My Ukrainian Daughter - Still Waiting For The Happy Ending

Jenya and Egor - Christmas 2022 and last week

It's been a while since I last updated you on the book I've been writing, tentatively titled "My Ukrainian Daughter".

    For those who don't recall, I started writing the book in late 2023 to capture some of the magic I experienced with Jenya and her son Egor, who spent a year in Roanoke as refugees from the war in Ukraine. My hope was to get the book published and that any proceeds from sales of the book could help defend Ukraine or, eventually, help rebuild it.

    When I put them on a plane back to Ukraine in August 2023, I had no idea that their story was really just beginning—or how it might end. I had envisioned a happy ending for them, and the book. We're still waiting for that happy ending. In the meantime, here's an update.

    Jenya and Egor were excited to be reunited with their family in the late summer of 2023, especially Jenya's husband Maksym, her mother, sister, and the rest of the family, including Maksym's parents.

    They found a nice apartment in Zaporizhzhia, a city in southeastern Ukraine. The war was uncomfortably close, but they seemed relatively safe. Jenya worked from home, and Egor returned to school. Egor studied hard and developed an interest in IT and robotics, eventually becoming the youngest member of his school's robotics team, which competed against other schools. He trained in Taikwondo, and earned his blue belt. I sent him a guitar for Christmas, and he started taking lessons. Despite the war raging around them, they seemed to be thriving. Life was beginning to feel almost normal again. But normal doesn't last long when your country is at war.

    In 2024, American support for Ukraine became a major issue in the U.S. presidential election. The Biden administration provided substantial financial and military assistance, but never enough to give Ukraine a decisive advantage. Much the same could be said for Europe and NATO. Everyone seemed to be hedging their bets, providing enough support to keep Ukraine fighting but holding back from doing what might be necessary to win.

    Trump promised he could end the war in a single day. Some people believed him. I didn't. To me, it sounded like another empty campaign promise designed to win votes from Americans who were tired of hearing about the war. Jenya wasn't particularly interested in American politics. She just wanted the war to end so her family could live in peace.

    By 2025, drones had become a dominant feature of the battlefield and attacks on Ukrainian cities and infrastructure like power and water plants.  They brought death and destruction to places once considered relatively safe. Meanwhile, American news coverage increasingly focused on the war in Gaza and other conflicts. The war in Ukraine dragged on, with no clear end in sight, and much of the world seemed to be losing interest.

    Following Trump's inauguration, his administration began shifting American policy toward Russia and away from Ukraine, increasing pressure on the Ukrainian government while reducing U.S. support.

    Jenya continued working, Egor continued studying, and life went on. But the war was getting closer, and it was becoming obvious that the happy ending we hoped for would not be coming anytime soon.

    Russian attacks on Ukraine's energy infrastructure brought increasingly frequent power outages. There were many days without electricity or heat. As fall turned into winter, everyday life became harder and harder.

    Then, in the opening days of 2026, things took a terrible turn. Frequent power outages had damaged the water heater in their apartment. Maksym went to a hardware store to buy parts to repair it. While he was out, he was conscripted into military service. He barely managed to send Jenya a text message telling her he wouldn't be coming home. Just like that, her husband was gone and headed for the front lines of the war. Jenya called Maksym's father and asked if he could help repair the water heater. He traveled two hours to their apartment, fixed the problem, and headed home. He made it about a block before suffering a massive heart attack. He died that day. 

    Maksym couldn't even attend his own father's funeral. His mother, Jenya, Egor, and the entire family were devastated. I can only imagine the grief they experienced, made even worse by the circumstances of a war that had already taken so much from them.

    In early summer, Jenya's landlord knocked on her apartment door. He was there to evict them. The landlord's father's home had been destroyed in a Russian attack, and his father needed somewhere to live. That meant Jenya and Egor had to leave. They were given just two days to pack up and move. Think about that for a moment. A mother and her young son, already separated from their husband and father, suddenly had 48 hours to find a new home in a city under attack.

    Somehow, Jenya managed to do it. She found another apartment, although it was smaller and more expensive than the one they had been forced to leave. Such is life when your country is at war.

    By the end of summer, Zaporizhzhia had become increasingly dangerous. Russian forces were pounding the city day and night with drones, missiles, and glide bombs. Glide bombs are World War II era conventional aerial bombs modified with wings and guidance systems, allowing Russian aircraft to launch them from considerable distances. They can carry enormous explosive payloads, and their impact on apartment buildings and other civilian structures is devastating.

    Jenya and Egor decided they had to leave again. This time, they moved to Dnipro, farther from the front lines and, they hoped, beyond the reach of the the glide bombs. Shortly after their move, Jenya received horrifying news. The apartment building they had been evicted from had been destroyed in a Russian attack. They had lived on the fifth floor. That was where the strike hit. Imagine learning that the building you called home just months earlier had been destroyed. Imagine thinking about your former neighbors, many of whom may have been killed or injured. Now imagine realizing that, had your landlord not evicted you, you and your child might have been there when the bomb hit. The eviction that had seemed so cruel and unfair had saved their lives. How does anyone begin to process something like that?

    This is the reality of war. Not the maps and arrows we see on television. Not the political arguments or the endless debates about military aid. It's ordinary people trying to go to work, send their children to school, fix a water heater, and find a safe place to sleep. It's families being torn apart, homes being destroyed, and lives being changed forever.

    As fall turns to winter, I find myself increasingly angry and disappointed with recent events and policy decisions that align the U.S. with Putin and Russia. To myself and many others, that represents a profound betrayal of American values and a country fighting for its independence and survival. It's hard for me to understand how America, a nation that prides itself on defending freedom, can turn away from people fighting so desperately for their own.

    Ukrainians are remarkably strong and proud people. But strength and pride alone won't keep the lights on, heat their homes, or stop Russian bombs. They need our support. They need our prayers. And I believe they desperately need a change in American policy.

    So, what about the book? When I started writing “My Ukrainian Daughter”, I thought I was telling the story of a remarkable Ukrainian mother and son who came to Roanoke, became part of our lives, and eventually returned home to rebuild their own. I thought it was a story about friendship, family, and the kindness of strangers. It still is. But it has also become a story about courage, loss, uncertainty, and the extraordinary resilience of ordinary people caught in circumstances they never asked for and cannot control.

    I haven't finished writing it because their story isn't finished. Will it have a happy ending? I don't know anymore. But I continue to hope and pray that it will. Winter is coming.

    This is the toughest blog post I've ever written. These aren't strangers in a faraway country. They're people who took me into their lives and their culture in ways large and small. They matter and I worry about them every day.  Many others do as well. May God bless them and keep them, and heal them and their nation of the ongoing trauma and loss they are dealing with.

    Have you or someone in your family ever served in a war or lived through circumstances like those Jenya and Egor are experiencing? If war came to our shores, would you leave to protect your family, or stay to defend your country? What would you do if you had to make that choice?

    I'd really like to hear your thoughts in the comments. I hope we can have a thoughtful, respectful, and productive conversation.

    If you try to leave a comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select "Anonymous" in the "Comment as" field and include your name or initials if you prefer.*

Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me. And please, go vote.

I Am A Veteran and I'm Pissed Off

Me, back in the day as an F4-C Aircraft Maintenance Officer

I am a proud U.S. Air Force Veteran, having taken the oath on September 9th, 1980 at the Medina Annex of Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio Texas. My time in the service set up a great career and a great life. I am very grateful to have had the opportunity to serve and for all of the benefits that I have received as a Veteran, from the GI Bill and job opportunities, to the eligibility for healthcare through the US Department of Veterans Affairs. But now, things are changing and I don’t think most people are aware of these changes or what they mean for Veterans like myself.

    On September 11th of this year – the 25th anniversary of 9/11 - the Inspector General for the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) released report #26-01046-271, confirming severe staffing shortages at every VA hospital in the country. The following key findings of the report are copied directly from the report summary without any changes:

• In fiscal year (FY) 2026, which runs from October 1, 2025, through September 30, 2026, VHA officials reported a total of 4,712 severe occupational staffing shortages.
• VHA officials reported that 97 percent of facilities had severe occupational staffing shortages for Medical Officer occupations, and 86 percent of facilities had severe shortages for Nurse occupations.
• Practical Nurse was the most frequently reported clinical severe occupational staffing shortage in FY 2026, the most frequently reported Hybrid Title 38 occupation, and the most frequently reported severe shortage occupation overall, with VHA officials reporting for 59 percent of facilities.
• Police was reported as a shortage by VHA officials for 57 percent of facilities, making it the most frequently reported nonclinical shortage occupation.
• All 139 VHA facilities identified staffing shortages.

    These findings should concern every veteran, veteran family member, and voter. Now please understand, the Inspector General for the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) is not an outside partisan group trying to score political points. It is the internal watchdog for the Department of Veterans Affairs. The timing of the release of this report appears to have been intentional, to ensure it didn’t get the attention it otherwise would have. The findings in are report are a disgrace and a slap in the face to those who have served.

    Though the VA has had staffing shortages for years, these serious VA staffing shortages come after significant reductions in VA’s workforce and restrictions on federal hiring. Throughout 2025 and 2026, the Trump administration leveraged DOGE to aggressively downsize the federal workforce. VA announced last year it would cut nearly 30,000 employees through attrition, early retirements, deferred resignations and the federal hiring freeze. The administration also adopted a government-wide goal of four employee departures for every new hire. Efforts to improve efficiency should never mean arbitrarily firing the doctors, nurses, psychologists, social workers and support personnel who care for our nation’s wounded and disabled veterans.

    Why do I bring this to your attention? Well, we have midterm elections coming up in the US and many candidates are falsely claiming to support Veterans. Those claims are in spite of the fact that they were 100% and very publicly in favor of the DOGE cuts that now make it harder for our nation's Veterans to obtain the medical treatment that they earned and are entitled to.  I’m talking about Veterans with cancer, PTSD and other conditions that require swift and aggressive treatment. 

    In Southwest Virginia, Congressmen Ben Cline and Morgan Griffith claim that they support Veterans, but their public comments and voting record says otherwise. To them, I offer the following expression that I learned in the Air Force - Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. 

    If you are a Veteran, or just support Veterans, this should matter to you and should definitely influence who you vote for.  There’s a lot more I could write about how current and proposed policies are chipping away at Veteran’s benefits - that sacred trust between our government and the people who serve in our military.

    Have you or a family member ever served in the military? Do you believe that our current policies have helped or hurt Veterans? Please share your thoughts in the comments. I hope our conversation will be thoughtful, respectful and productive.

    If you try to leave a comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me. Go vote.

I Would Have Taken the Job for Free - How I Got To Roanoke

Back In The Day

I remember coming to Roanoke in February of 1988. Flying in from Chicago, where the ice and snow were at least a foot deep, I arrived to 70-degree weather. Trees were budding. Birds were chirping. Flowers were flowering. There were mountains everywhere.

    It was magical.

    The main purpose of my trip was to interview for a job with a fairly new startup company called FiberCom. They specialized in fiber optic communications, specifically tactical systems for the Army, Marines and other military services.

    I had spent the better part of a year trying to get a job there. My goal was to spend more time with my young daughter Sarah, who lived in Roanoke with her mom and sister. Chicago was where I worked at the time, which also allowed me to help out my elderly parents. But being a long-distance dad was too hard, and I was missing out on watching Sarah grow up.

    I actually had several good employment prospects at the time, either in Roanoke or close enough to get there in an hour or two. But FiberCom invited me down, so I came.  I interviewed with the top management team on the engineering side and spent most of the day with them. They would become friends for life, though I certainly didn’t know that at the time. I also didn’t mention during the interview that, given the beautiful weather and the prospect of going back to Chicago and a guaranteed blizzard, I probably would have accepted an offer to work there for free starting right then.

    Later that night, about three hours later than planned, I arrived back at O’Hare Airport in Chicago. There was a fresh 12 to 15 inches of snow on the ground. Every car in the parking lot was buried. All the lot and row markers were buried too.

    It took me an hour to find my car and dig it out. As I dug through the ice and snow in about +5 degree weather and a stiff hawk wind off Lake Michigan, I prayed hard that FiberCom would come through with a job offer.

    As things turned out, they did.

    And FiberCom was, without a doubt, the best job I ever had. The best people. The best management. The most exciting technology. The best practical jokes and jokers. It was simply a place I loved being a part of.

    Two of the guys who interviewed me that day, Ken Ferris and Mike Usberghi, are frequent visitors to 3rd Street Coffeehouse, and I’m still as grateful to them now as I was when I first met them. Others, like Mike Czysz, remain close friends on Facebook. Josh Jones, whom I met on my first day at FiberCom, is like a brother to me. So many people, so many stories - I could write a book, maybe several.

    It was the job of a lifetime.

    Today’s blog was actually going to be a rant about the state of the world and our politics. It was going to be ugly, depressing and pretty much guaranteed to make everyone mad.

    Thank goodness I got that interview at FiberCom. It saved all of us from that. Well, mostly. Early voting in Virginia starts this Friday, September 18. You know what to do. Go Beth.

    What was the best job you ever had? What made it great? Please share your thoughts in the comments. I hope our conversation will be thoughtful, respectful and productive.

    If you try to leave a comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me. Go vote.

A Stroke Took Her Words. She Took Them Back

Denise's office is often at a local coffeeshop

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you might be surprised to know that my wife Denise is also a writer and started her own blog about a year ago. She calls it Rewrite Your Life With Denise.

Where my posts never quite follow a common topic or thread—which apparently requires more planning and discipline than I possess—hers are very consistent and purpose-driven. My posts merge comedy, tragedy, fiction and fact, and the lines tend to blur frequently. Hers are on point, like a lantern in the mist, leading her readers toward safety, security and growth.

Allow me to digress a bit and fill you in on the backstory.

When I met Denise back in 1985, she was a voracious reader, primarily of Stephen King books and other such scary things—pretty much whatever she could get her hands on. She was very proud of her book collection and was always on the lookout for more.

Then, on December 27, 2008, at the age of 50, her life—and my life—changed in an instant.

She suffered an ischemic stroke. It hit her in the area of the brain that controls language and the understanding of words.

Outwardly, she looked fine. She had none of the physical impairments people typically expect with a stroke. But inside her brain, it was like every word in her vocabulary had spilled out onto the floor. Some flew under the couch, some went out the door, and others simply vanished. She picked up what she could, but they were no longer in order.

I’m talking about common words that form the basis of nearly every sentence, either spoken or heard. Imagine how frightening it would be to suddenly be unable to explain what was happening to you—or understand what was happening around you—and have no idea whether it was temporary or would last for the rest of your life.

Thus began the long process of healing, rewiring the brain and relearning the words she had lost.

Denise was blessed along the way with some very good neurologists and speech therapists, along with an attitude that refused to settle for “good enough.” She spent months and months working through word games, looking up words in her ever-present dictionary and pushing herself to improve. When she was told she could not expect much more progress, she found new doctors and therapists willing to push her harder.

Along the way, there were plenty of setbacks, plenty of fear and plenty of anxiety.

In her quest to learn as much as she could about dealing with it all, she discovered there really wasn’t much available in the way of books or other written material for patients and caregivers. She joined online groups of stroke survivors and found that others had many of the same questions, fears and anxieties.

She began sharing her own experiences and what she had learned, becoming a light in the dark for other stroke survivors. Her message was simple: never give up, and always keep pushing.

A few years ago, she enrolled in a lifelong-learning class on writing at Virginia Tech. Surrounded by published authors and others with advanced degrees, she was pretty sure she was in over her head.

But she didn’t give up.

The instructor asked each student to write a short paper about who they were and what they hoped to accomplish in the class. In Denise’s paper, the instructor saw a spark. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but there was enough there for the instructor to gently blow on that spark and encourage her to develop as a writer.

That spark became a glowing ember, and the ember soon became a fire: the idea that Denise could write and publish a book to help fill the knowledge gap for both stroke survivors and caregivers.

That instructor became her editor, and the manuscript is now well along the path toward publication.

In January 2025, Denise also started her blog, Rewrite Your Life With Denise, and it has become a source of advice, encouragement and motivation for people recovering from strokes and other major health challenges.

Think about that for a moment.

She went from being unable to find the words to speak for herself to using those words to speak to people who may be frightened, confused and wondering what their own future holds.

Needless to say, I’m quite proud of her.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts in the comments. Have you experienced a stroke, or helped a close family member or friend through one? If so, how did that experience affect you? How did you—or they—cope with the stress and anxiety that came with it?

And do you know someone who could perhaps use a little help finding their way through recovery—or even just finding the path?

If so, share this post with them, along with the link to Denise’s blog, Rewrite Your Life With Denise. I know Denise would appreciate it, and I suspect they might too.

Please share your thoughts in the comments. I hope our conversation will be thoughtful, respectful and productive.

If you try to leave a comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with us.

Retired Life - Am I Doing This Right?

Today is the official start of my second year of retirement from corporate life. A year ago, I entered this new phase of life with some ideas about what I could or would do with the opportunities it presented. Here's a look back at how well that went, for my friends who are still working and for the amusement of friends further along the retirement path than I am.

    First of all, I want to say that the ability to enjoy retirement and accomplish things that are important to me is not something I take lightly or for granted. Long life, physical health and mental health are not guaranteed for any of us. Even just having the time and ability to share these thoughts in a blog is something to be grateful for.

    As I entered retirement, I wanted to accomplish a few things with the time formerly occupied by corporate life. This is roughly how my plan went.

    First, I wanted and needed to be more available for my wife, Denise, and her mom Alice (AKA, Gram), both of whom have gone through some pretty major health challenges this past year. Caregiving and supporting family through aging and health challenges are major priorities for me. I've done my best to fulfill that commitment over the past year, and it has become a big part of my life. Those who have been there know what I mean. For those who haven't, chances are the day will come. If you know, you know.

    Second, I wanted to nurture and grow my creative side as a writer and songwriter. That's been going pretty well, though not yet at the level I'm shooting for. It's nice to have time to write and, in addition to this blog, I have three book projects in process. I've discovered that writing books isn't necessarily the biggest challenge. Dedicating the time and energy to promoting and selling them is. I've watched several friends do it over the past year or two, and it takes a lot of time, travel and hard work.

    My songwriting output has improved as well, and that is truly one of the things that keeps me sane—or possibly insane, if you've heard some of my songs. Either way, anyone contemplating retirement should have a plan to keep busy, keep learning and keep growing. Retirement can't just be about what you stopped doing.

    Along with nurturing my own creative side, a related passion is growing and supporting other creative people through 3rd Street Coffeehouse, which is now in its 40th year as a live music venue. I'm working hard on several projects to build on our existing platform and relaunch it for the next generation of musicians to receive and build upon. It's a sacred place in our community, and I'm honored to be part of the long legacy of people who are, or have been, a part of it. We'll celebrate our 40th anniversary next April, and I'll definitely be writing more about that.

    Lastly, and unexpectedly, I've followed in my father's footsteps this past year by getting involved in grassroots politics at both the local and national levels. Over the past year, I found myself more and more disenchanted with the changes I was seeing in national policy and felt obligated to seek and support what I believe to be much-needed change. When Beth Macy announced her run for Congress in my district, I knew I'd regret it if I didn't support her.

    My dad was a Democratic Precinct Captain back in the day, so I guess it's in my DNA to get involved at the grassroots level. Perhaps my efforts will help steer the country toward a better place. I hope so. I also hope Dad is looking down with his buddies from some smoke-filled cloud and they're proud of me. Knowing Dad, he's probably thinking four moves ahead of me and I hope he’ll pass along some good advice from the cloud.

    Being that this is my first retirement, I still make rookie mistakes and I'm still learning. Mostly, I learn from people like you—people who may have different ideas from mine and challenge me to look at things from their point of view. Challenge accepted. I'd genuinely like to hear your thoughts in the comments. Are you currently retired or planning to be in the coming years? If you're retired, is your experience anything like my own? If not, how has it differed? If you aren't retired, what are your goals and plans to stay engaged, keep growing and stay busy?

    Please share your thoughts in the comments. I hope our conversation will be thoughtful, respectful and productive.

    If you try to leave a comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select "Anonymous" in the "Comment as" field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me.

Life Lessons, Sunsets and Growing Old In America

Sunset At The Hospital Last Week

I am a proud Baby Boomer, born in 1956. My parents were in their mid-forties when I arrived—much older than the parents of most of the kids I grew up with. My grandparents were older too, and my sister and I were born into a family that had survived the Great Depression and World War II, a generation that watched the world change from radio to television. They had learned to count on one another when times got tough, because they often did.

My dad was a mailman. He knew everyone on his route. He was also active in local and state politics, so he seemed to know people everywhere. Within our family and his circle of friends, he was the one everyone called when someone needed help. Whether they were elderly, sick, or nearing the end of life, Dad made sure they had what they needed—groceries, medicine, a ride to the doctor, or simply someone to check in on them.

As a young boy, I often rode along with him. Those trips taught me lessons that no classroom ever could. Those lessons became values, and those values eventually became actions. Helping other people wasn't simply an obligation of faith; it was how healthy communities survived and thrived. People looked after one another. They offered helping hands along the way to make sure no one fell through the cracks.

When my dad passed away, something unexpected happened. The phone calls that had always come to him started coming to me, even though I was only 33 years old at the time. It felt like a role that required more wisdom than I possessed, yet somehow it had been quietly passed from father to son. I don't know exactly how people made that connection. Maybe they had simply seen me with Dad all those years and assumed I had learned what he knew.

As the years have passed, I've watched our culture grow a little colder and a little more distant. Perhaps computers and cell phones have too often replaced actually spending time with people. The relationships that once held families and neighborhoods together seem to be fading. I've heard it said that loneliness now claims more lives than cancer. Whether that's literally true or not, loneliness has certainly become one of the defining problems of our time.

These days, I spend a great deal of time with my mother-in-law, Alice. She's 86, and it seems her body discovers a new way to betray her almost every week. My wife, Denise, and I share the responsibility of caring for her, which means more doctor appointments and hospital visits than either of us ever imagined. Some days are hard. Occasionally I resort to sneaking some ice cream into her hospital room or taking her to a window to see a sunset. We discuss all sorts of things, some serious, some not, and a lot in between. The nurses scold me occasionally.  Guilty as charged, I guess.

Like my dad, Alice continues to teach me lessons about life—the kind you don't learn in school and certainly don't learn staring at a phone. She teaches me to slow down, to be patient, and to listen to a story I've heard more than once because, to her, it's still worth telling. She has taught me to observe carefully and understand what she's feeling, especially when she struggles to explain herself to nurses and doctors. Most of all, she's reminded me that sometimes what people need most isn't advice or medicine. Sometimes they simply need someone to listen, someone to care, someone to be there. Those are exactly the same lessons my father taught me when I was a boy.

I'm not sure modern culture truly values the wisdom and experience of its elders anymore. Many times when I'm with Alice at the hospital, I notice other patients who seem painfully alone. I can't imagine how frightening that must be—to be elderly, sick, and sitting in a hospital room, a nursing home, or even your own home with no familiar face beside you. Surely we can do better than that.

I once read about a program in Europe that paired older adults with children who had no grandparents or stable family connections. The children gained mentors and grandparents. The older people found companionship, purpose, and joy. Both groups benefited in remarkable ways. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we found more ways to do that here?

I'd genuinely like to hear your thoughts in the comments. Do you have older friends, neighbors, or relatives whom you help? If so, how has that experience affected you? Has it been a burden, a blessing, or perhaps a little of both? And someday, when you're the older person who needs a little help, what do you hope your community will look like?

Most of us will eventually need someone to slow down, listen, lend a hand, or simply sit beside us for a while. Perhaps the kind of society we become tomorrow depends on how we treat those people today.

Please share your thoughts in the comments. I hope our conversation will be thoughtful, respectful, and productive.

If you try to leave a comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select "Anonymous" in the "Comment as" field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me.

How Do We Find Our Way Back?

John Prine's first album - I've owned this since 1972

Like many people, I spend a lot of time wondering how we got to where we are as a nation. I'm not talking only about politics, but about our culture, our economy, and the way we relate to one another. Constant wars. Cell phone addictions. Growing social divisions. It often feels as though we're all pulling in different directions, and I find myself asking the same question over and over:

How do we find our way back?

    Last night, while talking with a younger friend about philosophy, wisdom, and the things that shape us, I had something of a revelation. It hit me like the beacon of an ocean lighthouse piercing through the fog on a moonless night.

    Almost casually, I mentioned that much of my personal philosophy comes from listening to John Prine.

    That surprised even me.

    Realizing that not everyone had the pleasure of seeing John perform while he was alive—or of spending much time with his music—I started thinking about why his songs became such an anchor in my own life.

    It began in early 1972 when I walked into Moles Den Records in Joliet, Illinois. I spent a good portion of every paycheck there, always hunting for music that commercial radio overlooked. The owner, Denny, knew my tastes well and often steered me toward artists he thought deserved to be heard. That day, he pointed to John Prine's self-titled debut album. More than fifty years later, it's still the only album purchase I can remember that vividly. From the first spin, I knew I was hearing something unlike anything else.

    John's music wasn't polished. His voice was rough and nasal. The production was simple and understated. His guitar playing wasn't flashy, but it was unforgettable. His Travis-style fingerpicking—with the thumb laying down a steady alternating bass while the fingers carried the melody—became instantly recognizable. Like many longtime Prine fans, I can identify most of his songs within the first few notes.

    But it was the lyrics that completely changed me. John wrote about people no one else seemed interested in writing about.

    Lonely old people.

    Veterans struggling with addiction.

    Middle-aged women quietly longing for something more.

    Ordinary people trying to make sense of an increasingly confusing world.

    He even challenged shallow displays of patriotism long before that became a common topic of conversation.

    Those songs helped shape the values I've carried throughout my life.

    "Hello In There" taught me empathy. I honestly believe it influenced my willingness to become a caregiver for aging family members and friends.

    "Sam Stone" remains, in my opinion, one of the saddest songs ever written—and perhaps one of the most honest portraits of what many Vietnam veterans experienced after coming home.

    "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore" challenged the idea that patriotism is something you display rather than something you live. More than fifty years later, it still feels remarkably relevant.

    What amazes me most is that John Prine was only twenty-four years old when he released that first album. Kris Kristofferson summed it up perfectly when he said John was "twenty-four years old and writes like he's two hundred and twenty."

    That brings me to my point. Maybe we'd all be a little better off if we spent less time letting politicians, television personalities, and social media tell us what our values should be, and a little more time listening to artists who remind us what it means to be human. John Prine never told us how to vote. He reminded us how to care and what values really matter when it comes to building a community or nation that truly cares for one another.

    He reminded us to notice the lonely, the forgotten, the broken, and the ordinary people who quietly carry the weight of the world. Those lessons seem just as important today as they were to me in 1972.

    If you've never listened to that first John Prine album, give it an hour of your time. Then share it with a friend.  Who knows? If enough people did that, we might just straighten out this big ol' goofy world. You can listen to the whole album with commentary here.

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Are you familiar with John Prine’s music?  If so, how has his music affected your values?  Are there other artists who have affected you in similar ways? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

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    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.