Beth’s in Florida, sitting at a table with her sisters and boxes of wine and bottles of wine and talking. About what? I don’t know. They do this once a year, and they leave the rest of their families out of it, which is the best for everyone all the way around.

The cover of John Prine’s newly released “Tree of Forgiveness.”

On Saturday I headed down to Urbana, or Champaign, or Champaign-Urbana, whatever you want to call it. Went to see John Prine, thanks to Steven, of Steven and Nancy, the couple who adopted Hanni. Steven manages the Virginia Theater, and he tipped me off to Prine’s appearance months ago.

Before the show I had dinner with a buddy and his wife, dear friends from back in our college days, Kenwood and Lori. Kenwood and I go back to our freshman year in college. We have stories. Stories that we mostly keep to ourselves. Lori entered the picture a year or two later. We were thick as thieves. They visited my lonely self after I took a job in Washington, D.C., after college, which helped keep me afloat during a difficult time.

Then life took over. They had two daughters, Kenwood built a thriving business, we had Gus, Beth lost her eyesight. All that stuff. We stayed connected, just barely, drifting in and out of contact with one another. Kenwood and I occasionally attended motorcycle race track days, where one can do a sort of Walter Mitty experience, lean way over in the curves, and not have to put up with car drivers on cell phones. Fast, fun, and safer than public roads.

Too much time had passed between our last get-together. But, as I was reminded on Saturday evening, it’s like riding a bicycle. We picked up and were off to the races from the get-go.

After a meal and catching up, Lori headed for home and Kenwood and I headed for the show at The Virginia, a gem of an old movie theater that’s been beautifully restored. The warm-up act was two guys called The Milk Carton Kids. Well, two guys and two acoustic guitars, and at first I was thinking about the scene in The Blues Brothers when John Belushi destroys the folk singer’s guitar.

But they were terrific. Great harmonies, pretty amazing guitar picking, and deadpan comedy between songs.

Then the main act commenced. There was minimal stage set-up and equipment. There was Prine, a lead guitarist, a pedal steel guitarist (who also played mandolin and fiddle, I hate those showoffs), a drummer and an upright bassist. The backdrop was an image of the Paradise, Kentucky post office.

I kinda grew up with John Prine. I first heard his music performed by, of all people, John Denver, who included a rendition of “Angel from Montgomery” on one of his albums.

As I watched and listened with my old friend, I was gripped by something akin to nostalgia, but better than that. Prine’s songs are timeless. The words and music take you places on their own. And, music being what it is, his songs took me to places and times when I first listened to them. Some of those places and times, years ago, alongside my friend Kenwood. It was kind of transcendant.

Prine’s songs are about humans, trying to do their best, failing a lot, wanting, longing, striving, and sometimes succeeding in what counts most—connection to others. All done with a sense of humility, and humor.

Occasionally I looked over at my longtime friend and thought, wow, where has the time gone? Still, I thought, after all this time, we’re the same people.

And then again, we’re not.

After a fantastic show, Kenwood and I convened for a beer at a local brewery called The Blind Pig. No TVs, just conversation. He and I covered a lot of ground in a short time. Mortality. Do you believe in the afterlife? Politics. All sane, honest, and heartfelt. I was reminded of why we became friends in the first place.

Before we headed our separate ways, my friend said, simply, “You know, I’ve had a great life.”

“So have I,” I said, and we drank a toast.

Hello from the Amodt Inn, the lovely Orlando home of my sister Marilee and her husband Rick Amodt — just got back from giving a short presentation at their granddaughter’s preschool. Experience has taught me that preschoolers have a hard time grasping what blindness is (much less formulating questions about it), but who could resist an invite from a three-year-old sweetheart named Toots?

Okay, okay, that’s not her real name. It’s just what I call her.

One of them is sitting on a dog.

The kids were all seated criss-cross applesauce when we arrived, and I started the presentation by asking Kennedy for permission to call her Toots in front of her friends. “No, Aunt Beth,” she answered, sounding a bit indignant. “I’m Tootsie.” So Tootsie it was. In exchange, all the kids there called me Aunt Beth.

Their teacher, who boasts the remarkable name Ms. Schooley, had read my children’s book Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound to the children the day before we arrived, and after that the kids had taken turns playing pretend: some were blind, and some were puppies. “A couple puppies ran their blind people into tables,” she told me. “But everyone survived.”

I kept my presentation short, and Tootsie came to the front afterwards to call on her school friends who had questions. Or, I should say, statements.

• • I have a cat.
  • Aunt Beth, your picture is up there on the wall
  • Yesterday I was the puppy, and Olivia was my blind lady.
  • Aunt Beth, your dog is licking itself.
  • I’m sitting on a dog.

It was reverse roles, kind of Jeopardy-for-preschoolers. They had the answers, I posed the questions. “What’s your cat’s name? and “Which did you like better, being blind or being the puppy? Ms. Schooley must have noticed the dumbfounded look on my face after that last statement about sitting on a dog: she explained how each carpet tile was a different letter of the alphabet. Nolan was sitting on D for dog. The kids took it from there, each child letting me in on which letter they were sitting on. “I’m on I, for igloo!” “I’m on Z, for zebra.” And with that, Tootsie sat down again. She wanted to call out her letter, too. ”I’m on X, for X-Ray!”

Ms. Schooley stepped in then with a compliment. “That’s all very good,“ she said. “But does anyone have a question? Luke’s hand shot up. “I do! I do!” he said. “Aunt Beth, Did you know I’m four years old?

Last week we published a post here listing questions my young friend Ali had while planning a trip with her boyfriend Joe from her college campus to a Chicago jazz club last Sunday. They were celebrating in advance — the actual date of their anniversary is today, April 24, so lift a glass or cup of java today to Ali and Joe on their third anniversary, then keep the celebration going by reading Ali’s fantastic recap of their big adventure.

Alicia  and Joe.

by Alicia Krage