Our elderly Chinese driver turned out to be spry, kind, and funny. He made some small talk about the city and then told us he had been driving the streets of San Francisco for 40 years. David, a wonderful and encouraging listener, discovered that the driver was 76 years old, his wife, 81, and they were still active and extremely healthy. At the next stoplight, he showed us pictures of his family (grandkids and all), and then he slapped David on the back and said, “You’re a good boy! You call me ‘Uncle’!”

Forty-three years ago today, on May 18, 1980, Mother Nature put her full power on display as Mt. St. Helens erupted in Washington, causing millions of dollars in damage, claiming 57 lives, and becoming the deadliest volcanic eruption in American history. Those of us who lived through it can vividly remember TV coverage of the event, featuring images of black encrusted lava racing down the side of the mountain, massive landslides that caused immense physical damage, and an ash cloud that wreaked havoc on surrounding areas, affecting cities as far away as Denver and Oklahoma City.

The segue to the Judy Blume conversation was natural because I, along with countless other adolescent girls in the pre-internet age, have the renowned and beloved author to thank for educating us in the um, well, the more sensitive issues of maturation and development.

Since 1970, Earth Day has served as a reminder of the precious and singular role nature plays in sustaining human life. Senator Gaylord Nelson from Wisconsin proposed an act to protect the environment. April 22nd marks the day that we are supposed to pay tribute to Mother Earth and reconfirm our commitment to preserving her at all costs.

The Eagles’ “Hotel California” reflects the dangerous and dark undercurrents of celebrity life.

For years, Baby Boomers and Millennials have suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous attacks lobbed and received from both sides. Boomers, people born between 1946 and 1964, have notoriously referred to Millennials (those “youngsters” born between 1981 and 1996) as “lazy, entitled snowflakes.” (That is what they say, isn’t it?)

I never thought I would own a Weimaraner. They’re not very common around here, but the “Gray Ghosts” have a long history as hunting dogs of the German nobles as far back as the early 19th century. The American Kennel Club praises the breed for its “friendliness and obedience” and its lovely “velvety ears.” The Weimaraner gained newfound popularity in William Wegman’s photos, in which he posed them in costumes and reading glasses, their earnest and somber faces a sharp contrast to the often comedic get-ups Wegman employed.

I had managed to successfully conceal “the crazy” throughout the entire duration of my relationship with David, but only because I had deprived myself of the college football experience for lo these many years. It couldn’t be helped. I couldn’t risk it.

“You have a tick where? Oh, God, Love. It really is a tick, and it’s stuck hard, right on the inside of your belly button. Let me get the tweezers.”

As soon as she began singing, I found myself drawn into a musical web of haunting Pentatonic cadences and dark, rambling country songs that touched something inside of me and evoked hills and hollers, cornbread in iron skillets, washboards on weathered back porches.

For years, Cuba has remained near the top of my bucket list, partly because of Ernest Hemingway’s influence and partly because of the romanticized version of Old Havana that I have crafted in my mind. When I think of Cuba, I, and many others, I assume, envision colonial architecture, refreshing mojitas, vintage cars, warm breezes, and lovely mariposas fragrancing the sea air.

As a child of the 70s and 80s, I remember well the uncertainty and questions a ringing telephone would bring. With no Caller ID, endless possibilities presented themselves before we picked up the receiver.

No matter how advanced and intelligent we think we are, our society still leans into the charismatic leader, the person who holds us captive with their unique glance and attention, putting us under their spell and enthralling us with their attention.

Invariably near the beginning of each school year, I find myself looking for ways to connect with my students. They are always surprised to find that I spent some time as a public high school assistant principal. Truth be told, I know they’ll be shocked by this admission, which is why I tell them my stories.

The Blue Door Gallery’s eponymous door stands open this crisp fall evening, welcoming me into an airy, light-filled, collective space showcasing some of Carrollton’s finest artists. Laura Walty Smith stands at an easel, paintbrush in hand. When she turns to welcome me, I notice a swipe of red paint on her cheek. The whole scene couldn’t have been composed any better if I had staged it myself, every box checked on the list of what an artist should be.

While we’re in the midst of this holy season, and many of us are searching for spiritual enlightenment and connection, perhaps the best thing we can do is strive for is compassion. No, make that Compassion with a capital C, a guiding force that supersedes our arrogance, personal grudges, and deep-seated prejudices. After all, ‘tis the season.