Before taking off from Lindbergh Airfield in San Diego, ten Marines hurriedly boarded the commercial aircraft, filling empty seats around me.

“Where are you heading?”

“Camp Lejeune, then to Afghanistan.”

About half an hour into the flight, an announcement came, saying lunch would be available for five dollars.

“You going to buy lunch?” one Marine asked the other.

“No, I’ll wait.”

Looking around, I saw that none were buying lunch, so I walked aft and handed the flight attendant a fifty-dollar bill.

“Please make sure each Marine gets fed.”

Her eyes went wet with tears as she thanked me.

After eating, I went again to the back of the plane to use the restroom, where a man stopped me.

“Here, take this.”

He handed me twenty dollars.

Returning to my seat, the plane’s Captain came down the aisle.

“I want to shake your hand. I was an Air Force pilot, and once, someone bought me lunch, an act of kindness I never forgot.”

I felt embarrassed as passengers applauded.

Later, a passing man reached out his hand, wanting to shake mine. He secreted another twenty-dollar bill in my palm.

After landing, waiting inside the plane’s door was a man who stopped me, put something in my shirt pocket, turned, and walked away without a word. Forty bucks!

Inside the terminal, I saw a Marine Sergeant accounting for his nine charges. I walked over and handed him the 80 dollars.

“It’s going be a while before you reach the east coast. Your guys will be hungry before that.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No need to call me, ‘sir.’ I was enlisted like you.”

“Yeah? What branch?”

“Marine Corps.”

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When it comes to being a smart-ass to my wife, I continue to find myself on her shortlist. But at least I will never go hungry, even when I manage to piss her off.

She was in the kitchen busying herself with meal prep. She had a ham hock and a pot roast on the counter.

“Should I make a roast or pea soup?”

“Anyone can cook a roast.”

I had a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of water for dinner.

It was worth it.

The difficulty hasn’t been the writing but finding the time to sleep while writing. Therefore, I have been posting only “Cousin Elmo” jokes, if one can call any of them funny.

As I was finishing up my paper route in Virginia City, I had parked, crossed the street, dropped off some newspapers, and returned to my truck. That’s when I saw the light blue faux leather grain bible in the bed of my vehicle.

My first thought was, “How long has that been there?” followed by, “When did someone put that in there?”

To neither question do I have an answer. Then maybe, it simply fell from the sky.

So, I picked it up, and while sitting in my truck, I thumbed through it. No names, no highlighting, jus’ an off-white ribbon from Santa Rosa, Calif., and the Salvation Army on Pierce Street, that city.

That did not tell me much, so I decided to look over the pages where the ribbon had been place-marking: 1 Corinthians 13, which speaks to “spiritual gifts” and “agape-love.” I looked about the wooden boardwalks and saw no one that could have put it there.

Never one of my favorite letters in the New Testament, I am planning to re-study this scripture. Maybe it holds a message I’ve never known was there.

Perhaps, like the murder of ravens that screamed and followed me earlier in the morning, there could be meaning in this.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Evidently, riding a bike is like running a country.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “Joe Biden is a pain in the gas.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “If your neighbor loses their job, it’s a recession. If you lose your job, it’s a depression. If Biden loses his job, it’s a recovery.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “COVID-19 has finally met its maker.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “I’ve seen the damage to Yellowstone. What’s Beth Dutton gonna to do about it?”

My Cousin Elmo says, “The tampon shortage is caused by school districts putting them in boys bathrooms.”