May 26, 2025

We looked to the solemnity of Memorial Day, recalling the sacrifice of millions of men and women who over 260 years answered the country’s call. It meant dealing with the grim political stuff, like last week’s vote in the House of Representatives on the tax bill that, if it became law, would add $3.8 trillion to the federal deficit over ten years.  

We set all that aside and thought about positive things. We thought about pickleball. It lifts us for brief moments from the nightmare news.

A few days earlier I walked onto a court in Pittsboro, North Carolina. Anita whacked the ball on a low line drive over the net. I raised my racket, or paddle, to return her shot and protect my face. I made contact, the ball caromed over the out-of-bounds line. This went on and on in my first attempt at pickleball.

She moved forward and laterally, swinging one-handed or two-handed, forehand and backhand, banging the ball mostly past me or lobbing it just over the net beyond my reach. She charged and retreated. I lunged, left and right, forehand and backhand, waving the paddle like a tennis racket, which it isn’t. I started to get the hang of it and returned a few within bounds.

Pickleball has swept the country. Courts are going up everywhere. Our local park just put in 18 courts, taking acreage from the athletic fields. When we drive by the parking lot is always full. At night the lights stay on late.

I stopped at the park and watched for a while. Jen, sitting courtside, pointed to her husband, daughter, son, and daughter-in-law, playing a fast game. “We play all the time. In our neighborhood we have seventies, eighties. Even a ninety-two-year-old gentleman plays.”

I read that the game was invented in 1965 by Joel Pritchard and a couple of friends in Bainbridge, Wash., who used paddleball paddles, a whiffle ball, and a tennis court and net. Various explanations circulate about where the name came from, including the name of Pritchard’s dog. In 1967 some of Pritchard’s neighbors built the first pickleball court

In 2024 some 3,250 players competed in the Minto Pickleball Championship held at Naples, Fla. More than 50,000 spectators, according to Pickleball Magazine, celebrated the “spirit of pickleball” at the “biggest pickleball party in the world.” A nationwide sports and fitness organization reports that in 2024 nearly 20 million people in the U.S. played the game.

A few weeks ago the pickleball venue near our street held a tournament. Dozens of men’s, women’s, and mixed male-female teams competed. Teams lined up waiting for their slots. As the teams finished their games others crowded onto the courts.

Inevitably, as the game grew, it became organized. The U.S. Amateur Pickleball Association, now USA Pickleball, developed rules. Two professional pickleball tours were established. Collegiate pickleball began in 2022. You can watch pickleball on streaming TV. A pickleball stadium was built in Fort Lauderdale, and a pickleball hall of fame in Austin.

Until now I didn’t pay attention. Years ago Sandy and I played a little tennis on high school courts near home, but eventually lost interest, tired of chasing balls around the court or distracted by other things. I noticed pickleball only in the last year or so. Like others I thought of it as an old folks’ version of tennis. Then Chris, the fastest guy in our old neighborhood running group and three decades younger than me, mentioned he plays.

“The reason people love pickleball is that you can be competitive right out of the gate,” he says. “The toughest part of tennis is getting the serve in. In pickleball you’re serving underhand, so it’s a lot easier to keep the serve in the court. The pickleball net also is slightly lower than the tennis net.”

We knew Anita and Peter in Nashville. About the same time we moved from Virginia to the Palmetto State, they relocated to central North Carolina. Anita says she never heard of the game in Tennessee. “Then a while ago the neighborhood email invited folks to learn to play pickleball. So I went,” she says.

One day someone rang the doorbell and asked her if she wanted to play pickleball. “It was the first time anyone asked me to go out and play in many years,” she says. The local players use two “aps,” Team Reach and Instateam, to organize, schedule, and sign up for games, either at the neighborhood court or elsewhere in town.

I walked with Anita over to the neighborhood court for my first stab at the game. She explained the rules on serving, on staying out of the “kitchen,” the couple of feet of court closest to the net, how to score. We volleyed a bit, warming up, which always takes me a while. Maybe one of every three of my strokes stayed inbounds.

Anita and her friend Lori formed a team, I teamed with another old guy, Enzo, to play them. The two women stroked evenly, consistently. I guessed they noticed I’m left-handed, most of their shots came to my right, making me backpedal then lunge and reach back-handed. I mostly smacked the ball out of bounds or into the net.

The women beat us, something like 11-5. We played a second game, same outcome. The others yelled encouragement, things like “great job for your first time,” more or less acknowledging my good strokes were just luck, which was true.

As we wrapped up, a middle-aged guy, Alan, and his son Andy arrived and formed a team with Lori and Cindy. They played and played. Anita and I played singles for a while, not keeping score. She got some practice, I got more comfortable with my swing. Anita’s shots were a coaching clinic, mostly right down the middle. She did hit a few zingers. I scrambled, making some shots, missing others.

The sun set, darkness approached. We went back and forth, the hard yellow ball a blur in the court lights. I chased my missed balls across the court. Anita shouldered her backpack for the walk back to the house. My legs wobbled a bit, absorbing the new exercise routine. I handed her the paddle. I’ll have to get one of my own, I thought.

May 19, 2025

In early 1940 the novelist John Steinbeck embarked with a friend, biologist Ed Ricketts, on a cruise through the Gulf of California, also called the Sea of Cortez, to collect specimens of marine life. While German forces rampaged through Europe they chartered a boat, hired a crew, and set out from Monterey, heading south.

Steinbeck was enjoying the payoff for his great novels, The Grapes of Wrath and Tortilla Flats. Ricketts had published a well-received paper entitled Between Pacific Tides. After the cruise they teamed to write the book that eventually became The Log from the Sea of Cortez. In an early chapter Steinbeck wrote:

“We were coming now toward the end of our day-and-night running; the engines had never paused since we left San Diego except for idling the little time when we took the langustina. The coastline of the Peninsula slid along, brown and desolate and dry with strange flat mountains and rocks torn by dryness, and the heat shimmer hung over the land even in March.”

They chartered a 76-foot work boat named Western Flyer in Monterey, owned by Tony Berry, who sailed with them as master, and hired Tex, the engineer, and Sparky and Tiny, seamen. “All three were reluctant to go, for the whole thing was crazy,” Steinbeck wrote. “None of us had been into the Gulf, although the master had been as far as Cape San Lucas, and the Gulf has a really bad name.”

They named the boat’s outboard motor the Hansen Sea Cow, a “mean, irritable, contemptible, mischievous, hateful living thing.” They called at San Diego to buy gas then sailed for the Gulf. The boat entered Magdalena Bay, two-thirds the way to the tip of Baja California, where the men started collecting specimens. They paused at Cape San Lucas, guarded by giant rocks called “the Friars,” then Pulmo Reef, La Paz, and Angeles Bay. And so on for those six weeks.

At the same time I picked up Cortez we started our own pilgrimage, back to Fort Valley, Va., where a 100-mile trail race is staged in mid-May every year. For the 11th time in 12 years I showed up in this thickly rocky, densely green paradise, either to endure the pain of the event or to help others endure it.

Our journey began in the same rollicking way as Steinbeck’s and Ricketts’, also through water, but the monsoon kind, the atmospheric river of mid-May above the mid-Atlantic. The rain fell laterally much of the 11-hour trip, which should take eight hours.

No detail of our experience is similar to the Western Flyer’s cruise. What mattered to us, and to Steinbeck, Ricketts, and their men was the breaking away. We knew what we were about better than they, but they outclassed us in grit and flair. With a gruesome war consuming nations week after week, one skilled scientist and five amateurs (plus Steinbeck’s wife Carol) explored a near-God-forsaken strip of ocean six thousand miles away from the carnage.

For us, the monsoon abated somewhere along the spine of Virginia, but the rain never stopped. It swept again in blinding sheets across the highway as we passed Natural Bridge and Lexington. The heavy wet clouds moved away around New Market, where the western ridge of the Massanuttens is broken by U.S. 211. We visited friends in Centreville and Sterling, then headed for Fort Valley, to a place called Caroline Furnace.

Volunteers walk the trails the day before the race, hanging ribbons and luminescent markers from trees to mark the course. Bill, Gretchen, and I, doing our part, tramped along a south-inclined stretch called Duncan Hollow, which a little rain turns into a streambed and swells the actual streams into swamps. We had done this before, the three of us, seniors who now leave the racing to men and women decades younger.

The forest was thick and marshy, the Massanutten rocks slick and sharp. We moved deliberately, pulling our shoes from thick mud, swatting bugs, breathing sweet mountain air.  In four miles the trail turns west and climbs torturous switchbacks up the western ridge then descends, the descent just as wet and rocky. I thought again of Steinbeck and his adventurers, staring across the water at the brown slopes of Baja California.

We finished Duncan Hollow and started climbing. We paused to gasp and stare back at the eastern ridge and beyond, across miles of farmland to the Shenandoahs 20 miles distant. A thin Blue Ridge haze across the mountains conveyed a sense of the permanence, the immutable, calming power of this quiet world.

In late March the Western Flyer called at San Jose Island and then Puerto Escondido, where the crew continued collecting specimens: crabs, sea anemones, other creatures. They moved on to Concepcion Bay and San Lucas Cove, San Francisquito Bay, and Bahia de los Angeles. They visited Estero de la Luna, Agiabampo Bay, and San Gabriel Bay, then headed home.

Steinbeck and Ricketts initially co-published the book as a travel journal. It didn’t sell well, we can imagine why. Ricketts died in an accident in 1948, Steinbeck republished the log in 1951.

They touched, in their own mysterious way, something of the essence of life in an obscure place, in sun-baked little settlements few if any of their readers had heard of. The act of collecting and studying living things, humble sea creatures, also was an act of assent, acceptance: that God’s creation, His world, is a sublime gift.

Nearly nine decades later Bill, Gretchen, and I also touched that world, as we tramped through cool fast-moving streams and struggled up the ridge. We all are up there in years, this was not the first time. The trek, in our tired, measured steps, affirmed truth about our lives and our beliefs. We find it, as Steinbeck and Ricketts found it, in being present as witnesses to the miracle of this rugged, serene, consoling corner of our world, revealed in completing the journey.

May 12, 2025

It was time for the ophthalmologist. He comes after the optometrist, like the orthodontist comes after the dentist. The point is cataracts, the mysterious film that, over years, develops on the lens of the eye. I have the years. An optometrist found the cataracts. Get it done, he said. We found Southern Eye.

Meanwhile, some things come to a purely felicitous ending. We have a new Pope. We, that is, everyone, need Leo XIV, a math major from Villanova, a guy with hard executive experience who speaks five languages not counting Latin, and paid his dues bringing the Gospel to obscure places.

It was more than a month ago that we set out to take care of the cataracts. Experience sharpens your skill at making doctors’ appointments. Medical practices, like other businesses, are intoxicated with the shallow freedom from personal engagement offered by text messaging. Phone recordings demand texts. A human being answers only if you choose the “billing” option.

Eventually we got a choice for an appointment: the local office two months out or the Clemson office, a 60-mile roundtrip. It had just opened, slots were available. We picked Clemson.

People who have had the cataracts work say it’s quick and easy. Still it’s surgery and your eyes. It involves sharp instruments. Things can go wrong.

The Clemson trip is a trek through downtown Greenville out into the western industrial and commercial suburbs. Eventually the road opens into pretty country, but it’s still 30 miles one way. Southern Eye is in a just-completed pseudo-colonial townhouse subdivision that accommodates both residents and businesses. The streets were quiet. The Southern Eye office was quiet.

A technician, a young guy dressed in black, led me to a treatment room and fitted my head in his device, my chin propped on a ledge, the eyepiece against my left eye. He flashed a line of five block letters at me, I read them, he reduced the size, once, twice, three times, until I just guessed. We went through the drill for the right eye. Without a word he left the room. I waited.

Dr. Dave walked in. He asked a few questions, then fitted another device over my left eye. He turned a knob, a bright light blinded me. He moved to the right eye. “Cataracts, both eyes,” he said. “We’ll take care of you.”

The doc gave a primer on cataracts. They develop over time and if not removed can lead to loss of sight. The process takes 30 minutes, usually, under local anesthesia, but it’s major surgery, requiring cutting into the eye. I winced.

We got an appointment for “alignment” a week later at another Southern Eye site, this one in the medical ghetto near the downtown hospital. The waiting room was crowded with oldsters, everyone wearing glasses. I didn’t have to wait, a tech called me. She fitted my chin in a machine and did a few more tests. I got the appointment a month out for the right eye and for the left two weeks later.

A thick FedEx packet arrived, full of paperwork and two vials of eyedrops, one vial for each eye: start the drops three days before the surgery, four times each day. I struggled to remember the schedule then had trouble finding the eyeball. The medicine mostly dribbled down my cheek.

On surgery day we headed for yet another Southern office, this one near the big suburban hospital complex. Convenient in case things go wrong, I guessed.

At 9:30 AM several patients waited ahead of me. A nurse, Laura, took me to a cubicle. I lay on a cot, she took my blood pressure and readied her IV needle. She tried my wrist. “Well, that didn’t work,” she said. I gritted my teeth. She tried again, again, the needle passed through my vein. The third time was the charm. I exhaled hard.

An anesthesiologist stopped by to ask how I tolerated anesthesia. I’m okay, I assured her, lots of experience. Dr. Dave entered the cubicle. He asked how I felt. Then he asked, “Would you like to have a quick prayer?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. He placed his hands on the rail of the cot and whispered a short ecumenical prayer.

It was the day after Pope Francis died. I didn’t think Dr. Dave was thinking about the Holy Father, but who knows? This is the Bible Belt Southland. Public prayer is off-the-cuff, extemporaneous, not my style, yet still prayer. No doubt he prays for all his patients. I appreciated it.

An hour later I was first in line at Cataract Central.  Dr. Dave and a colleague were hard at work relieving folks of their cataracts. It’s highly precise surgery, and no two patients have exactly the same situation. But it is repetitive.

 Around 2 PM Laura pushed my cot into a surgical space. Someone well practiced at this squirted a drop of medicine in my right eye, then a drop of local anesthesia. I saw Dr. Dave’s silhouette above me, then an intense white light. I felt nothing. It was over in twenty minutes.

Sandy drove home. I wore a plastic shield over the eye at night. At the post-op the next day Dr. Dave said the eye looked good. “Keep wearing the shield at night, keep taking the drops, no exercise, no bending, no lifting more than ten pounds,” he warned.

I sat around the house for a week. No pushing a lawnmower. It rained, the grass grew longer and thicker. Sandy carried the trash out to the curb. I kept up the eyedrops and taped the shield over the eye each night.

At the second post-op Dr. Dave explained what happened. “I made two incisions and inserted instruments into the eye and lifted the cataract from the lens.” He showed a video of the incision, the probes, the cataract torn away and pulled out. I gulped. But the eye felt okay.

“Thanks for helping me,” I said as I stood up. He grinned. “God gave me the skills to help people,” he answered. “See you in a couple of weeks for other one.”

So far my vision is no better. I’m still squinting. No miracles, even with Dr. Dave’s God-given skills. But while inserting his cutting tool in my eye he lifted my spirits. Maybe that was the point.

May 5, 2025

We sat in the bar of the Officer’s Club at Camp Courtney, a Marine Corps base on Okinawa, Japan, watching the news. It was early February 1973, a few weeks after the signing of the Paris Peace Accords that formally ended the U.S. role in the Vietnam war.

As part of the agreement the North Vietnamese began releasing American POWs, many of them imprisoned for years. As we sipped our beer we saw the Americans, some still dazed and disoriented, deplane at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. Over the next two months, during Operation Homecoming, nearly 600 POWs emerged from the hell of North Vietnam.

North and South Vietnam continued that savage little war. On April 30, 1975 the North Vietnamese People’s Army of Vietnam (PAVN) overwhelmed the South’s Army of the Republic of Vietnam. As PAVN troops entered Saigon, American aircraft evacuated Americans and Vietnamese. After the airport runway was pocked with bomb blasts, U.S. forces used helicopters to rescue a final few from the roof of the American embassy.

Last week, on April 30, we observed a bitter milestone, the 50th anniversary of the end. Fifty years. Ancient history.

The fall of Saigon followed the capture of Cambodia’s capital, Phnom Penh, by Khmer Rouge rebels on April 17. Then on May 12, Khmer Rouge troops seized the U.S. commercial ship Mayaguez off the Cambodian coast. Nearly 20 Americans, mostly Marines, were killed trying to rescue the ship’s crew.

Some dates are enshrined in remembrance: December 7, 1941, June 6, 1944, November 22, 1963, September 11, 2001. April 30, 1975 is barely an afterthought. A few small-type headlines mentioned it last week. It was remembered by Vietnamese Americans, the children and grandchildren of Vietnamese lucky enough to escape.

Sometime in the late 1960s or early 1970s the Marine Corps built a mockup of a Vietnamese village on the campus of the Corps’ Basic School in Quantico, Va., where newly commissioned lieutenants are trained. My company used it to run through some exercises. “Counterinsurgency” became a buzzword. But really, we had no idea what we were doing.

Infantry officers from my Basic School class, which graduated in May 1972, went directly to Vietnam with elements of the Third Marine Division. Months later, I met many of them on Okinawa as the Marines completed redeploying from Southeast Asia.

Americans alive in the 1960s recall the name “Vietnam” as the unrelenting nightmare it always was. By the late ‘60s Americans turned against the war. The country was racked with anti-war activism, including violence. In February 1968 CBS anchor Walter Cronkite announced on the air that the war was unwinnable. A month later U.S. Army soldiers massacred between 350 and 500 civilians at My Lai. Army leaders tried to cover it up. It was America’s darkest hour.

In June 1971 the country was shocked when The New York Times published excerpts of The Pentagon Papers, the classified Defense Department history of the war released by analyst Daniel Ellsberg. For a while the war was sad grist for the box office: The Deer Hunter, We Were Soldiers, Apocalypse Now, Platoon, others. Filmmaker Ken Burns made a 10-part documentary that reached back into the dim origins of war in Southeast Asia. Books were written.

Over decades, military leaders, diplomats, historians studied and analyzed, studied and analyzed the war. They recognized that U.S. forces thrashed incoherently through the country, racking up body counts that included thousands of civilians. The Americans, with all their firepower, had no clue how to counter an enemy that understood the people and their culture.

The lesson didn’t register. History repeated itself in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Vietnam changed some veterans and family members forever. Others worked hard to forget. People born just few years after Vietnam known next to nothing about it. Schoolchildren today most likely know less than nothing.

Vietnam lacerated the soul of the country. Yet in 1985 the late Sen. John McCain, who spent five-and-a-half years as a POW in North Vietnam’s Hoa Lo prison, called the Hanoi Hilton, returned to Vietnam. A decade later, as a member of the Senate POW/MIA select committee, he worked with Vietnam veteran Sen. John Kerry to help establish U.S. diplomatic relations with Vietnam.

Today Vietnam is a tourist destination. Thousands of Americans, veterans and non-veterans, take advantage of dozens of travel agencies and tour companies to visit. Hanoi, Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) and the city’s Cu Chi tunnels, the Khe Sanh Marine base, Hue City, and Da Nang, among others, are highlights.

Tours visit the Mekong River delta and the former demilitarized zone between North and South Vietnam. Visitors can check out the Dien Bien Phu museum, which commemorates the Viet Minh victory over a French task force in May 1954 that expelled France from Indochina.  In Hanoi visitors can walk through the Hoa Lo prison, now a museum. Four complete Hoa Lo cells have been reassembled at the American Heritage Museum in Boston.

Tourists can visit Quang Ngai province, site of the My Lai massacre memorial, a “place of deep sorrow and reflection,” according to the brochure. On tour websites you can read glowing reviews, like those of tours of Las Vegas or Disneyworld. We’ve come that far.

A few of the tours offer guidance on “mental and emotional wellbeing.” Mindfulness of potential “triggers that could evoke traumatic memories is crucial,” says one company. The tour should be a “journey of healing, reflection, and connection … a way to confront the past, find closure, and create new, positive memories.”

It’s been 50 years. The oldtimers created their memories long ago. The hard part is for the young, to witness the truths of the history, learn from them, make them last.

April 28, 2025

Friends came to town, we drove to the local state park and ran up and down the trails and around a pretty lake. The forest was muddy in places, but sweet and silent. North Lake flashed deep blue through the trees. Gentle waves break against the shore.

The glistening reflection of sunlight on the surface has a restorative effect. Folks will pause for brief moments near the water. Beyond the lake shore, low rounded hills crowd in, thick with forest. Fallen tree trunks reach out into the water, giving some perspective to the distance to the far shore. It is a place to lighten burdens.

Bitterness and angst are sweeping the nation as it lurches toward depression. Yet last weekend our group, five middle-agers and one senior citizen completed, decisively, with the figurative exclamation point, another chapter in a 15-year story, of friendship formed in one place then preserved at long distance by text message, email, and occasional meetups.

The purpose, on the face of it, is running forest trails. But it’s a deeper, more textured story, told here before, in Virginia, North Carolina, Florida, Texas. Now, as the local host, I charted the course and handed out maps. Paris Mountain State Park, within the Greenville, S.C., city limits at 1,500 acres, is one-tenth the size of our old running space, Prince William Forest Park near Woodbridge, Va.

The Paris Mountain trails mostly are well-manicured by hikers, dog walkers, mountain bikers, and scout troops on their badge-earning outings. Old folks plod through the woods, getting their dose of seniors exercise. But Paris Mountain has its moments. Here and there, along the Sulphur Springs and Brissy Ridge pathways, thick roots reach to grab feet and legs. Rocks shaped like axe blades protrude to slice ankles.

For some stretches the trails wind steeply upward through the woods, making legs go numb, lungs strain, hearts pump to exhaustion. Creeks are a gaggle of rocks strewn in rushing water. Dead logs obstruct crossings.

The first mile, Mountain Creek, is sedate. Chris, Paul, Archie, and Kirk sprinted out of sight, Kevin and I slogged it. He wore a rucksack with 25 pounds of weights, his Florida hiking routine. We moved on to Sulphur Springs, following a creek, the sound of moving water soft, soothing. Rocks became boulders. The trail twisted upward, three feet wide along a twenty-foot crevice crossed with root tangles. We inhaled and bent our backs.

We crossed the creek and climbed upward to the Fire Tower intersection, then parted at the Kanuga trail. Kevin followed the mapped course, descending to the lake. I turned onto Kanuga-light, my escape route.

As I moved onto Brissy Ridge Kirk and Archie showed up, forging their own alternate route. They hurried down toward the hard part. At the end of Brissy Ridge, Paul pulled up and moved ahead on the final descent back to Mountain Creek. Chris already had passed, slowed by thick roots and jagged rocks. He raced down the backside of Sulphur Springs to Mountain Creek, finished, and jumped in Placid Lake. Within an hour we all got there. The late morning sun warmed us.

Ten or twelve years ago it was all backslapping, stories, jokes. We ran, drank coffee, gathered for happy hours, and solved the world’s problems.

It went on like that. The number varied. At one point, around 2010, we were about a dozen, meeting at 5:00 AM at the local Gold’s Gym on Thursdays to run neighborhood streets. Tom, the instigator, combined “Gold’s” and “Thursday” to create “THuGs.” We had fun with that.

 Scott was still on active Marine Corps duty. Nearly all of us were veterans who turned into federal contractors. Chris was in accounting. Paul was more or less retired, we never were sure.

We ran the Marine Corps Marathon in 2011, then a “Tuff Mudder” obstacle event and a couple of half-marathons. During the work week we ran on roads. Saturdays were for forest trails at Prince William, Manassas National Battlefield Park, and county parks.

We kept it up through summer heat and winter cold, as if we’d be embarrassed to miss it. One morning five or six years ago we pulled on thermals and mittens in single-digit chill and slogged over frozen tundra at Prince William, trotting a short loop before scrambling back to warm cars and coffee. We remember that as a benchmark: we did not let the cold cancel us.

We staged a casual trail half-marathon in Virginia, some of the team ran a race in rural Tennessee. But it was inevitable: the THuG thing couldn’t stay the same; we all had family situations and jobs having to do with corporate decisionmaking and government funding. Al, Tom, Josh, and Dave drifted away. Paul, Scott, and Amir pulled up stakes and left.

Over three years most of the rest of us scattered. Chris, Archie, and Alex hung on in Virginia. Paul, in Asheville, kept sending messages, jokes, ideas for reunions.

We pulled off the gatherings, twice near Sylva, N.C., for a painful 2,700-foot climb up Black Rock Mountain, when Chris won a fast-finisher souvenir buckle. This was Paul’s idea, a tortured slog up a sinuous fire road into the fog of the outer Blue Ridge. We showed up at Kevin’s place in Sarasota, then last April again near Paul’s for a trail in the Blue Ridge and an evening in Asheville. Scott got us down to Austin last fall.

For a brief weekend in this town we were present again. We finished the run, a bit slower then last time. That’s the way it is. It’s been fifteen years, after all. Our kids then now are adults. The happy hours are ancient history. The hair is mostly gray. THuGs are watching their carbs, turning in earlier. In Greenville, the topic of religion and belief came up.

Sunday morning arrived, the end of the adventure, the trip from the THuG dream back to the world. We talked a bit about next time, the next place: to be present, to march forward, to live in the moment, and the future. That’s the plan, and the hope.