that would make the cover of Field & Stream.

But more often than not, I come home with a sunburn and an empty cooler. That’s a muffin-without-cream-cheese situation if there ever was one.

Or think about family reunions. You go expecting your Auntie’s famous potato salad, but she decided this year she’s trying out some kale-and-quinoa experiment.

Nobody says anything out loud, of course—we’re polite people—but you can feel the collective sigh as everyone takes a tentative scoop and pushes it around their plate. No potatoes. Just kale.

But even without the cream cheese, the muffin was still good. I savored it, and my morning went on just fine. Fishing trips without fish still give me quiet hours on the water, and family reunions with kale still give me the chance to laugh with cousins I only see once a year.

I guess what I’m saying is, maybe happiness isn’t always getting what’s promised, but enjoying what you’ve got. Sure, we can write letters to the muffin company, or complain about our bad luck, or fuss about how kale will never replace potatoes–and it won’t–but that’s a lot of energy spent on things we can’t change.

Sometimes you eat the muffin, sip your coffee, and say, “Well, that wasn’t what I expected, but it sure wasn’t all bad.”

Besides, if I really want cream cheese in my muffin tomorrow, nothing’s stopping me from slicing one open and smearing some on myself. Problem solved.

Two items landed on my desk this morning. Not bills, not junk mail, not another politician asking for a donation to “save the Republic,” again.

No, these were better—so much better. Eash helped stitch up some of the holes in my heart that have been leaking since Wednesday, September 10, at 12:23 p.m.

If grief had a timestamp, that would be mine. You don’t forget the minute your world shifts, and you know deep down that “normal” has walked out the door and isn’t coming back.

The first item was a message from my high school friend Nece. She reached out to me in that way old friends do—not with fireworks, not with speeches, but with steady hands and plain words.

She explained why the hurt feels like it does, sharp and personal, though I wasn’t the one who took the bullet or drew the last breath. To put it simply, she said, “You feel this man’s death because you’re attached to him through Jesus Christ.”

It’s like having an invisible string tied between us—me on one end, him on the other. When his life got cut, the tug snapped back, and it jolted me. Of course it hurts, that’s what connection means.

Now, Nece isn’t a theologian with a TV ministry and a gold-plated microphone. She’s just a friend who knew me when I still thought a decent grade and a decent haircut were the tickets to life.

But she gave me a truth you can lean your elbows on. I needed that.

Then came the second item, a video from Lori. It was a raw-cut country song—no polish, no studio shine.

Just a singer with a voice that cracked in all the right places, asking a question that split my chest wide open, “How was your first night in Heaven?”

Well. That’ll stop you in your tracks faster than running barefoot on a goat-head thorn.

I sat there, coffee cooling on the desk, and thought about it, “His first night in Heaven.”

Did the angels show him around like friendly neighbors bringing a casserole? Did he finally understand the things that tie our tongues in knots down here—love, justice, mercy, and why bad things happen to good people?

Did he get to rest his head without worry for the first time in a long time? I hope so, and I hope it was better than the best day we’ve ever had here.

The funny thing is, those two gifts—Nece’s words and Lori’s song—didn’t erase my anger or my grief. They didn’t make me forget what happened, or who we lost, or the fact that this world is, at best, a fixer-upper.

What they did was help me hold it differently. It was like turning a jagged rock in your hand until you find a smoother side.

See, it’s common sense that we can’t walk through life untouched. Sooner or later, we’re all going to bleed, and some wounds leave scars shaped like names.

But it’s also true that we don’t walk through it alone. Sometimes God sends you an old friend from high school to say, “Hey, you’re not crazy. You hurt because you love.”

And sometimes He sends a voice in a song that asks the question you were too stunned to put into words.

It doesn’t take much to turn the tide in a battered soul. Not a sermon, or a new law.

Just a couple of reminders that love ties us together, even past the grave, and that Heaven isn’t some abstract thing way out there. It’s the most realest place there is, already holding the ones we miss.

So today, I’m a little less angry, a little more steady. Still grieving, yes—but with my chin up.

Because if I really believe what I say I do, then the story isn’t over. God is only a phone call away, except the line runs through prayer instead of AT&T.

And if you’re wondering—yes, I’m still putting my pants on one leg at a time. But today, at least, I’ve got a reason to stand a little taller while I do it.

Thanks, Nece. Thanks, Lori. Thanks, Lord.

I needed that.

They told us when we were kids that everybody puts their pants on one leg at a time. It was supposed to be the great equalizer–a tidy parental sermon wrapped in cotton and elastic–nobody’s better than you, nobody’s worse, and for heaven’s sake, don’t act like a peacock in a tailor shop.

Trouble is, pants don’t stop bullets. Manners don’t mend skulls.

And sometimes that tidy little lesson gets dragged out into a field it wasn’t supposed to walk. I learned that again the hard way.

I posted a simple, cold truth: “No, we don’t need to ‘have a conversation.’ You killed the one guy willing to do that.”

One person said there are others having conversations in the open. But, they did not bring the receipts.

That’s because no one else has been doing this. No one.

I expected fireworks, maybe a few hot takes, the usual online thunderstorm. Instead, people scrolled away as the shooter had already taken the last bus out of town–potshots and all, then vanishing profiles.

One friend sent, “Gonna remove myself from your posts, Tom. You’re reacting exactly the way the shooter hoped.”

He tried to soften it with balance and charity. And while I appreciate his thought, no thank you.

I didn’t appreciate the premise that I should clap for my own erasure because somebody wanted the room quiet. I told this acquaintance to do whatever he wanted.

I added, “I didn’t know you knew the shooter’s intent.”

He unfriended me.

Conversation used to be a bridge. I was the guy who’d sit until the janitor switched off the lights — debating, listening, losing arguments with a grin.

But bridges are now choke points. When disagreement starts to come with a price tag of teeth, or worse, the bridge feels less like a crossing and more like a trap.

I’ve had my camera smashed while documenting a mostly peaceful Black Lives/Antifa protest burning down city hall; attacked while leaving work simply for wearing a red Marine Corps hat that someone decided meant MAGA; and viciously punched while sitting in my truck at a stop light by a man angry at my skin color.

These aren’t trophies, they’re receipts. As the ledger adds up, it explains why I stopped buying “both sides” as an automatic good.

That doesn’t mean I cheer for violence. If anything, I hate it harder.

Violence is the lazy answer of people who can’t be bothered with words. I want debates settled by wit, not wounds. But sympathy has a shelf life, as does courage.

You can only hand someone the benefit of the doubt until the doubt starts bleeding you. So no, I don’t owe polite conversation to people who’d rather see me dead than convinced.

Civility isn’t a one-way street where you hand over your ribs to prove a point. It’s a mutual lane — blinkers, signals, agreed-upon rules. When the other driver aims for you and not the median, you stop.

I know some will call this cowardice, claiming that stepping back is letting evil win. But sometimes stepping back keeps you from stepping on a landmine.

It’s practical, it’s preservation. You heal, you learn, you build barricades that aren’t of bodies.

If conversation is still a bridge, then fine, I’ll keep the approach clear. But I’m not going to stand tethered to a leash of performative “both-siderism” while my head gets handed to me as an exhibit.

I want a country where disagreement doesn’t cost a life, let alone a molar. And I will not trade my life for the optics of balance.

If you want to talk, great. Show me you can listen without reaching for a metaphorical or literal weapon.

Show me you’ll stand against someone celebrating death, not just when it’s convenient for “your side.” Until then, spare me the lectures about “giving the shooter what he wanted.”

I’m giving myself something better–a chance to live long enough to build a society where kids learn that pants are for getting dressed in–not for hiding behind.

You can unfriend me, block me, share this, or burn it like yesterday’s paper, but I won’t beg for your permission to be cautious. I’ll keep my life, and when the time comes, I’ll sit down and have a conversation with the kind of people who remember that listening is the first act of courage.

But if violence comes my way again, I will not hesitate to act, as that time for conversation has passed me by, four knuckles and a beating ago.

The difference between me and Superman, according to my wife, is that Superman has super vision, while I need supervision. Now, I’d like to argue the point, but the truth is she’s got me nailed down tighter than the lid on Grandma’s pickle jar.

Superman could see through walls and across whole city blocks. I can’t see my own reading glasses when they’re sitting right on my forehead.

Take last Tuesday, for example. My wife asked me to keep an eye on the pot roast in the oven while she ran to the store.

I heard her, but in the way a husband sometimes hears—like when a football game is on and every word sounds like the teacher from Charlie Brown. I nodded, gave her my “yes, dear” face, and sat down to check the ball scores.

By the time she came back, the kitchen looked like a smokehouse in full production. The fire alarm was hollerin’, the dog was hiding in the bathtub, and the roast–well, it got reduced to something resembling a blackened meteorite.

I tried to explain that Superman never had to juggle the pressures of temperature dials, timers, and play-by-play commentary at the same time, but my wife just shook her head and said, “You need supervision.”

And she’s right.

I can’t walk through a grocery store without her reminding me to stick to the list. Left on my own, I come back with three bags of chips, a jar of neon-orange cheese spread, and maybe a loaf of bread if I’m feeling responsible. She has the kind of eyesight that can find a bruised apple at ten paces, while I’m the guy squinting at the milk carton trying to figure out if it says sell by or smell by.

Superman has X-ray vision. My vision’s more like “ex-ray vision”—as in, I can’t see a thing without my glasses, and even with them, I tend to miss the obvious.

Once, I spent half an hour looking for the TV remote only to discover I’d been sitting on it the whole time. My wife claims she saw it there right away, but decided to let me struggle for sport.

That’s called “marriage enrichment.”

Now, if we’re talking about supervision, that’s where my wife truly shines. She can keep track of everything–me, the dog, the house, the bills, the groceries, and the neighbor’s cat if it wanders into the yard.

She’s got the sharpness of a hawk, the patience of a saint, and the reflexes of a goalie. I’m just trying not to trip over my own shoes.

I once asked her if she ever dreamed of being married to someone with Superman’s powers. She didn’t hesitate.

“No,” she said, “I’ve got all the super I can handle. I just wish you’d remember to put the seat down.”

The thing is, she’s not wrong. I do need supervision, and I’m not ashamed of it.

It’s part of the deal. Some folks are blessed with super vision—seeing what others can’t. I’m grateful for someone who sees what I don’t and still stays to guide me in the right direction.

In the end, I suppose it balances out. Superman might be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but I can mow the lawn without losing a toe, thanks to my wife’s watchful eye.

He might have heat vision, but I’ve got a woman who makes sure I don’t burn down the kitchen trying to reheat leftovers. So no, I don’t have super vision, but I’ve got the best kind of supervision a man could ask for—and if you ask me, that’s a whole lot better.

I have been in combat, and I know what it looks like when a sniper takes their time, lines up the shot, and squeezes the trigger. You don’t forget the aftermath. It isn’t clean, like Hollywood tries to convince us. It’s final. Brutal. And it’s meant not only to stop one man but to terrify everyone else.

That’s what I thought about when I saw Charlie Kirk’s murder. It stank of training.

Whoever pulled the trigger wasn’t some fool pulling shots at random. They wanted a ripple effect, wanted fear, and if I’m honest, for a moment, it worked.

I felt the old war-drum pounding in my chest. Rage, sorrow, the sense that we were getting defiled.

I wanted to grab my boots, my rifle, and my youthful back—and hunt evil down until it stopped twitching. But then I remembered: life doesn’t pause for our fury.

That doesn’t mean it gets easier.

Grief is a strange thing—it’s both sharp and dull. Sharp when the news first hits, then dull as it sits with you, heavy as wet wool on your shoulders.

Rage, though, rage is seductive, as it promises relief, even victory, but it’s a liar. I know that too, because I carried it around in my younger days.

In combat, they tell you a sniper’s bullet is for two people–the man who falls, and the men who freeze afterward. The living carry that wound in their heads, and if they don’t stitch it up quick, it festers.

That’s why I have to laugh a little—even through my sadness—because if the shooter thought they killed Charlie Kirk and our spirit in one clean motion, well, they didn’t factor in human stubbornness. Especially American stubbornness.

We’ve got this peculiar gift for grieving out loud, sometimes clumsily, sometimes angrily, but always together. We argue, we shout, we stomp around on social media, and then, somehow, somebody cracks a joke that shouldn’t be funny but is—and suddenly, the spell gets broken. Then we find we’re no longer paralyzed.

That’s what I cling to.

The truth is, the real sniper these days isn’t hiding on some rooftop. It’s despair.

It picks us off from inside, whispering that nothing matters, that all is lost, that the fight is too big. The only way I know to beat it is to keep moving, keep laughing, keep telling stories, keep showing up for one another—even when we’re tired, especially when tired.

I’m not naïve. Evil is real, bullets are real, and people like Charlie don’t come around every day. His death is a wound, but it isn’t the end.

If I’ve learned anything in this long, crooked life, it’s that death never gets the final word. Not if we refuse to let it.

So I’ll grieve. I’ll even let myself rage for a while.

But I won’t let that sniper have me, not in soul and not in spirit. The way I see it, the best revenge is to live so stubbornly, so joyfully, that evil can’t stand it.

And that’s the shot I’m willing to take.

There are some things in this world that will never quite make sense, no matter how long you live. Heading home from my radio job the other day, I experienced one of those moments that leave you scratching your head, half laughing and half wondering if civilization has finally come unglued.

I was minding my own business, rolling down the road, humming along to the last tune I’d spun, when out of nowhere I heard it: a sharp, clean wolf whistle. Now, I’ll be the first to admit it’s been a while since anyone whistled at me for reasons other than trying to flag me down for a flat tire or to tell me I dropped my wallet. But when you hear a whistle like that, you want to believe it’s friendly. Maybe even flattering.

So I did what any decent, hopeful man might do. I smiled, tipped my head like I’d just won a prize at the county fair, and gave a neighborly wave. I was halfway into thinking maybe I still had a little bit of that old cowboy charm when the whole thing took a sharp left turn.

She flipped me off.

Now, I don’t mean she gave me a dismissive wave or one of those playful “oh, you rascal” gestures. Nope. It was the full, official, highway-approved middle finger salute, complete with the kind of scowl you usually only see on people who just realized the buffet is out of mashed potatoes.

I sat there stunned for half a heartbeat, but not willing to let a little hand signal ruin my day. So, in the spirit of good humor and mischief, I called out through my window, “Yes, I accept!”

Well, that was apparently the wrong answer. Because the woman immediately doubled down and gave me both birds, flapping them like she was signaling aircraft into a crash landing.

At that point, what can you do? I chuckled, tipped an imaginary hat, and drove on home, wondering what on earth had just happened.

Now, here’s the thing: I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t even offended, but I was puzzled.

What is it in folks these days that makes them toss rudeness around like confetti at a parade? We’ve got all the tools in the world to communicate—phones in our pockets, social media platforms, apps that can translate thirty languages—and somehow we can’t manage basic neighborly decency.

It used to be that if someone whistled, you whistled back, waved, or at least smiled and nodded. Nobody lost their religion over it. These days, though, people seem to walk around with their tempers cocked like a loaded pistol, ready to go off at the first harmless spark.

Maybe that woman thought she was being funny, or she was having a bad day. Or it could be she’s part of that growing crowd of folks who’ve decided that kindness is optional, but sarcasm and sourness are mandatory.

But here’s the good news–her mood didn’t have to become my mood. See, I could’ve carried the encounter home with me, stewing about it over supper, letting it sour the evening.

But instead, I laughed it off. Because at the end of the day, the world’s already got more than enough anger without me volunteering to carry some stranger’s extra load.

And maybe that’s the lesson right there. People are gonna flip you off, cut you off, talk you down, and act like you’ve personally ruined their week just by existing. You can’t control it, but you can control whether you let it crawl inside your head and pitch a tent.

So next time someone waves their birds in your direction, go ahead and smile, tip your hat, and roll on. Because life is too short to be ruined by fingers and frowns when there are still plenty of whistles, waves, and friendly nods out there waiting to be shared.

As for me, I’m just grateful I heard the whistle in the first place. It reminded me that, no matter how sideways the world gets, there’s always room for humor and a lot of grace.

Even if it comes packaged with two angry birds.

Today, my pen refused me.

Every word I tried to write came out like gravel, sharp-edged and bitter-tasting. My hands shook not from too much coffee, but from sorrow, rage, and that kind of helplessness that makes you want to punch a hole in the wall.

Someone murdered Charlie Kirk.

And no matter how you feel about the man, he was still a man–a husband, a son, a friend, flesh and blood with a heartbeat given by God. His death wasn’t just a headline; it was a human life cut short. And I’ll admit it–the news made me want to stop being a pacifist and start sharpening pitchforks.

But here’s the thing about rage–it burns hot, quick, and dirty, and once the flames settle, it leaves behind nothing but ash. That’s where I found myself today–standing knee-deep in ash, wondering what good my anger would do.

Like many others, I turned to social media for support. I shouted at the screen, banged the keys, and posted words so heavy they could have sunk a battleship.

I even lost my cool with an old friend in England, Ashley Slater. Poor guy didn’t deserve to be called a “liberal dung heap,” though at the time it felt like justice served fresh out of the oven.

Later, I cooled down and apologized. Common sense whispered in my ear, “If you lose your friends in your fight for truth, who’s left to talk to?”

I think about what the media said, how they twisted words before Charlie’s body was even cold. They framed him like a caricature, a “polarizing figure” instead of a breathing soul.

And that made my blood boil all over again. But I remembered something my mother once told me when I was spitting mad at the world: “You can’t fix a broken window by throwing more rocks at it.”

So I sat down, took a deep breath, and let my heart write what my hands couldn’t, because there is a day coming where good men will do bad things.

Having been trained to hold fast under fire, I cannot remain in a defensive position forever. Fortunately, the battlefield I face today isn’t one of rifles and fighting holes, but of words, patience, and faith.

And let me tell you something funny–because the Lord knows we need a chuckle in dark times. While I was pounding out angry posts, Buddy, my old dog, snuck into the kitchen.

When I finally looked up from the screen, there he was, tail wagging, muzzle coated in powdered sugar. He’d stolen half a dozen donuts off the counter and looked as guilty as a politician caught with both hands in the cookie jar.

I laughed so hard I almost forgot what I was mad about. Almost. But that laugh reminded me–life is still here, still present, still waiting for me to choose joy over despair, kindness over cruelty, hope over hate.

Charlie’s death makes me want to fight, yes, but maybe the fight isn’t with fists or guns or insults. Perhaps the fight is with the small, daily choice to remain morally human in a world that is pushing us toward being monsters.

So tonight, I’ll set down my sword and pick up my pen again. I’ll pray, though my heart feels like prayer isn’t enough.

I’ll remember my friend Ashley and how easy it is to scorch bridges in anger. And I’ll watch Buddy, sprawled belly-up and snoring, with donut crumbs still stuck to his whiskers, reminding me that laughter and love are still the sharpest weapons we’ve got.

God bless you, Charlie Kirk, and God, bless America, please.

The other morning, about midnight, I was startled awake by a knock at the front door. Now, nothing rattles me like unexpected knocking before daylight. It’s either going to be real good news—like a neighbor bringing a pie hot from the oven—or real bad news, which doesn’t even come with hardtack.

I shouted, “Just a minute.”

Here’s where the real comedy begins–I got dressed in bed. Now, in my mind, that ought to count as exercise.

Shirt over the head? That’s resistance training.

Pants in a tangle around my ankles? That’s cardio.

Rolling side-to-side to locate a missing sock? Core workout.

And let me tell you, I was sweating more than I do mowing the back acre in July. By the time I managed to stumble to the door, a Washoe County Sheriff Deputy was standing there, looking me up and down, probably wondering if I had wrestled a raccoon on the way to the door.

“I noticed your garage door is wide open. Just wanted to make sure everything’s alright.”

Well, that’s the kind of neighborly thing I don’t mind law enforcement doing. I thanked him kindly.

I smiled, said, “I’ll get’er all buttoned up and secure,” while secretly trying to catch my breath.

I thought about how the world has changed as the deputy drove away. It used to be that folks didn’t need the law to tell them their garage door was open.

My neighbor Bob would walk right in, holler, “Hey dummy, you left the garage door up again.”

These days, we’re grateful for a knock and a warning, and maybe it’s not all bad. Still, it got me wondering if I can count bed-dressing as exercise; perhaps I can count other daily struggles as well.

Bending over to tie my shoe without falling flat? That’s yoga.

Wrestling with the fitted sheet while making the bed? That’s CrossFit.

Hauling groceries in one trip because I’m too stubborn to make two? Powerlifting.

And if I squint at life that way, maybe I’m in better shape than I thought. I’m not out of shape; I’m just practicing “functional fitness.”

That’s what the youngsters call it, anyway. Around here, we call it “living.”

Later that morning, when my wife asked why I looked like I’d been in a tussle, I explained about the deputy, the garage door, and my newfound exercise program. She gave me that look only a wife can give a husband–equal parts amusement and “Lord help me.”

Then she said, “Well, if that’s exercise, you ought to do it twice a day.”

She’s got a point, but if I start suiting up in bed morning and night, I might qualify for the senior Olympics. My event? The 60-second Sock Scramble, bed category.

At the end of it all, I’m grateful to that young deputy. He kept my garage from being an all-night invitation to raccoons, burglars, or curious teenagers. And he unknowingly introduced me to a brand-new fitness routine that doesn’t require a gym membership.

So the moral is: Keep your doors closed, your sense of humor open, and if you happen to find yourself in bed, dressing in a hurry, don’t sweat it—count it. Exercise is where you meet it, and sometimes it sneaks up on you before the new day with a knock at the door.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit I don’t bring much to the table. I never have.

I don’t whip up five-course meals, invent new gadgets, or even keep up with all the newfangled apps that make life “easier.” Truth is, my contribution usually looks more like a mismatched salt shaker and a joke that only makes sense three days later.

But I’m willing to sell the table. I mean that literally.

This old oak table has been around longer than my marriage, and considering we’ve celebrated enough anniversaries to put us in the “you’ve got staying power” club, that’s saying something. We bought the table at a yard sale back when my wife and I were still trying to make ends meet.

It cost us twenty bucks, two cups of lemonade, and a promise to haul it ourselves. That table has since survived moves and one particularly dicey attempt to strap it to the roof of a Ford Pinto with baling twine.

Over the years, it’s been everything from a dining spot to a homework station to an operating table for broken toys and scraped knees. It’s saw chili nights, card games, arguments, reconciliations, and one attempt by a neighbor’s cat to give birth on it.

And yet here I am, willing to sell the thing.

My wife doesn’t quite see it that way. She’s sentimental, bless her heart.

She’ll run her hand across those nicks and dents like she’s flipping pages in a family Bible.

“That scratch there,” she’ll say, “that’s from when Kyle tried to sword fight you with his butter knife.”

And I’ll nod and smile, but in the back of my mind, I’m thinking: If somebody offered me fifty bucks, this table’s gone tomorrow.

Not because I don’t love the memories. Lord knows, I do.

But I figure memories ain’t tied to the wood, but to the people. And let’s be honest—oak doesn’t pay the electric bill.

Besides, if I sold the table, it’d give us a chance to buy a new one. Something modern, maybe even with those fancy fold-out leaves, so you can host half the county without borrowing chairs.

I picture myself leaning back in one of those cushioned chairs with wheels, rolling to the fridge like royalty instead of standing up and having to trudge like a medieval peasant.

Of course, the problem with selling a table is that you’ve got to find someone willing to buy a table. Folks these days don’t want solid oak.

They want something that comes in a flat box with instructions that take a degree in engineering to decipher. They’ll trade heirloom durability for a slick finish and the ability to brag, “We put it together ourselves.”

Sure, they did—after three divorces and a broken Allen wrench from Ikea.

I reckon that’s why our table still sits in the dining room, holding everything except dinner plates most nights. Right now, it’s got three grocery receipts, last week’s mail, a screwdriver, and a basket of junk that nobody has claimed.

It’s more of a clutter collector than a dining surface. Truth is, my wife and I probably eat off our laps more often than we eat off the table.

But you know, maybe that’s the point. Life doesn’t require a polished spread.

It’s not about silverware lined up straight or chairs tucked in perfectly. Life’s about gathering somewhere—whether at a table, on the porch, or even in the front seat of a car with burgers balanced on your knees.

The table’s just a stage. The play is us.

So, I’ll keep joking that I’m willing to sell the table. I’ll even throw in a story or two for free, like the one about the cat or the butter knife duel.

And if some poor soul does come along and offers me cash, I may take it—though I’d have to check with the boss first. Because as much as I’m willing to sell the table, I’m not willing to sell the marriage.

And between you and me, I think she knows it.