When a green bank bag containing checks, cash and personal identification disappears, panic quickly turns to suspicion and anger. But encounters with grief, Scripture, Stoic thought and the act of writing gradually place the loss in perspective—and reveal how the stories we tell ourselves can deepen or relieve our distress.

Morning rituals, learned by watching, carried forward long after the reasons have changed. I’ve been thinking a lot about socks; not wearing them that is. Now that my coat and tie, 8 to 5 days are gone, I am looking to simplify? Letting-go, however, of this article is easier said than done. From the Latin soccus, meaning a light, low heeled foot covering; socks have been around since the Stone age, 5000 BC. Animal skin and plants, or straw were first used as functionaries

A children’s book and an old Boy Scout compass become unlikely guides, reminding me that kindness, once given, has a way of pointing us home.

What are we fighting for?” Country Joe’s Vietnam-era protest anthem echoes into the present as the U.S. edges closer to another Middle East war. From Vietnam to Gaza to Iran, the justifications change but the logic remains—fear, honor, revenge, and national ego. An essay on how old wars never really end; they just find new names.

From the ruins of ancient Greece to the rubble of modern wars, the hubris–nemesis complex still haunts us. When pride hardens into certainty and power silences doubt, downfall follows. This essay explores how arrogance becomes pathology—and why humility remains humanity’s last defense against self-destruction.

Why does your brain cling to bad news? Why do worries feel so real—even when nothing's happening? This new post explains how our minds evolved to protect us, but sometimes go into overdrive. Understanding this is the first step toward peace.

David McCullough He squeezed through the line and said with a gentle smile, “Excuse me,” sterling blues looking up an inch or so at me. Well-coiffed white hair, thick arched eyebrows, wearing a blue sportscoat, his wife followed him, also well-coiffed and in a simple classic gray dress. The crowd, bending around the corner and down the block had come to see him talk. It was October 2015. He and his wife disappeared into the foyer of the small college town theater. In minutes

U.S. leaders are doubling down on secrecy after war plans were leaked via a Signal chat. A look at the fallout, denial, and blurred lines of power.

Trump’s fearless, unfiltered leadership was on full display in the Oval Office showdown with Zelensky. Bold or reckless? You decide.

Democrats struggle for substance and direction, contrasting classic liberalism and progressivism at a political crossroads.

Shakendra stuck her hand out to shake, all 5 foot 2 of her and said, “Mr. Gee, you been the best white teacher I ever had. Sorry I been so bad this year. But… you been real.” We both chuckled at the inside joke of being real. During the course of the long school year and in my class made up of adolescents, whenever I’d get too wordy, someone would suggest to, Keep it real. Wally Gable, the class loudmouth, would say, “Mr. McGee there you go again talking college. We are ba

A mystery writer reflects on lost flags, a cryptic bird sighting, and the thrill of chasing clues—both in fiction and real life.

My Uncle Bill stretched back in his recliner, eyes closed, a Budda smile, headphones were slightly askew over his full head of gray hair. He was in his late 80’s. I knew he was listening to the Mets and that night they were struggling with the Cardinals. I’d tuned in the game on the TV across from him. My Aunt Alberta, his wife, my dad’s sister, was somewhere nearby in their Larchmont home, leaving us alone to watch sports and catch up on news. I’d only visited him several

My friend’s older sister died. I rang him up at his Connecticut home. Rich, melodic, ”Hello.” “It’s McGee,” I said. “Hey.” I got to the subject. “I heard Val died. I'm so sorry.” Pause…. “I appreciate it. Thanks. She died on the 29th. She’d been sick and had a recurrence. I got a chance to go out there and spend some time with her before it happened,” he said. “She’d become a Buddhist. She didn’t complain about her situation, accepting it all it seemed.” “I always liked

“Of course you have heard of Pascal’s Wager?” my friend asked. “Uh, remind me,” I said, knowing where his question was headed. Our recent conversations had turned to matters of the hereafter and who was still left from our old college gang. We let the young waitress refill our coffee and gather-up our pastry plates. Now retired from a legal career, my friend had returned to school for a masters in theology. Well, he said, Pascal argued when in doubt whether God exists, wh

The old beige rotary phone rang. It was somewhere in the late 1970s. I answered, “Courtroom.” Pause. Michael, is that you? Familiar, soft tone. “Yes, it is Judge.” Oh, good. I am looking over a bail report you wrote on a Mr. Montgomery. And I wonder if you could come across the street. I want to do the hearing in Chambers. “Did you want to do it, uh…” Well, the hearing is on the calendar at 10:30 this morning. Can you make it over? I think it would be helpful for all, if

The United States Census Bureau says that today nearly 18.5 million children grow up in homes without fathers, giving the United States the title of leader in fatherlessness. That 18.5 figure seems low. The National Center for Fatherlessness, said that 57.6 percent of black children, 31.2 percent of hispanic and 20.7 percent of white children grow up living without their biological fathers. Those that have no fathers in the home are more likely to commit crimes, have a troubl

He picked up his plate and with deference to the others said, “I’m going to eat with my friend.” The mostly white-haired men at his table nodded and said, “Thanks for coming, Coach. Good to see you.” All eyes followed him across the room as he sat down in the seat next to me. It was somewhere in the late 1980’s. We were at a restaurant on Camelback Road in Phoenix and at an intra Kiwanis club luncheon. The room settled after the President of my club tapped his spoon lightly

I called out the man’s name, then did a sniff check of the waiting room. The briskness of Fall had softened the ripe smell of body odor which permeated the units during the summer months. From the far end of the room, a behemoth figure with a Santa Claus beard slowly rose from the institutional plastic chair. He held a paperback in his hand and ambled toward me. The Correction officer, Boyce, who sat elevated in an ergomatic behind a long counter at room’s end copped a loo

“McGee!” he yelled, digging his fingers into my girdle pads, jerking me backwards. “I said, line up off the right shoulder of the tackle. Can’t you hear?” My heart pounded. My mouth dried up. From behind me there were nervous chuckles from my fellow players. It was afternoon, late August, humidity 90 percent in mid Missouri. Across the field in the new swimming pool, Donovan’s Mellow Yellow blasted from a speaker. It was sophomore football and in these times in my town, high