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By Andrew Cotten


The second article I published with Over the Mountain Journal is another one near and dear to me. The previous article was one that fell into my lap and unfolded slowly and purposefully; this one, though, this one was a story I was eager to tell. 


Mae Dapkus and Olivia Self are former students who, as juniors at the high school, created and cultivated a successful political podcast called In the Running. Aside from the impressive ambition of making space in that adult and male-dominate field, it’s the angle they took that drew me to the story: they give the candidate a safe and supportive space to share their ideas free of attack, something that only works if the hosts are a combination of curious, kind, and informed. They just want to inform their neighbors about the specifics of a candidate’s platform or plan, the nuances and details that rarely make the soundbytes or news clips. And it works. People respond to it. There’s steady growth in viewership, and recognition as a top creator for the category of political podcasts / videos on Spotify.



For the same reasons I wrote the Karen Shaw piece, I wanted to share something special about some special people. And when it was published, it was the cover of the printed paper. Sure, I was thrilled to earn that place, and my ego did a little dance I had to address, but I was more thrilled that Mae and Olivia were recognized for their work. They are remarkable students doing important work, and I had hoped the article would give them an advantage during the college admissions process, but the cover, oh boy—I think that’ll do some good.



In the Running: A Podcast that Presents the Community Member Behind the Candidate

By Andrew Cotten


We had agreed to meet at 7:00 a.m. because it was the only hour all three of us could make the interview work. I arrived a few minutes early, but Mae Dapkus and Olivia Self were already in the parking lot, already catching up with familiar faces, already making use of a morning most people would have spent half asleep. Between AP classes, ACTs, varsity sports, volunteer work, and the fact that teenagers do need sleep, finding an hour to sit down and talk felt like a small miracle.


We shuffled inside and up the stairs toward my classroom, all the while nerding out over their upcoming interview with former Senator Doug Jones. Not the politics so much as the fact that, later that week, two high school students with physics flashcards in their pockets would be sitting down for an in-depth political interview with a candidate for governor.


It was not that long ago that Mae and Olivia sat in that same room as freshmen. Back then, they were working on TED-style talks and trying to shape ideas that might matter to somebody beyond themselves. Today, two years later, they are doing public-minded work that already does. 


That work is In the Running (ITR), the political interview podcast Dapkus and Self created to help Birmingham-area voters better understand the people running for office around them. The most obvious description of ITR also happens to be the weakest one: two high school students started a podcast; true, but it reduces its value and relevance. In a small but serious way, ITR has become a civic platform. As of May, they had released 18 episodes in less than a year. The range had already stretched from Mountain Brook and Homewood races to Birmingham Mayor Randall Woodfin, and Doug Jones was next on the calendar. 


One day, while Olivia was walking her dogs and dodging dozens of campaign signs lining the sidewalks, she found herself wondering how her neighbors “really know who to vote for? Is it policy, or is it popularity?” The priorities and issues appeared interchangeable, so much so that they blurred together. Yet the way those issues were presented made the differences feel as divided and fierce as the rivalry surrounding the Iron Bowl. One of Olivia’s best friends Mae Dapkus noticed the same thing in her neighborhood, and like Olivia, Mae wondered what anybody really knew about these candidates besides the version planted in a yard. 


Naturally curious and eager to contribute, their answer was to build something opposite the yard sign: they set out to build a platform where candidates could speak at length, where the room was not hostile, and where voters might come away with insight rather than incensed. In a time when information is often watered down for simplicity or complicated for confusion, that kind of space and purpose is a genuine service to the community.


The political process works to reduce people to candidates quickly. Complex policies shrink into one-line slogans, and complicated issues get parsed into party-loyal attack ads. ITR works against that reduction. Its hosts want to get past what Mae called “the packaging used to market a person.” As Olivia put it, they want to "showcase the person themselves, not just the color of the yard sign.” To do this, Mae said, they make a point of staying “nonpartisan and non-controversial.” Their questions come from curiosity rather than suspicion, and their tone is kind in a way that changes what the room expects. 


Unlike many other political media, ITR is meant for reference, not spectacle. The goal is not to clip somebody into internet fodder or to win the interview; it is to foster a friendly yet informative interview. One of its strengths, Olivia believes, is that it “humanizes the politicians” and helps the candidate sound less like a brochure and more like a neighbor. 


Mae described former U.S. Senator Doug Jones arriving with prepared points he wanted to hit. That is normal enough for someone at his level and in his field, but what is less ordinary is what had developed by the end of the interview, which, according to Mae, no longer felt managed. It felt like “communication... between humans. Not a performance.” Olivia noticed something similar with Dakarai Larriett, who seemed formal at first but then relaxed enough to tell parts of his story that, she said, “took a lot of bravery.”


Originally, they had expected, or at least hoped, to be helping younger voters. Instead, they found it was mostly adults from in and around their neighborhoods. One friend’s father told Olivia that hearing one of the interviews “changed my mind on one of the candidates.” Without the podcast, she said, he likely would have gone with what he had picked up from word of mouth or yard signs. Instead, he listened and heard what they had to say. And he’s not alone. According to ITR’s 2025 Spotify Wrapped numbers, the podcast drew more than 1,000 viewers across Spotify and YouTube and ranked in the top 25 percent of Spotify video podcasts. That performance data suggests what Mae and Olivia are offering is not simply access, but a real change in how some people arrive at a vote.


Even candidates are beginning to recognize the podcast’s value. As Mae remembered it, one candidate reached out and said a former guest of the show “recommended that [she] go on.” Recognizing that what they offered to listeners was also needed by candidates, they widened their scope. What began with municipal races and mayoral interviews grew into larger statewide conversations about who’d take office in Montgomery, including the upcoming interview with Doug Jones.


Their age has not turned out to be the disadvantage they once feared it might be. Mae was quick to point out that, if anything, it has helped. She finds that it is “disarming” and that guests feel less guarded. That matters because candidates have a tendency to come in half-ready to defend themselves before there is even anything to defend. Something about Mae and Olivia seems to interrupt that reflex. At first, they worried their “inexperience in the field” would mean “candidates would [not] want to talk” with them. But they quickly learned that their “edge, in a lot of ways, is us being young.” The partnership matters too, though not for sentimental reasons. Olivia calls Mae “the brains behind everything,” the one who handles scheduling, outreach, and the practical work that keeps the show moving. Mae says Olivia can make an interview feel “less like an interview and more like a conversation.” One builds the frame. The other helps it breathe. 


The abrupt ringing of the five-minute bell announced that we had gone past the hour we had allocated. I had not covered everything I wanted to cover, but they agreed to a follow-up. Right as I was wishing them luck on their upcoming interview, I remembered some advice I’d pocketed: If Doug Jones came in stiff, they could always ask for a funny story about his late mentor Howell Heflin. Even though I shared it, I knew they wouldn’t need it: they were the right pair to get the best version of that interview; they didn’t need tricks because they already knew how to create the kind of room in which a person might answer honestly.


In a place where party politics and slogans on signs can too easily stand in for knowledge, Mae and Olivia have made something useful to their community. In the Running is not just another political podcast, but a better chance to know the person asking for its trust.


The following article is one I am deeply proud of…not because it was published, not because of any acclaim or local fame, but because it showcases a special person and grew out of a classroom project. Sure, it’s really cool that it was published by Over the Mountain Journal. And it’s really cool that it got the back cover. And it’s really cool that people said they enjoyed reading it. But, you know what’s really really really cool? People learned Karen’s story, the character behind the mother, the perpetual champion of her kids. 



Initially, all I’d hoped was for my creative writing students to gain some practice interviewing and profile writing by focusing on someone they admired within our school community. We landed on Karen Shaw—partly because of her connection to Bradley, a talented defensive player for Arkansas Razorbacks, but more importantly because she embodies a quiet leadership that students notice. Karen was incredibly generous for allowing me to guide the interview alongside students and pause at moments to talk through follow-ups, tone, and what it means to really listen.


When it came time for students to write something, the work took an unexpected turn. Rather than producing traditional nonfiction profiles, many leaned into their strengths—poems, short stories, comics. Each piece had a single goal: to honor Karen with words. When the unit ended and students moved on, I realized I wasn’t quite finished with the story and felt called to write the profile. With their permission, I kept writing and shared drafts with them as the piece evolved.


What followed was a long stretch—nearly the entire season—of drafting, revising, and rethinking. Each time I thought the piece had found its ending, the story expanded: first with the uncertainty surrounding the transfer portal, then with James Franklin’s comments on College GameDay, and finally with Bradley’s scoop-and-score, which unexpectedly gave the piece its true conclusion. The article grew in real time, shaped by events I couldn’t have planned when the assignment began.



When it was published, I reflected on what drove those hours of writing, especially if publication wasn’t on my radar for most of it. I think I could tell, even then, that the experience itself—using my words to shine a light on someone—was a meaningful use of practicing the craft of writing. Reflecting upon it now, a year later, I feel as if it was a serendipitous intersection of teaching and writing. 


As I was drafting that long winter, I was reading and absorbing Gilbert’s Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear. And, at times, I felt like the magic mentioned in the book was unfolding around me. The call to write this story felt more like an invitation to use my writing to share something lovely than an opportunity to publish. On more than one occasion I felt as if I was being guided, especially the few times I thought I was done writing. Something compelled me to sit on it, even for a few weeks at a time. Sure enough, after each stretch, something presented itself that unfolded the piece even more.




Loyalty in the Portal Era:

The Shaws, the Razorbacks, and What College Football Forgot

By Andrew Cotten


Every morning at Mountain Brook Junior High, Karen Shaw takes her place at the crosswalk. Rain or shine, humid or not, she shows up all the same, long before most of her colleagues arrive. It’s not the kind of job for which educators rush to sign up.


Karen could do the job quietly, with nothing more than a watchful eye, but she never does. A stranger to none and a mother to all, she offers a quick hug or a kind hello to anyone who needs it, even holding traffic for a brief exchange with parents. She greets shy seventh graders by name and picks up conversations with ninth graders she’s come to know.


As a paraprofessional, she doesn’t get enough credit, at least not in the way teachers do, but she should. She’s the kind of colleague who helps hold the building together in many ways: remembering birthdays or sharing supplies; spotting mistakes and offering solutions; showing up early and staying late. An anchor amidst the turbulence of teenagers, her determined steadiness has a way of settling the ship. COVID, construction, curriculum adoption…she was there, helping keep the faculty and staff’s feet firmly planted.


And if you know (or know of) her son Bradley Shaw and all that he did to keep the Arkansas Razorbacks afloat this past season after losing their head coach last September, you can see where the sophomore linebacker got it from.  The same stability Karen brings to our school is the very quality her son carried into the Arkansas locker room navigating change, uncertainty, and the long aftermath of a coaching transition.


[ — ]


For nearly two decades, the Shaws’ weekends have been a routine rotation of sporting events, long drives, and late dinners under the glow of stadium lights. Three of Bradley’s older siblings were collegiate athletes, so Bradley “was brought up in it,” Karen says. “He was a ballpark boy.” 


When it came time to pad up for peewee football, Bradley was no stranger to the sport and took to it immediately. Even at a young age, Bradley was bigger than the other players. His frame could have given him permission to phone it in and still physically dominate, but he didn’t: he was dedicated to bettering himself. “As others were playing,” Karen says, “Bradley was out there practicing.”


The coaches knew what to expect when Bradley joined Hoover High School’s powerhouse program—the same one his brothers proudly claim. Karen says they’d see him on the field for the first time and say, “You a Shaw,” half warning, half praise. The name carried weight, and Bradley lived up to it. In 2023, he was named 7A Region 3 All-Region First Team and selected to play in the All-American Bowl. The following year, he was awarded Class 7A Lineman of the Year by the ASWA (Hoover Sun).


When it came time for recruitment, Bradley was an elite prospect. Rankings fluctuate, but no matter the source—On3, ESPN, Sports Illustrated, 247Sports—he was consistently a top-twenty linebacker and top-200 overall. By the end of recruitment, he’d earned more than twenty-five Division I scholarship offers. 


[ — ]


Long before the transfer portal and Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL) economics reshaped college football in the last five years, recruiting operated more patiently. It was rooted in trust, relational. Coaches visited homes, sat on couches, met with players and parents, and promised development over time. 


That’s the model the Shaws followed, even amid the sport’s seismic changes. “We kept in touch,” Karen says. “Some of these coaches, we’d been talking to for over a year.” Where Bradley chose to play was less about business and more about relationships, even if that meant passing up prestige, larger programs, or more lucrative NIL offers.


Bradley’s recruitment brought visits from dozens of major programs. His final three came down to Clemson, Notre Dame, and Arkansas—the latter a surprise to in-state loyal considering Alabama and Auburn have won a combined 14 division titles to Arkansas’s zero (“Championship”). And compared to Clemson’s national profile or Notre Dame’s storied legacy, Arkansas seemed quieter, less glamorous. 


For Bradley, the people in charge and the promises they made were more important than the merits of the past. Recruitment was full of slogans and promises, but sincerity mattered more than salesmanship. Ultimately, Arkansas’s authenticity convinced Bradley that it “was the right fit,” and Karen agreed: “I didn’t have to worry—the coaches got him.”

Bradley’s freshman season confirmed he’d made the right decision. Coaches saw enough potential to forgo redshirting him. Seniority limited his initial playing time, but when linebacker Xavian Sorey was injured, Bradley stepped in. “His moment has come,” Defensive Coordinator Travis Williams said shortly after, “so we need him to go out there and make some plays” (247Sports). And he did. By year’s end, Bradley had 13 tackles and one sack ("Game Log"), most from the last few games, including his best yet at the Liberty Bowl (2-4).


Hopeful the next season would be better, optimism surrounded the young defensive core in the off-season, but it didn’t survive the following fall.


[ — ]


After three straight non-conference losses, Arkansas fired Head Coach Sam Pittman on September 28. Within days, much of the defensive staff, including DC Travis Williams and Defensive Line coaches Deke Adams and Marcus Woodson, was gone, too. These were the same coaches who had sat in Karen Shaw’s living room, the ones who had earned the family’s trust.


Bradley’s response to the reality of losing a coach mid-season has been exactly what his upbringing predicted. In a sport now defined by quick exits, Bradley chose to stay. What’s more, he stepped up to help “keep the team together.” By encouraging teammates who were exploring the transfer portal to stay and stand by their commitment, Bradley helped stabilize an Arkansas roster that’s weathered three staff overhauls in two years. 


Before the season, Defensive Coordinator Travis Williams told reporters they were hoping Bradley would “continue to grow in that leadership role” (247Sports). And he has, though Williams likely never imagined it’d be under these circumstances. 


[ — ]


What happened to the Arkansas football program in October was, oddly enough, a common occurrence in an unprecedented time. Unlike years past, even the turbulent last five, this season marked two major shifts in the evolution of the coaching carousel: in-season firings spiked, as did the dismissal of high-profile coaches.


James Franklin, one of the winningest coaches in the FBS, was terminated as Penn State’s head coach on October 12. Shortly after, he went on College GameDay and reflected on the repercussions of swift or rash dismissals: “I don’t think people realize how many people this affects.” He wasn’t talking about standings or schemes; he was talking about families like the Shaws who get lost in the shuffle when the carousel spins. 


NIL and the transfer portal were necessary changes: players deserved autonomy and compensation. But the chaos that followed arrived faster than the human side of the sport could adapt. Instability has become normalized. Coaches must win immediately or be replaced. Players must perform instantly or be passed over—or leave. 


What does a university owe a family when the coach who courted them is dismissed? Does that departure erase the trust they’d developed? Should players remain loyal to programs that may no longer resemble the ones to which they chose? And if a player chooses to stay, does that loyalty risk leaving them at a disadvantage?


Bradley understood the choices in front of him. And he chose to stay—not out of comfort, but out of conviction. Karen has always told her son, “When you don’t have it, you make your own way.” With a team in flux and a season wobbling, Bradley made his own way, and just as Williams had hoped, “he made a big play.”


Early in the second quarter against Missouri, quarterback Beau Pribula mishandled the ball near midfield. Bradley reacted instantly, scooping up the fumble and returning it 32 yards for a touchdown—his first collegiate score (Game Highlights). It broke a tie and briefly shifted momentum in a rivalry game during a season defined by loss after loss. 


The scoop-and-score wasn’t just Bradley’s defensive highlight; it was a metaphor for commitment. The fumble didn’t create the moment—it revealed it. The habits Bradley formed long before Arkansas—practicing when others played, staying when leaving was easier—had already prepared him. When the ball came free, he was ready because he’d never stopped preparing. 


The day after Bradley scored, Arkansas announced its new head coach: Ryan Silverfield. Before Bradley’s new coach met with the players or even evaluated a single drill, the first true snapshot he saw was No. 7 scoop up a ball most players would simply fall on and outrun an SEC offense…all the way into the end zone. You can’t buy that kind of introduction. You can’t transfer your way into that moment. It happened because he stayed.


In the NIL era, players are allowed and encouraged to chase big brands, big markets, big stages—Bradley’s biggest moment wasn’t negotiated, and it wasn’t some spotlight from a marketing deal. It was earned in the most old-fashioned way possible: by being where he said he’d be and doing what he said he’d do.


It’s impossible to know whether a transfer could have boosted Bradley’s national profile or his NFL stock. But it’s equally impossible to ignore that the play of his season—maybe of his career so far—only existed because he stayed rooted in Arkansas’s chaos instead of running from it.


We talk about the long game in football—the slow work, the development, the trust. But the long game isn’t slow anymore, and the trust, once built slowly, feels obsolete in a system where rosters can reset in weeks, and coaches can vanish mid-season. The fact is—the sport has changed and will continue to change: the carousel will spin, the portal will open and close like a valve, and numbers and names will find new jerseys by the next game. But, somewhere back in Alabama, a mother believes the old truths still matter. There’s something remarkable about that kind of assurance. The confidence of a mother who knows she’s done her part. It’s not ignorance. It’s faith that traits like loyalty and leadership, patience and presence still mean something, even in a sport that seems to forget. 


Who knows what next season will bring for the Razorbacks. But, Bradley will be there, lined up on the strong side, loyal to the team, possibly to a fault.




Works Cited


“Bradley Shaw.” Arkansas Razorbacks Official Athletics Site, University of Arkansas, 2024, 

19 Oct. 2025.

“Bradley Shaw College Football Player Game Log.” ESPN, 2024, 

l/year/2024. Accessed 23 Oct. 2025.

Glasscock, Tyler. “Arkansas’ Bradley Shaw Next Man Up at Linebacker.” HawgSports, 247Sports, 20 Aug. 2025, 

ore-linebacker-252743271/. Accessed 26 Oct. 2025.

“James Franklin on His Firing and the State of College Football.” College GameDay, uploaded by ESPN, 12 Oct.

2025, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EcHuRVkwSSI. Accessed 26 Oct. 2025.

“Missouri Tigers at Arkansas Razorbacks | Game Highlights | 2025 SEC Football.” YouTube, 1 Dec. 2025,

www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4Zk_Qmwd14. Accessed 3 Dec. 2025.

Shaw, Karen. Interview. Conducted by Andrew Cotten, 10 Oct. 2025, Mountain Brook Junior High, Room B211.

Occasional reflections on hospitable moments with folks who just seem to get it.


I, like many other proud weirdos, attended Phish’s two-night run at Birmingham’s Coca-Cola Amphitheater this past September. It had been a decade since my last rodeo with the band at Oak Mountain, and after striking out in the ticket lottery, I figured it’d be another ten. But then my brother—who’d moved to Indiana last year—managed to score a fair pair for both nights. And truthfully, I was more excited about the reunion than the return. We've been going to jam band shows together since I was fourteen and he was eighteen, and this one felt earned.



Saturday was stellar--one for the ages, but by Sunday, a full slate of afternoon commitments had drained whatever battery I’d been running on. Lupus is funny that way: multi-day events always depend on how your flare-up decides to show up. Even as the show began, I knew I probably wouldn’t make it to the end.


Sure enough, around 10:00 p.m.—a good hour or so before the band packed it in—I was fading fast. Fading to the point that there may not have been much difference between me and the blissed-out Wookie wobbling into me like a shoreline tide. I bought a Coca-Cola, hoping it might shake something loose, but no use. The excitement that had carried me for months—and sustained a full-send Saturday—was running on fumes. So, I knew: it was time. I hugged my brother, saluted the band, and slipped out early.



I know, I know—“Fake Phish fan!” and “Name five songs!” Yeah, yeah, yeah...


I Charlie Brown’d my way outta there and walked down Carraway Boulevard, the main thoroughfare to the venue’s lone entrance. The herd of hippies hipsters I’d scurried in with earlier were still at the show, and the only folks on the road were either uninformed of the festivities or uniformed officers. As refreshing as it was to be able to spread my arms out or feel the cool breeze, it was oddly lonely, too: only minutes before, I was shoulder to shoulder with my brother grooving to the crowd-favorite, “What's Going Through Your Mind.” Now, I was alone.


I passed the “lot,” a nomadic space where concert-goers gather to reconnect, break bread, buy booze or Terrapin bandanas, or burn one down before the show. It was barren now, save those passed out beside nitrous tanks on a pillow of empty balloons. Past the Pop-Up Tent paradise, I passed pockets of security guards. They were cordial, but I imagined they were eager to get back home. Trey Anastasio, the Mad Hatter himself, wasn’t doing them any favors either: as he soloed with relentless repetition during “What’s the Use?”. Distance did the sound quality no favors either: the distinct notes that create order in chaos were muddied; it sounded more like Trey was tearing open wrapping paper than tickling the fretboard.


I turned right onto 13th Avenue North and made my way up the steep hill, with 22nd Street at the top. An empty grass lot on my left, the right was lined with high-pitched brick houses: each dark, its residents most likely already asleep—save one house.


Most of the lights in the front half of the house were on, and judging by the bright white-light, I doubt a single one was less than a hundred lumens. I noticed a lady sitting on the porch, spotlighted underneath the overhead lamp. I could only see her head and shoulders, but I could tell she was staring out onto the street while talking to someone else on the porch who was out of view.


Aware of how far the amphitheater’s sound carries—and how Phish (or any other band) might not exactly be what this community was hoping to hear as it falls asleep—I decided to express a little gratitude on behalf of tonight’s rotation of rabble-rousing concert-goers. Parallel to her steep ladder-like stairs, I shared some passing praise: “Evenin’, ma’am! You have a beautiful neighborhood—thank you for having me!”


She popped up from her seat, peered over the porch rail, and asked what I had said. I had to repeat it four or five times before she had quieted the dogs enough to receive it. And as soon as she returned from shushing and rushing them inside, Trey was at it again: a cacophonous dust cloud of diminished chords roared from the soda island across the sea as King Trey rallied his Wild Things for a rambunctious and rowdy rumpus.


She thanked me for the compliment and went on to say that she sits out there every night there’s a concert.

I asked if she stayed out there so she could hear the music.


“No, I wait and watch until everybody is back in their cars safe and sound.”


“That’s sweet of you, ma’am. Thank you. I know I feel better.”


Before I turned back to the climb ahead, I asked, “What’s your name, by the way?”


The overhead light that had illuminated her presence now obscured her expression; but I gleaned her demeanor from the cautious and guarded “Why? Who wants it?” she answered with.


“Oh, just me,” I said. “I thought I might say a little prayer thanking you. Maybe even write a little reflection—I do those sometimes for work, when I come across moments of super kind hospitality, and I’d love to write about you.”

She slapped the stone partition and said, “Oh, my! Are you a paper man?”


I said, “No, ma’am. I just like to write. Helps me think, process the day, ya know?”


She pressed her torso against the railing and leaned over the porch with authority. She pointed right at me—her arthritic finger suggesting I wasn’t alone—and said, “That’s good.” She leaned back, pressed her right hand to her breast, and said, “I’m Charlie.”


“I’m Andrew,” I returned. “Good night, Miss Charlie. Thanks again!”


I waved and walked on.


A step or two closer to my car, I heard her porch guest say, “Oooohhh. He’s gonna write about you!” followed with a surprised yet satisfied, “I know! Can you believe it?” And they both laughed, as if it was a trip to think that she, Miss Charlie—an elderly lady just sittin’ on her porch—was worth someone’s words.


I took one last look before the neighbors’ bushes blocked my view. Moths moved in ribbon rings as bugs bounced against the glowing globe above her. But she hadn’t moved: she was still facing Carraway Boulevard, still waiting on the others.


I don’t know how many shows she’s listened to from that porch, or how many wanderers she’s watched over as they meander safely back to their cars. But I know this: when the lights go out and the amps shut down, Miss Charlie is still on the clock.


At the summit of 22nd, I was finally high enough to see the St. James steeple that Miss Charlie’s hill-top two-story had hidden earlier. Its sudden appearance made it look as if it had cracked through the roof and cut into the sky. The fog-machine haze and haphazard stage lights polluted the night, blurring the spire’s definition, but not its presence. It stood like a quiet sentinel.


I looked back at the hidden porch—the light humming overhead. I couldn’t see her now, but I’m certain she was watching, willing to stay up long enough until the last of us made our way home.


Maybe hospitality isn’t always the door flung open…sometimes it’s leaving the light on and looking after folks.

I don’t know if Hospitality, Lately is a blog, a series of Google Reviews, private letters, or just one of those weird writerly habits I can’t shake. But I know this: writing these helps me notice what matters. Helps me remember that high-quality customer service doesn’t have to be customer-facing. And that the kind of kindness I want to practice in my classroom sometimes shows up in the quiet, sidelong care of strangers.


Like Miss Charlie.






“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart"
- William Wordsworth

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