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Let me apologize in advance if this column seems a bit incoherent. I just woke up from a nap. Which is weird. Because I didn’t plan to take a nap. It just sort of happened. I was sitting there in the living room watching TV, and I nodded off. I think I was out about thirty minutes.

This seems to be a growing trend. For the great majority of my life, the only place I’ve ever been able to sleep is in the comfort of my own bed, at night. I’ve never been able to nap during the day. I’ve always been envious of people who can sleep at will, any time, anywhere.

My dad was great at that. He would come home from work, eat dinner, sit down in his recliner, and within five minutes he was out, mouth wide open, in full snore mode, sound asleep. When he took me to the barber shop for a haircut, which took about fifteen minutes (it doesn’t take long to get a flat top), Dad would spend that time zonked out on a chair in the waiting area. If he had thirty minutes to wait before dinner was ready, he would announce he was going to use the time for a power nap. And he did, conking out almost immediately. In church he got many a jab in the ribs from mom, who would catch him drifting off.

I’ve had friends with the same ability. They could nap on demand, just by closing their eyes and leaning back on something, anything. The other day I was leading a Bible study and, halfway through it, two members of the group had fallen asleep. Some leaders may have been annoyed. I was actually more jealous than anything else. I could never sleep in the middle of a gathering of any kind.

I never slept well in hotels, could never drop off in airports or in a car. I always want to be the driver on long family journeys, because it’s so boring being a passenger, and not being able to sleep. You can only read so many billboards, or watch so many farm fields rolling by, hoping to spot a cow or a horse, or a disgruntled farmer frowning at you because you are in an air conditioned car, and he is not.

But now, as I navigate through my septuagenarian years, all of that seems to be changing. I find myself dozing off all over the place. Watching TV in the living room, reading a book, working a crossword puzzle, or brainstorming a column. It’s so strange. Kind of like losing time off your life. One minute I’m sitting there watching Pat Sajak and Vanna White come out at the opening of Wheel of Fortune. The next thing I know, they’re congratulating the winner of the bonus round and the closing credits are rolling. What happened? Thirty minutes of my existence passed and I can’t account for it.

What makes my unscheduled siestas embarrassing is that, when I do fall asleep, I become my father’s son. Just like him, my jaw automatically drops like a broken drawbridge and my yap is wide open. The result is a snore that, I am told, rivals the roar of any train bustling through Trussville. It is loud enough that our little dachshund jumps up on my chest and licks my face just to make it stop.

The ironic part about these unintentional snoozes is that I feel groggier when I wake up than I did before. Which makes me wonder, are frequent naps a good or a bad thing? Naturally, I consulted that unimpeachable source of credibility, the internet. Of course, immediately, I found two completely conflicting answers. One article stated napping restores energy level, makes you more alert, and may even improve your memory. The next article revealed napping can be a sign of diabetes, heart disease and depression. (deep sigh)

Well, I’ve decided I’m not going to worry about it. I’m going to think of it as just part of the natural process of growing older. My sweet mother lived to be 103. She was sharp as a tack until the final few years, and she napped every day. Sometimes all day.

It turns out there is a real art form to napping. Researchers say you should nap in the early afternoon, between one and three pm. Try to relax some place where it’s dark and quiet. Turn off your electronics. Avoid caffeine and alcohol. They also say you should keep your naps very short. Fifteen minutes or less. Set an alarm if you have to. They claim even just five minutes is helpful.

Really? Five minutes? Hardly seems worth the effort. My snoring hasn’t even had a chance to build up to wind tunnel volume in five minutes.

This would mean that, in the time you took to read this column, you could have instead taken a nap, woke up, and felt refreshed and more energetic.

I probably shouldn’t have told you that.

(You can read more from Ken at kenlassblog.net)

The elderly man worked his way up to the third floor of the church building where his Sunday morning bible study class takes place. As he enters the room, he is greeted warmly. Everyone is excited to see him because he’s been absent the past two months after having knee replacement surgery.

It also happens to be his birthday. One couple brought donuts for the class to celebrate the occasion. He is ninety years young on this morning. Once the group is called to order, the man’s presence is acknowledged, and he receives a round of applause. He is, by far, the oldest member of the gathering, and one lady asks him if he has anything he wants to say.

He thinks for a moment, searching for words. “I guess all I want to say is, I wonder why I’m still here. God must have a purpose for me, but I don’t know what it is. I just wonder why I’m still here.”

Now there’s a question. And you don’t have to be ninety years old to ask it. In fact, it might serve all of us well to ask it of ourselves.

All too often, it seems we’re just here to get through the day. Just to get done with all the tasks, appointments and commitments on our calendar. Our mission is to finish the day’s work so we can have a little fun in the evening, or just relax.

We learn to put aside that discomforting fundamental question early on. As younger adults, our long term goals are commonly financial. Got to work hard to earn enough money to acquire the lifestyle that we desire for our family and ourselves. By middle age we begin to achieve that lifestyle and try our best to make time to enjoy it. It’s also time to lay the groundwork for the senior years. At retirement age, we focus on health and family and the rising cost of staying alive.

It can be joyous, worrisome, exhausting and time consuming, all at the same time. But does any of it have anything to do with why we’re here? Or is there even an overriding purpose for existing? (I know, we’re getting heavy and deep now. Indulge me for a moment.)

Of course, there is the school of thought that the answer is no. There is no ultimate purpose to life. All of existence is random. The universe is just a series of chemical and biological reactions unraveling with no control. History is merely unfolding organically.

It’s comfortable and easy to accept this. It lets us off the hook for not making the effort to meet any kind of moral standard. It gives us permission to make our lives self-centered. We exist to make ourselves happy. Anything we do to provide for others makes them happy, which in turn, makes us happy. It’s ultimately about us.

Yet somehow, if we are honest, we intuitively sense this is wrong. Ultimate satisfaction, if there is such a thing, remains elusive. Call it peace if you like. We observe the physical world around us and the obvious conclusion is, there must be more. Achieving all the material goals seems only to create an appetite for more of them. We read daily about the rich and famous, folks who have acquired all the material treasures we can only fantasize about. Still, their lives are riddled with addiction, divorce, perversion and, often, mental illness. They achieved what they thought their purpose was, and it proved inadequate.

So then why are we here? If not for personal gratification, then what?Could you state an answer in a simple sentence? It’s not easy to do. Even a ninety year old man, with all the wisdom of his age, still has to ask the question. But in doing so, keep in mind, he added “I know God has a purpose for me”.

He didn’t realize it, but those eight words were the most profound thing he could possibly say. They encapsulated his witness. His testimony. Knowing and trusting the source of your existence, is a great step toward defining it.

I think he just did.

Another Father’s Day is almost upon us. I’m having trouble comprehending that it’s been thirty-three years since Dad died of cancer back in 1990. I remember everything about him so vividly, the sound of his voice, his favorite shirt, the little sayings he loved to quote.

To understand my dad is to understand the family model of his generation. He was the undisputed, unquestioned king of his castle. The leader and authority figure of the family. All other members, including my mom, were subservient. Which is not to say he didn’t love us or take good care of us. He did. He was a hard working, excellent provider. He loved my mom with all his heart and soul. He didn’t spend a great deal of time with his three boys, but we knew we could count on him when the chips were down.

Yet we all understood that this family was a monarchy, not a democracy. He was the decision maker, the final word. Nothing of any consequence could take place without his knowledge and approval. He was also in charge of enforcement and punishment. He was not a “send-you-to-your-room” guy. His discipline was physical and swift. A hard spanking, and then it was over. As the youngest, I received fewer than my older siblings, but what I did get certainly got the point across.

Dad was a salesman, on his feet pretty much all day. When he got home from work, he was usually exhausted. Mom would have dinner ready. We ate on his schedule.

Like many dads, perhaps like yours, he had his chair in the living room. His chair. His place of refuge. After dinner, he would collapse into his brown recliner, grab the TV remote control, and turn on the news. Within five minutes, he was sound asleep, snoring loudly. Amazingly, somehow, some way, even in deep slumber, he had the ability to notice when one of us kids tried to change the channel to cartoons. Immediately he would open his eyes and yell in a stern voice “Turn that back! I was watching that!” With the news back on, he would quickly resume his nap.

Most nights, he almost never rose up out of that chair. He was a major league TV watcher. He loved westerns, variety shows and war movies. Especially war movies. As a World War Two Army veteran, he would scan those films intensely, looking for things that weren’t accurately portrayed. “Look at that gun he’s holding” he would say, pointing at the TV. “Those things weren’t even built until the 1950’s”. He had great delight in spotting an example of Hollywood taking dramatic license.

He’d watch the late news, the late night talk shows, and the late, late night talk shows. In those days, TV stations would sign off a little after midnight, usually with a devotional of some sort, followed by the national anthem. Dad would be there til the screen went to static.

The rest of us watched what he watched. Only rich folks had multiple TV’s in the house. Like most families, we had just the one, a Motorola console in a brown cabinet, with cables running up through the ceiling to the roof antenna. In the morning Mom would get to watch her soap operas, her “stories”. After school we would get to put on Woody Woodpecker and Huckleberry Hound. But once Dad got home, the set was his domain, no questions asked.

Restaurants were strictly a weekend treat for us and Dad picked the place, usually the local fish fry on Friday night. Sometimes he would bring home a bucket of fried chicken. He would set it down in front of himself at the table, open it up, pick out the two best pieces of white meat in the container, then pass it on. Nobody complained.

If the family was in the car together, Dad did all the driving, even when my older brothers were old enough to drive. He mowed the lawn and washed the car, but never, ever helped in the kitchen. That was women’s work. I idolized him. He was my hero, my role model.

The American family dynamic has evolved a lot since then. Husbands are no longer dominant in most families. Wives are working full time outside the home and are, at the very least, considered equal partners in the household, if not the leading influence. Spanking children is now commonly frowned upon. Many men not only help in the kitchen, but do the majority of the cooking. Have the changes been positive for our culture? I suppose it depends on your point of view.

I do know that Dad would have had a difficult time adjusting to it. But he would have, because, deep down, he loved us more than he did his place of authority.

And that’s the thing I will most remember every Father’s Day.

I arise out of bed around 6:30 in the morning. After washing up and getting dressed, I walk into the kitchen and approach the closed laundry room door. As I push the white door open, for the first time in fourteen years, our little brown, short-haired mini-dachshund Oscar does not come bolting out.

His bed is still there. His water and food dish are empty and stacked on top of each other. A half filled bag of dog food remains on the floor next to the dryer. On top of the dryer are two cans of soft dog food. We tried everything to get him to eat and gain weight toward the end. Sharon even made boiled chicken and rice for him. Nothing seemed to replenish his energy or put meat on his bones.

We sit down at the table in the kitchen. I have made scrambled eggs and bacon for Sharon and me for breakfast. Oscar should be standing on the floor beneath us, his large brown eyes giving us his best sympathetic beg for food look. If none is forthcoming, he might actually jump up on our lap at the table. Sometimes he would lose his balance in the effort and tumble backwards to the floor, then spring up as if to say “I meant to do that”. He wasn’t hurt and we would laugh hysterically.

After breakfast we go out for our morning exercise stroll down the local river walk. Several friendly faces come by the opposite way with their dogs on a leash. Just the way we used to walk Oscar down this path virtually every morning. We would get annoyed at his frequent stops to sniff a leaf or a pine cone. He loved these walks. People came to know him and greet him by name at the park.

We sit in the living room to relax, perhaps watch a little TV, or read, or peruse social media. Sharon and I have side-by-side rocker recliners. As soon as we sat down, Oscar would pick one of us, usually Sharon, jump up on her chair, and snuggle into her hip, gradually dropping off into a contented nap. If Sharon has to get up out of the chair to go do something, Oscar immediately comes to the other chair and nestles in with me. He disliked being alone. He relished human contact. As he got older he couldn’t manage jumping up on to the chairs any more. We bought him a set of dog steps so that he could climb up to us.

Today we are both sitting there in our chairs. Even though we are right next to each other, we can’t help feeling a bit lonely. Our little buddy is not there to snuggle.

We decide to go out for lunch. It is automatic that any time we leave the house together, we must first take the dog out. It is branded into our brains. I find myself going to get his leash. It takes a moment to realize there’s no need. We open the kitchen door leading down the steps to the garage to get in the car. We have always had to remember to close that door behind us, otherwise Oscar will come down and roam the basement. It occurs to me that it no longer matters. Door open, door closed, there’s no one to escape.

Oscar had the uncanny ability to know when it was 5pm. That was his feeding time. He would confront us and bark at us, letting us know what time it was. His tummy was as reliable a clock as a sun dial.

Evening has come. It’s time to hit the bed. There’s no need to tell Oscar what time it is. When we turn the TV off, he immediately jumps down and heads into his laundry room bed, anticipating his good-night snack. But on this night I grab the remote and push the power button. The screen goes black, but there is no thump as he hits the floor. No pitter patter of little paws tapping on the kitchen tile and fading into the laundry room. No snack to hand out.

It’s hard to comprehend how much Oscar was a part of our daily life routine. The decision to put him down was one of the toughest we have ever had to make. The veterinarian assured us it was the right thing to do, before he entered the suffering stage. Oscar drifted off to his final sleep in our arms, peacefully enjoying our caresses.

I find myself in emotional gridlock. I want another dog, another companion. But I don’t think I can handle this kind of heartbreak again. We’ve said good-bye to other pets in the past, and it just keeps getting harder. Maybe it’s because we are getting older and approaching our own mortality. I guess I wrote this blog as a kind of self therapy. I apologize if it brought you down. Oscar brought us a lot of joy and I’m sure eventually we will remember only the good times. We gave him a good life and he returned the favor.

Pets give us something we seldom find in fellow humans: Unconditional love. Oscar gave us fourteen years of it.

Turns out it wasn’t enough.

Recently I went to meet a friend for lunch at a local restaurant. We made plans to get there early to beat the noon hour crunch. Upon arriving I scan the dining area and am pleased to see the place is still mostly empty, only two or three tables are occupied. My friend and I approach the hostess desk. I hold up two fingers and say “booth for two please”. The hostess glances down at her computer screen. There is a short pause. Then she says “there will be about a twenty minute wait, is that okay?”

I’m puzzled. A twenty minute wait? There’s hardly anybody here. Irritated, I try my best to stay polite as I inquire as to why the delay. The hostess flashes a look of frustration and empathy as she explains they don’t have enough servers to seat everyone right away. She says she’s sorry. It almost looks like she’s bracing herself for a complaint, maybe even a scene. I sense she’s been taking a lot of flack from impatient customers.

We tell her it’s all good and we take a seat in the lobby. As we wait, we talk about this universal shortage of restaurant workers. Everywhere you go it’s the same thing. Help Wanted signs out front. Line chefs, managers, servers, all positions, all shifts. What happened to all the folks who used to need these jobs, we wonder. What are they doing to make a living? Are they just sitting around collecting unemployment?

For some reason, the topic stuck with me after lunch, and I decided to do some research. What I found gave me an updated perspective on my dining out experiences. Of course, the crisis began with the Covid pandemic of 2020. Everybody stopped eating out. Restaurants either had to close or let nearly all of their workers go. Apparently this was not often done with a lot of concern for their welfare. I read many quotes from former food service workers who said they were “put out like yesterday’s trash”.

I found many accounts of what restaurant work was like. Long hours on your feet, nights, weekends, holidays, low pay, and high pressure. The jobs are also widely viewed as dead end. No ladder to climb. And then there is dealing with the customers. Most diners are polite, but one survey said over sixty percent of servers reported dealing with abusive patrons. More than fifteen percent said they endured sexual abuse.

It made me recall a time when Sharon and I were seated at a local establishment, and as we sat down we heard a commotion a few tables down. A man was clearly upset about something and was loudly giving his server an earful. We couldn’t make out exactly what the problem was. He and his party then stomped out the door carrying takeout boxes. We happened to be sitting at a spot where I could partially see into the kitchen. The server was back there in tears, explaining the incident to a woman who looked like she could be a manager.

From what I gather, when the Covid restrictions were lifted and people began eating out again, a large chunk of the workers simply decided not to return to the restaurant business because of the lifestyle. It is true that many were able to compensate for the loss of income by receiving the increased government unemployment funds. But the idea that they used the money to sit around and watch TV is a myth. In reality, many used the funds to train themselves for other lines of work which they deemed higher paying with more promotional potential. They transitioned to low level health care positions, some went into education, some into information technology.

The pandemic also created the work-from-home explosion. There is a whole new catalog of employment that can be done on a laptop on your kitchen table. “Influencers” are making good money simply acquiring products or services and blogging about them.

None of this bodes well for restaurant owners in their quest to restaff to pre-pandemic levels. So, I thought, what does this mean for the future? What is to become of the local eating place? Based on projections from industry observers, it seems likely the glut of people seeking food service jobs is never coming back. There will be some, of course, but the surplus of applications that managers used to find in their desk drawers is probably gone forever. Restaurants will look for ways to maintain quality of service with less people.

Many may go to automated systems that allow you to order from a screen on your table. The ability to pay your bill on a kiosk is already widespread. One rapidly expanding trend is to bring the restaurant to you instead of the other way around. Home delivery is no longer just for pizzas and subs. You can enjoy almost everybody’s cuisine driven to your front door either by an independent service or the restaurant itself.

After reading extensive material about the situation, my appreciation of those who do come to my table and serve me has certainly increased. The other day I told my server “you did a great job. I really appreciate your efforts”. At first she looked at me like I was an alien from another solar system. She clearly was not used to hearing something like that. Then she quickly smiled and said thank-you.

I don’t think people will ever stop eating out. It’s just therapy to get out of the house and enjoy a good meal now and then. A great way to socialize with friends and family. But I suspect you will see fewer and fewer humans working there, and more and more machines. So be kind to the humans that remain. Maybe they’ll stick around for a while.

It seems we are living through difficult times. We have seen a pandemic, political division, rampant gun violence, and a general decline of moral values. But I suspect the things we are dealing with pale in comparison to what the generation of the early 20th century went through.

This was brought home to me in a very personal way after the passing of my mother in the summer of 2020. Among her personal effects was a tattered notebook. Apparently she took a writing course during her junior year of high school, and one of her assignments was to keep a journal of her entire school year. The pages cover the 1932-’33 school year, during which Mom would have turned sixteen years old.

At the time America was deep in the throes of the Great Depression which caused massive unemployment and poverty. It was also during Prohibition which forbid the sale of alcohol, resulting in a heavy increase in organized crime activity, bootlegging, and a sharp drop in tax revenue, which made the economy even worse.

Mom’s journal is largely an account of how her family of seven made it through a brutal midwestern winter with little income and limited basic necessities. The first entry is dated September 10, 1932. She describes herself as “shy” and adds:

“I think the journal will be great fun when I look at it in years to come”.

I’m sure she never dreamed that, 91 years later, her septuagenarian son would be reading her words with wonder and admiration.

It is clear the poverty of the era affected her school life:

“October 3, 1932 — This afternoon our class had a meeting at which we discussed the getting of class rings. Mr. McLane suggested that we postpone it until we are seniors on account of the scarcity of money.”

These were desperate times. Some folks, with nothing to lose, and aided by the underworld, turned to crime, even in Mom’s small town of West Bend:

“November 2, 1932 — The First National Bank of West Bend was robbed yesterday morning by three bandits armed with machine guns and pistols. They escaped with about $15,000….no one has been identified as yet.”

Republicans were in office at this time, but with all of the upheaval, evidently voters were ready for a change:

“November 9, 1932 — Well, the elections are over….the Democratic party made a clean sweep….President Hoover carried only six states. Governor Roosevelt’s election is considered the greatest landslide ever made by a political party in American history.”

Money for food was not plentiful. Fortunately, Mom’s father was an avid hunter and fisherman:

“December 5, 1932 — Dad and Walter (Mom’s younger brother) came home late Saturday night with forty-four rabbits. We ought to have a few meals out of that.”

“January 5, 1933 — Before classes this afternoon Mr. McLane announced that ex-President Coolidge was found dead in bed this morning. This was indeed a surprise to everyone.”

“February 18, 1933 — There has been quite a bit of excitement lately in connection with a milk strike…several dairies refused to comply with it…In today’s paper there was an account of a large milk truck being stopped and all the milk poured into the snow….Also on Tuesday an attempt was made to assassinate Franklin D. Roosevelt in Florida by an Italian. This caused a great deal of excitement as he is not yet in office. He escaped injury.”

“March 3, 1933 — This morning all the banks in the state closed up for an indefinite number of days. This was quite a blow to many people as they had received their checks due the beginning of the month and had not had them cashed.”

On March 21, 1933 President Roosevelt signed into law the Cullen-Harrison Act which legalized the sale of beer and ended Prohibition. Mom’s family operated a lake resort which included a restaurant and bar. The legislation may well have saved their livelihood:

“April 8, 1933 — Many hailed the return of beer at midnight on Thursday with an all night celebration….Dad had a little party and was up until four o’clock in the morning”.

There didn’t appear to be any money for gym decorations for her junior prom so they made do with colored paper:

“April 22, 1933 — We are collecting branches and twisting pieces of pink paper on them to make them look like cherry blossoms, as the gym is to represent a Japanese cherry garden.”

Mom writes that she didn’t attend the prom. I wonder if she couldn’t afford a dress. The journal ends after an entry on May 25 describing how the family is working hard to get the resort ready for the tourist season, and praying for a good turnout.

These were not the only uncertain times Mom endured. Eight years after writing this account, she went through World War Two, wondering each day if her husband would return alive from the battlefields of Europe. By the grace of God, he did, else I would not be here.

Mom went on to live a long and mostly happy life of humility and service to others. She left this earth at the ripe old age of 103. She survived all of the hard times, and I expect we will too. By the way, in the margin of the final page of the journal, her teacher wrote down her grade. She got an A.

As a writer, and as a person, she is a hard act to follow.

It was January 28, 2014. The weather forecast called for temperatures to dip into the teens with a light dusting of snow. I had driven my own car to meet the rest of the Daytime Alabama team at the Pelham Civic Center where we were doing a light hearted TV feature on the hockey team and the incredibly cumbersome gear a goalie has to wear. (The irony of doing an ice skating piece on this day would strike me later.) When I entered the rink facility about 10am the wind was cold, the sky was cloudy, but there was no precipitation. It was a brisk, sleepy Tuesday morning.

When I emerged from the building about three hours later, the world had changed. Suddenly there was a coating of snow on the ground, people seemed to be scurrying about with a sense of urgency, and traffic on the streets was unusually heavy. Still clueless as to what was going on, I worked my way to the I-459 bypass. As I approached the Highway 31 exit ramp, traffic came to a hard stop, backed up as far as I could see. After several minutes I shifted into Park, set the emergency brake and turned on the radio.

It was only then that I learned that the snow had unexpectedly frozen on the streets and freeways. Schools, caught by surprise, quickly decided to let out early, causing thousands of panicked parents to get on the roads at the same time in an attempt to pick up their kids. The result was the equivalent of a carnival bumper car ride on the highways. Not only were passenger cars stacked up all over the interstates, but big rigs were jack-knifed and spread out horizontally across multiple lanes. I-459 in front of me had become a parking lot. The day would later become known as the Snowpocalypse.

I noticed several drivers around me abandoning their cars and heading out on foot. I decided to stay in my car for the time being. Surely they would get traffic moving eventually I thought. Besides, it’s freezing out there, and I was dressed only in a sport coat with an open shirt. With the car idling and the heater on, I chose to sit tight. A decision I would come to regret.

An hour went by. Two hours. Three. The radio reports indicated the situation was only getting worse, not better. With the gas gauge getting low I finally began to realize I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I called the TV station to see if they had vehicles on the road that could come and pick me up. The newsroom assignment editor told me all units were out covering the situation, and they would come get me when there was a lull. I had worked in television newsrooms long enough to know that, during a big weather story such as this, there is no lull. Coverage is continuous. They weren’t coming to rescue me. I knew I was forgotten the moment they hung up the phone.

Reluctantly, I buttoned up the top button on my shirt, pulled up my collar around my neck, and got out of the car. It was surreal. Hundreds of empty cars around me at a standstill. People walking in droves along a four lane interstate as though it was a pedestrian mall. It was like a scene out of one of those nuclear war aftermath movies.

The Highway 31 ramp was just a few hundred feet away. Even the ramp was blocked by collided cars. There was a gas station/convenience store at the base. I tramped down the icy exit into the business, which was packed wall to wall with folks just trying to get warm. My cell phone was almost dead. My only connection to the people who might help me was about to go dark. I approached a frazzled employee, who was overwhelmed by the sudden flood of distraught visitors. I apologetically inquired if there was anywhere I might plug in my phone, fully expecting to be laughed out of the building. Much to my surprise, he flashed a sympathetic smile, came out from behind the counter, and pushed the freezer containing the popsicles and ice cream bars slightly out from the wall, revealing an outlet with an available socket. He invited me to plug in.

That would be the first of an amazing series of kindnesses extended to me by people I did not know. And I needed them. I needed them because, as the sun began to set, I realized that, for the first time in my life, at the age of 63, I was going to spend a night homeless. And it was terrifying.

I remembered there was a hotel about half a mile down the street, but of course, they were completely booked up. Employees were hauling out blankets and pillows for stranded stragglers and allowing them to sleep on the lobby furniture and the floor for free. Several unselfishly offered to give their blanket to me, but they needed it more.

After more wandering around, I wound up at a nearby Subway Deli with a handful of other frightened fugitives. It was one of the few places still open. Rather than boot us out at closing time, the owner graciously told us we could stay there overnight. I spent the evening in one of their wooden booths. Didn’t sleep much but at least I was warm. There’s a lot to be said for just being warm. I will never take it for granted again. At sunrise, I headed back out into the cold, figuring I would try to walk back to the TV station. A mile down the road, I was offered a ride by a friendly couple passing by.

Now, normally, I would never recommend getting into a car with strangers, but these were desperate times. They turned out to be sweet people who felt sorry for me because I looked so cold. They drove out of their way to drop me off at the TV station. I was safe, thanks to the kindness of others.

There is so much more to write about that day. Like how my wife and her fellow teachers spent the night at the county school for special needs children where she worked, foregoing sleep to take of the kids and keeping them calm because the buses couldn’t run. Or the chivalrous policeman who braved blocked roads and icy bridges to drive them home the next day.

I would come to learn that the kindness shown to us was typical of the entire region, as people pitched in everywhere to help those in need. Unselfish love. Service to others. What a concept.

It takes the worst of times to bring out the best in us.

Easter egg hunts are a tradition of the season. Few things are more exciting to children than vaulting into the back yard and searching the premises for those plastic ovoids, especially when there is the promise of a treat inside. My grandkids beg me to hide the eggs over and over again, never mind that they tend to be in the same locations every time. It’s the thrill of the discovery, the challenge to get the most.

However, when the hunt is conducted on a community-wide scale, those same motivators can often change the landscape. It occurs to me that watching a large Easter egg hunt is akin to observing all of the facets of human nature, playing out right there in front of your eyes on the field. There is passion, aggression, greed, joy, disappointment, ambition, generosity, sympathy and determination.

And that’s just the adults.

I was struck by the report of an egg hunt in Ohio, where shopping mall proprietors had to apologize for the behavior of adults, some of whom were seen literally blocking children out of the way, knocking them down to facilitate their own kids’ success. Despite several warnings and admonishments to the grown-ups to stop picking up the prizes themselves, they continued to “assist” their own offspring by gathering up eggs for them. The result was many children winding up with few or no rewards at all.

Distasteful as that may be, it’s hard for me to judge the adults too harshly. More than sheer greed, they were likely driven by an out-of-control desire to provide the maximum possible joy for their own kids. It’s love gone radical. It’s a blinders approach to a purpose in a vacuum. And it’s become the mantra for our culture today.

Far too often we are all about ourselves, our families, our circle of friends. Our own political beliefs, our own moral convictions, our own definitions of normal. Our own basket of Easter eggs. How ironic that so many of these self-centered human foibles are on display at an Easter egg hunt, during a season which commemorates the ultimate act of unselfishness.

Are we doomed to a future of self-absorption and loss of empathy? Maybe not. I recently saw video of an egg hunt where children aged preschool through fifth grade were instructed to search for eggs by color. Younger kids were to pick up certain colors, older kids to collect those of other colors. Nice concept. Difficult to control. And the result was predictable. The older kids, faster and stronger than the young, mostly disregarded the color structure and filled their bags with whatever they could find. It wasn’t long before anarchy prevailed and it was every kid for himself, regardless of color.

But through the chaos there were signs of hope. A few of the older tots, recognizing that the young had little chance of success, were seen not only helping the toddlers fill their bags, but actually taking eggs out of their own container and giving them away. That kind of altruism seldom occurs naturally. It is a result of having it modeled to them. Modeled by parents and siblings who have not bought into the us-first mentality.

Patience, courtesy, humility, respect and reverence are still out there. A little harder to find perhaps, but still there. I find that those who practice them are almost always inspired by a relationship with God. By the example of sacrifice for others modeled by Jesus on the cross, the seminal event of the Easter season.

It’s never a mistake to put all your eggs in that basket.

Of course we’ve heard about him. Everybody’s heard about him, this carpenter from Nazareth who claimed to be the son of God. He’s been around some of our nearby towns preaching this Christianity religion. We heard he even performed what some are calling miracles, but others just say it was some sort of magic trick. We thought about going to hear him speak, but we’ve been so busy working our crops and repairing our home and stable, tending our livestock. Who’s got time for that?

One thing’s for sure. The guy had guts. He stuck to his story even when he knew the people who ran our synagogues got really mad and ganged up against him. I thought maybe he just enjoyed the attention, but good gracious, they convinced the government to beat him and kill him. Kill him in the most heinous way, the treatment reserved for only the worst of criminals. You’d have to be crazy to take your radical talk that far. Unless…..

Unless you were telling the truth. Apparently he didn’t sound crazy to his audiences. I heard he had amassed thousands of believers. Guess that’s why the Sanhedrin folks got so upset.

I have to admit it struck me as a little conceited when he claimed he had to die to atone for the sins of the world. And it got really bizarre when he predicted he would rise after his death and ascend to heaven! No wonder they killed him. They must have thought he was some sort of lunatic. Somebody who was just after their money and prestige.

Except that, three days later, our whole town started buzzing. Word is the tomb where he was laid is empty! The body is missing! How could that happen? The army even had guards in front of it. Some say his followers must have organized and stole the body. That doesn’t make sense. What would they have to gain? They weren’t getting rich off of his teaching. He preached selflessness and giving away what you had. Why would they want to stage his raising from the dead and ascension to perpetuate a lie? A lie that did not profit them?

There are whispers the Sanhedrin or the government are behind it. That makes even less sense. They would just be helping his cause by giving credence to his prediction. Then there are even those who say he never really died. Oh, right. So he bled out on the cross, laid in the tomb three days, recovered on his own, single handedly removed the huge boulder from the entrance and then subdued all of the guards and escaped. That’s the craziest of all the theories.

His followers profess that they have seen him. Alive. Talked to him. Even watched him literally do just as he said he would, physically rise to the sky and ascend to heaven. Furthermore, his disciples say he is the only way for us to go there as well. We must believe in him and follow his ways. Guess we’ll never get to ask him for ourselves. He’s nowhere to be found any more. You must take it by faith, they say.

Was he the son of God? For now it remains a great mystery. What do we do with that? I have a feeling they will be telling his story for centuries to come. Who is he? I guess everyone will have to answer the question for themselves.

When Jesus came to the region of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say the Son of Man is?”  They replied, “Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others, Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” “But what about you?” he asked. “Who do you say I am?” (Matthew 16:13-15)

“I know you. You’re Ken Lass!” the lady exclaimed upon our random meeting. “I used to watch you do the weather every night. You were my favorite weather man.” She went on about how impressed she was with my knowledge of meteorology, and thanked me for all those years of helping to keep people safe in times of severe weather.

I politely expressed appreciation for the kind words and told her what a pleasure it was to meet her. As we parted ways, I was thinking such an encounter should be justifiable reason to swell up with pride and self admiration.

And it would have been, except for the fact that I’ve never been a weather man. I don’t know anything about weather. Those folks have to know fancy words like stratocumulus and vortex signature. To me, vortex signature just seems like a really awesome name for a rock band.

I was a sports anchor in Birmingham for seventeen years and then a news anchor for another fourteen years, but never did weather. All of that lady’s sweet remarks were meant for someone she had mistaken me for. Must have been a great guy, whoever it was. Oh well, it was a nice little ego trip for a few moments, even if it was fraudulent.

Ever notice that, any time you feel the temptation to become full of yourself, life has a way of bringing you crashing back down to earth? Certainly true in my case. Back in 1984 our pro football team, the Birmingham Stallions, had pulled off a big coup by signing quarterback Cliff Stoudt away from the prestigious NFL Pittsburgh Steelers. The Stallions threw a big public welcome party for Stoudt and picked me to emcee the event.

Cliff was tall, dark and handsome and all the girls were ga-ga. Prior to the start of the program, I took him aside to take down some notes as to what he wanted me to say when I introduced him. As we were talking, I noticed a moony-eyed teenage girl slowly approaching us. She was clutching something to her chest. I recognized it was an autograph book.

Having obviously been raised as a well-mannered southern girl, she waited patiently for our conversation to end. When Cliff left to take his seat at the head table, much to my surprise, the pretty young thing did not go to him. She came up to me instead. “Mr. Lass?” she said, her voice quivering, her eyes in a wide open gaze, the way one looks when awed by meeting someone they have idolized. Wow, I thought. Perhaps the real celebrity in the room is me.

Whereupon she breathlessly uttered “I would be so grateful if I could please borrow your pen so that I can get Cliff Stoudt’s autograph.”

The rest of the event is kind of a blur.

For several years I anchored the weeknight sportscasts on Channel 13. The weekend sports anchor during part of that stretch was good-looking and talented Matt Coulter. I have a fond memory of the time Matt was on vacation and I covered the weekend for him. On Saturday night, the phone in the sports office rang. It was a viewer who told me he was a diehard Atlanta Braves fan, but he had been out with his family all afternoon and couldn’t find the score of that day’s game. He was most appreciative when I told him the Braves had won.

“Thanks so much” he gushed. “By the way, you are my favorite sportscaster.” As I reveled in his compliment, he went on to say “Yeah, I like you so much better than that Ken Lass.”

I chose not to tell him I was not Matt. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I never told Matt either. Humbled as I was, in some twisted way, I still enjoyed stealing Matt’s compliment.

When we covered the races at Talladega, our crew often had the benefit of avoiding the infamous traffic crunch gridlocking the roads leading to the track. We flew our monogrammed helicopter right down into the infield. Prior to landing, the pilot would cruise the aircraft slowly across the bleacher area so that all the fans would take notice of the huge “Sky 13” logo on the side. Nothing like free publicity.

Thousands of race fans went wild waving and cheering at the chopper. In fact, we were so close, I could have sworn many of them recognized me sitting on the passenger side and were shouting my name. Upon landing, I decided to bounce out, run to the inside edge of the track, and give a big wave to all of “my people”.

This was a blisteringly hot July day. And all those fans? Turns out they were not waving at all. They were fanning themselves, desperately trying to cool down. The cheering? That was for the drivers behind me who were climbing into their cars.

There were many more instances like these throughout a 44 year career in broadcasting, but I’ll stop there because I feel my self-esteem dropping even as I type this. The moral of the story is, don’t ever let yourself get to the point where you think you are, in the words of Will Farrell in the movie Anchor Man, “kind of a big deal”. Because life will quickly bring you back down to humbling reality.

Take it from a former TV weather man. (Not)