There is in poetry a thing called “the turn.” It is that place in the poem where something happens and the verses, be it gently or wrenchingly, are torqued in a new direction. All that was concealed or latent becomes clear at last.

Letter-writing is a dying art. So said the postal clerk at Christmastime when I came with a fistful of cards to stamp. They will never go out of style for Christians, of course, because we have nearly two dozen of them in the New Testament, and we can study them any time we want, to know how godly people write.

So I did that. I started with Philemon, because it was short. I figured it must be important too, for why else would someone bother to send it 2,060 kilometers overland from Rome to Colossae on Emperor Augustus’ new roads?

In a lecture at the Harvard Kennedy School last year, Arthur Brooks, of the American Enterprise Institute, analyzed the state of public discourse: “We don’t have an anger problem in American politics. We have a contempt problem in American politics.” Though “Contempt” was not the subject of the lecture, audio engineers chose those comments to feature in a promotional video on Facebook. Within a very short time, the video had received over 12 million views—making Brooks think he might have touched a nerve.

My father’s garden is a money-loser. If you count the man-hours, seed catalog purchases, water usage, and petrol expended in transporting trapped raccoons out to the hinterlands, each tomato may cost 50 bucks. Dwelling on those facts could drive you mad.

Or, you can look at my father’s garden differently. You can choose to see it as a hobby that costs far less than the pastimes of the golf course and casino. Out in the sunshine you get fresh air, exercise, vitamin D—and if we’re so blessed, a few tomatoes.

A big hit in the summer of 1963 was Allan Sherman’s novelty song Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah (A Letter from Camp). Here is the gist: It’s raining; Joe Spivey has developed poison ivy; Leonard Skinner got ptomaine poisoning after dinner; the counselors hate the waiters; the lake has alligators; the head coach wants no sissies—he’s quoting from Ulysses; they’re convening a search party for the missing Jeffery Hardy.

Worst of all, moans this most unhappy camper in his missive home, “I’ve been here one whole day.”

If Mom bakes a rectangular cake and Dad comes along and cuts a rectangular piece out of it willy-nilly—not from the corner or even necessarily parallel to the edges, which would be less annoying—how can Mom divvy up the remainder of the cake into the two promised equal amounts for her children? (Answers at the end of this column.)

Now for a completely different brainteaser: What do you get if you scratch the equality movement in America? Answer: envy.

I live in a neighborhood that seems to be the proselytism hub of Los Angeles. Let me describe why.

Recently, I was doing a quick run around my block when a woman jumped out of a corner, scaring me out of my skin. I skidded to such a sudden stop that my knee made a resentful “pop!” sound. The Hispanic-looking, guava-shaped woman, who had a long jet-black braid that swung near her hips, thrust a pamphlet at me and said, “Jesús te ama!” I refused the pamphlet, and though I smiled at her, frankly I was a little annoyed.