Why's That Dog In Here?

You know, I have been incredibly fortunate to belong to a number of volunteer programs over the past few years. One of the things we don't talk about too much is where our society's volunteer base comes from.

Sometimes volunteers come from fortunate circumstances: active retirees, students on summer break, and stay-at-home parents whose kids are in school.

But sometimes a salaried working person becomes a volunteer when their life-plan is drastically, permanently altered. That's Kathryn McClatchy to a T. She is an absolute champion for us at WORD (I was literally crying on the phone to her yesterday as she patiently scooped things off my agenda-plate until I could function again.) And we probably wouldn't have her if she were still working twelve-hour days as a teacher - if a series of strokes hadn't forced her to completely re-learn how to read, and walk, and bang out her life plan all over again.

But she's out there every day, working like the dickens to contribute wherever and however she can - to her church, to the Writers Guild of Texas, to WORD, and I don't even know what-all else. Her latest contribution is a book called "Why's That Dog In Here?", all about the wild, hilarious, infuriating and unforgettable reality of life with a service dog. She is determined to put it out into the world the right way, so that everyone can benefit from the rocky road she's travelled - and for that, she needs some extra backing.

So. If you've enjoyed anything I've done, please know that it is only possible because of people like Kathryn. And if you can lay down a few extra dollars to help her passion and positivity ripple even farther out into the world, you will be doing a powerful service to a person who serves powerfully. The volunteers of the world don't get paid, by definition - but they deserve all of the enthusiastic support and appreciation we can give them. Are you in?

America the Bountiful

Y'all, I'm sorry I've been so neglectful with replies and comments and all. I'm averaging seventy/eighty hours a week so far this year, and feel like a fat pile of tired lying beached on a heap of broken promises.

I tell you what, though. I wouldn't be half this knackered if I hadn't gotten so dang addicted to going and doing in every random corner of the country. We have so many wonderful places and people here, from the homemade truck nuts of Texas to the gluten-free toasters of Oregon to the ukulele-enhanced worship services of Ohio and the feral beach-chickens of Hawaii. 

It probably shouldn't be surprising that we have such trouble feeling like one united nation sometimes. And silly as it sounds, I really feel like we would treat each other so much more kindly, if only everyone had the luxury of visiting their thousand-mile neighbors on the regular.

But don't despair, guys. I'm gonna make those mega-millions any day now, and when I do, I'm handing everyone a fat check so that you can quit all that awful day-jobbing business and come romance the open road too. And we will love this country whole again, from sea to shining sea.