My friend’s son lives at the far end of a 1,497-mile trail of iron rails. For him, the distance might as well be a million. Divorce can do that to a man.

A friend of mine recently said 90 percent of surfing is paddling, only 10 percent is surfing.

Summer always brings to memory a phrase my mother would say to me and my brother.

My friend is dead. Rear-ended while parked at a red light, the impact crushed his Ford F-150 and pushed him into the intersection. He died a few days later from complications resulting from head injuries. Already, the world feels a bit less exciting, a little less complete.

“It is a lot harder than I expected.”

“You know,” I said, speaking to a friend. “I might need to be a bit more careful at my age.”

While the Lords of Commerce would lead us to believe the celebration of Father’s Day is best addressed by a special sale on power tools, a funny card written with marginally funny puns or maybe a colorful new tie, the truth is much different for many of us.

“Sometimes, you’ve just got to let it go and move on,” said the woman.

Sometimes, the most valuable physical objects in our lives are worth the least when measured in dollars and cents by the outside world.

Grown men generally do not have tears in their eyes at the car wash.

No one ends up in Terlingua, Texas, by accident.

Real life is getting less real every day.

My new friend went in for a cholesterol check and came out with cancer.

Glancing at the driver’s side rearview mirror, I noticed a yellow banana sitting on the mirror of the pickup truck behind me. The light ahead remained red and I found myself watching the image.

We tend to refer to the collective paintings by an artist or writings by an author as a body of work. In doing so, we form opinions or project a value to their efforts. This exercise allows us to believe our conclusions are based on true substance.

I’m reading an article about a new sports sedan coming to the market. Low-slung lines, throaty exhausts, lines that appear to be in motion while the car is in park. As happens with many males, involuntary sounds erupt from the deepest spaces inside, eventually finding a way into an open room…

“A lot of times, it’s small things that are really the big things to people.”

Wet cement is a beautiful metaphor for opportunity.

During my high school days, students brought guns to school without a second thought. Earlier this week, students at my old high school in Missouri walked out of classrooms in a plea against gun violence. What a difference a generation or two can make.

“My boyfriend is a skater,” said the waitress.

As today is an Election Day here in Galveston County, we wish to thank our readers for their support during this season.

“I always told my son when he dreams to dream with big wings.”

“Whenever the telephone would ring, it was never good news.”

A friend once shared one of the hidden secrets to life he’d discovered.

The breakup was hard. We’d become so close over the years. With each day, our lives became increasingly intertwined; my secrets no longer mine and mine alone. My thoughts consumed by my need to share, the need to tell and an increasing expectation for validation.

Terlingua is hard to spell and even more difficult to get to. No one ends up in a small desert town by accident. Located west of Big Bend National Park, the small town is at the crossroads of nowhere and hard to find.

I’ve lived long enough to complete crossing the arc of Harry Chapin’s iconic folk song, “Cat’s in the Cradle.”

We owe each of our readers a big thank you for your gracious understanding about last week’s weather and an untimely mechanical issue a few days later that may have contributed to a delay of your home delivery.

“So, what is the secret to a long, happy marriage?”

I met Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in a small, wooden sunroom off the side of our home in a small Mississippi town.

I’m sick of being sick.

Recently a friend described her biggest challenge of decorating their Christmas tree.

I discovered America alive and well over a bowl of chili the other day.

Strolling down a quiet street in East Texas, a small, white window sign catches my eye.

Life is eerily quiet of late. Or maybe I’m simply readjusting to a normal life.

The other day, a friend and I were talking about life. Jokingly, I suggested I wouldn’t be surprised if at my funeral someone might say, “Well that was fun to watch while it lasted.”

The young man is in his early 20s. He smiles as broadly as the mountains surrounding the small Alabama town tucked at the piedmont of one of God’s practice runs before getting to the Rockies.

Amid a sea of cyclists, I spot rider No. 819.

My wife will not walk into a room when a baseball game is playing on the television. Welcome to the life of a spouse married to a superstitious baseball fan.

The other day, I heard someone say the most beautiful thing when I asked about the passing of his friend.

Yesterday brought to close National Newspaper Week, a week dedicated to raising awareness of the important role newspapers play in everything from communities to democracy. And while those lofty topics are important, I’d rather tell you a bit about two groups of people behind The Daily News.

“Oh, that was last Tuesday, I think.”

Life is not going to slow down for any of us any time soon.

I can’t stop thinking about my friend, Jimmy.

My mother would, when faced with a difficult situation or going through a trying time, always step back and put things in perspective with a few simple words.