My wife and I lived in a 28-foot camper. We were parked on a vacant lot on a rundown street. Our neighbors’ homes were mildewed doublewides. Each trailer’s front yard featured a fashionable Pontiac sitting on concrete blocks.

It was raining. And it wasn’t just a storm. This was a West Floridian squall. Hurricane season in Florida lasts from June until the following June. It was June 1, 2016.

Tropical Storm Bonnie was making its way up into Carolinas like a runaway boxcar. We were getting the outer bands of rain.

I looked out our camper windows it was flooding. Our bedroom window was leaking like a screen door on the Titanic. One of our windows had shattered earlier that night, I had fixed it with duct tape and aluminum foil, but a miniature Niagara was spewing in.

The Atlanta Braves were on the TV, locked in a battle against the Padres. The game had gone into extra innings. I am a diligent Braves fan, I rarely miss games.

When I used to work in a

restaurant as a dishwasher, I carried a transistor radio with me. I listened to games while I was elbow deep in hotel pans caked with burnt cheese, scrubbing like a maniac.

When I played music in beer joints for a living, I kept a radio earpiece in my ear, tuned to the games while I played piano for line-dancers who had consumed too many five-dollar pitchers.

On the screen in our camper was Number Five, our first baseman, Frederick Charles Freeman, exiting the dugout. He was everyone’s favorite. He was the all-American poster child of Atlanta. He’d been with the Bravos since before his voice dropped.

“C’mon, Freddie,” I said. “You can do it.”

I always talk to ballplayers on TV. It helps them.

“C’mon, Freddie,” said my wife.

Freddie took strike one.

My wife cussed openly for morale.

Before we were married my…

Hi there. This is that Little Voice inside your head speaking. Yeah, I know. It’s been a while. But how are you? How’s life? How’s the fam? You still doing keto?

Listen, I know we haven’t talked in a long time, but technically, that’s not my fault. You probably don’t remember this, but you quit listening to your inner voice just as soon as you hit the fourth stage of puberty.

The moment you developed armpit hair, you became a lot more concerned with getting a driver’s license, French kissing, and eradicating zits.

So over time that voice inside you got quieter. Oh, sure, every now and then you’d hear me droning in the background like Charlie Brown’s teacher. But you never actually listened.

Although there were a few times...

Remember that rude waiter a few weeks ago? When the meal was over, you almost stiffed him with the tip. But then, you dug into your wallet and gave him a ridiculously generous gratuity.

Did you ever stop to wonder why you did this? Well, I’ll tell you

why. Because the teeny, tiny voice reminded you that being generous was not just kind, it was right. That Little Voice was me.

There was that other time, when you gave a ride to two Mexican young women who didn’t speak English. Their car broke down in the Walmart parking lot, and they were crying. You helped them out because that faint voice would not shut up.

Also me.

And let’s not forget about the time you almost got into that fatal car wreck.

No, wait. You never knew about that one. You never did know how close you came to the end. Because the Little Voice told you to pull off the interstate immediately before the disaster happened. And you actually listened. In a few seconds there was a ten-car pile up on I-65, and four people were killed.

Still, most…

It’s raining in central Alabama. I am on my porch, barefoot, watching the rainfall, hypnotized by the sound.

Rain can do strange things to a man.

I come from a long line of rain-watchers, horse thieves, and used car salesmen. We are a barefoot people.

And although my wife keeps telling me to put on shoes because it’s so cold outside that ketchup takes a week just to come out of the bottle, I am a Florida man. Shoes are for going to town.

There is a specific cadence to Alabamian rain. The tone is wholly unlike the rain from my home state. This is the kind of thundershower you can only get in the foothills. There’s a different ring to it. It’s similar to the difference between a clarinet and a kazoo.

Birmingham is in the mountains. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. People from more precipitous states such as, say, Colorado, will outright laugh when you suggest that Birmingham has actual mountains.

“Those aren’t real mountains!” Colorado people will say while chewing their

gluten-free granola. But don’t listen to these people. Their brains have been pickled by generations of Coors abuse.

This city definitely has mountains. They might not be the huge peaks of Wyoming, but they could inspire American hymns nonetheless.

Birmingham lives in the Jones Valley, flanked by parallel ridges which run northeast to southwest. These iron-ore hills are the tails of the mighty Appalachians. They are short. They are the Danny Devitos of the alpine world.

Still, to a guy from Florida, they are Mount Kilimanjaro.

I come from a long, flat, state, also known as the Tourism State. Our main crop each year is Midwesterners. There are no mountains in Florida. Even our singing is flat.

The highest point in the whole state is located in my home county. Britton Hill. Britton Hill’s summit is 345 feet above sea level, slightly higher than a…

The white tent with Auburn University markings was set up outside an automotive garage. There were a couple grills beneath the tent, spewing blue smoke into the air. A sign out front read: BBQ.

It was a sleepy afternoon and business was apparently slow at the garage. The mechanics were all sitting outside, relaxing on the axis of the Wheel of Life. Chain smoking.

At the grill was a young man, working the coals. He was well over six-foot eight. Maybe seven feet. He had a frame like an F-150. His hair was in cornrows, his shoulders were the width of a Steinway. He was smothering pork ribs with a paintbrush that had been dipped in what was either barbecue sauce or 10W-30.

I ordered a full rack because I have a sixth sense when it comes to barbecue. My father before me also had a great nose for barbecue.

And I am a chip off the old block.

My old man could procure the greatest smoked nourishment from side-of-the-road places that

most people would overlook. He once bought barbecue in a Mexican man’s backyard, a man who was cooking a goat in a giant hole in the ground.

When the man asked my father how it tasted, my father forced himself to swallow a mouthful and answered, “It definitely tastes like goat.”

The kid at the grill was loading my to-go box when he looked at me and said something. He was unable to articulate words, it sounded more like moaning than talking. Although his tone had the ring of a question.

An older woman was supervising him. His mother maybe. She was smoking a Black & Mild, seated in a folding lawn chair, serving as his interpreter.

“You want your ribs wet or dry?” she asked me.

“Wet, please,” said I.

The young man made another moaning sound, but I could not understand his question to me. I…

I am on a radio show. I’m sitting in a studio, waiting to talk about my most recent book, like real authors do. I am wearing headphones. There is a microphone in front of me. The producer gives us the count down:

“Aaaannnd we’re on in five, four, three, two...”

He points.

—PEPPY INTRO MUSIC FOR MORNING SHOW—

RADIO HOST: Hi, you’re listening to WKXPRHZBXC, your home for soft rock favorites and non-stop continuous Michael Bolton ballads. I’m your highly caffeinated morning-show host, Morning Man Larry, and I’m crazy! With a capital K! Our guest today is author Shane Deeters. Shane, thanks for being with us.

ME: My name’s actually Sean Dietrich. But thank you for having me, Larry.

HOST: Don’t mention it. Now, I’m holding a copy of my guest’s newest book, and I wanna tell you, folks, this looks exactly like a real book. It has an actual spine and a dust cover and pages and everything. Trust me. I have seen some books in my day, but this is definitely one of them. Please, tell our listeners a little bit about your book,

Shane.

ME: Well, as I say, my name is Sean, and the book is a story about my—

HOST: How long did it take to write this particular book?

ME: I was trying to answer your first question—

HOST: And how many years, approximately, have you been writing books?

ME: Well, I—

HOST: How many books do you have?

ME: Uh, let’s see—

HOST: When did you first fall in love? What’s your middle name? Where is Fiji? What is a granivorous ornithologist?

ME: I’m sorry, which question am I supposed to be answering?

HOST: So anyway, you know what I think? I think writing is a very noble process. Don’t you agree, Shane? Can I call you Shane?

ME: I don’t know why anyone would.

HOST: Funny story, Shane, I wrote a book…

When I awoke this morning there was snow in our backyard. Actual snow. My wife and I were giggling like kids on Christmas morning.

This is our first Birmingham snow. We have only been Alabama residents for one week, and already we’ve experienced all four seasons. Maybe five.

I staggered from the bedroom and let two dogs outside to pee. They bounded into a snowdrift, kicking up tufts of white powder, barking like protagonists in a Jack London novel. Their noses were covered in confectioners’ sugar, their paws were blackened with mud.

They rolled around in the snowy grass like they were putting out fires. My wife was so overcome with glee that she joined them.

I haven’t seen her laugh like that in a while. It’s been a long year.

The world looked calm beneath the weight of the new fallen accumulation. There was heavy dusting on our camellias, on our daffodils, on the Virginia creeper, and in the oak trees. The neighbor’s pansies had gone to be with Jesus.

There

was a stubborn snow crust clinging to every horizontal surface. Snow on my truck hood. Snow on the green Waste Management bins. Snow on the neighbor’s cat.

Snow on powerlines, snow atop fence pickets, snow coating automotive hubcaps. There was even snow covering the statue of the Virgin Mary, perched in the garden of a nearby home. The poor Blessed Mother had an icicle dangling from her nose.

There were thick quilts of snow blanketing distant rooftops, bright white, catching the morning sun. There was snow on window panes, collected in street gutters, topping bird nests, piled on defunct satellite dishes, and on orphaned water heaters, lying dead in the yards of rundown homes.

This morning, when I drove into town to run errands, I passed the train, clacking along. There was a thick sheet of snow clutching to the tops of Amtrak passenger cars, the boxcars, the…

“Snow?” said my wife.

“Snow,” I said.

“You’re joking,” she said.

So I showed her the newspaper headline, which read: “Alabama Winter Storm Warning Issued: Up to 4 Inches Expected Tonight.”

“Snow in Alabama,” my wife said. “Have mercy.”

The paper went on to explain that a strong cold front was going to hit Birmingham on Friday, bringing a round of rain, possible storms and snow to central and northern Alabama.

And while I realize snow isn’t a big deal to most people in the continental U.S., to my wife and I this is an event which carries the same importance as, say, the installation of a new pope.

My wife texted everyone she knew.

We are from the Florida Panhandle. And Panhandle people like us have only seen snow a few times in our lives.

Back in 1977, for example, my uncle Tommy Lee reportedly saw “white stuff” falling in Okaloosa County, whereupon he called the sheriff’s office and reported that the unidentified substance was cold and flavorless, with no discernable psychoactive effects.

Sheriff’s

deputies told him to remain calm, and whatever he did, not to touch the stuff. In a few moments, Uncle Tommy Lee was standing on his rooftop holding a large enamel mixing bowl over his head, catching snow and singing “Bringing in the Sheaves.” He slipped and fell. They buried him with his bowl.

Another time it snowed in December of 2003. I know this because my wife and I were married that same month. Our family was excited that we might see flurries on the day of our wedding. My cousin gave me snow chains as a wedding gift.

Technically, it snowed a few days after our wedding. But you couldn’t see the snow with your naked eye. In fact, the only people who actually saw the snow were Florida State research scientists who used a neutron microscope.

Then there was the year it…

Day Four. We have been living in Birmingham, Alabama, for four days and I am lost. Hopelessly lost. Right now I am in interstate traffic and I have no idea where in the Lord’s name I am.

Also, it’s colder than a witch’s jogbra in this city. The temperature last night was 37 degrees and I couldn’t feel my digits.

Before you accuse me of being a weather wimp, I must remind you that I come from the Panhandle, where the median temperature is 103, and our hurricane season lasts from June to the following June.

So I was not ready for the freezing temps a few nights ago. My entire little family slept in one bed to keep warm, and whenever it got cold, my wife threw on another dog.

But that’s what you get here in the foothills of the Appalachians. Because when I asked the guy at the hardware store if it would ever warm up, he explained the weather like this:

“This is Birmingham, dude. You git what you git, and

you don’t pitch a fit.”

Which reminds me: I know all the hardware store employees on a first-name basis now. I’ve been spending a lot of time at Home Depot lately.

Since we are still busy moving into our house, my wife has been sending me on random hardware errands for items such as felt chair pads, shims, sink stoppers, and (Don’t ask) pitchforks.

I go to the hardware store four of five times per day, sometimes more. Sometimes I don’t even buy anything, I just wander the aisles wearing a helpless look, glancing at my wife’s list in a way that causes concerned employees to sidle up to me and ask if I need a chaplain.

Then an employee leads me to an aisle where my item is located and I am forced to choose between an infinity of options, colors, and denominations.

Do…

I hung an American flag on our house today. We just moved in. We have only been living in Birmingham for three days, but I thought it was time we flew the Stars and Stripes.

This house dates back to 1923, so this porch has probably seen its share of flags.

When Lindbergh flew across the pond, a flag whipped from these columns. When the Depression hit, and people stood in 10-mile breadlines, there was a flag here. When the kid who grew up in this old house went off to join a global war, and died in Europe, Old Glory was flying from the eaves.

So I went to the hardware store to buy a flag.

“Yeah, we got flags,” said 80-year-old hardware store employee, Steadman. “But I tell you right upfront,” he added, “flying a flag ain’t cheap.”

I thought Steadman was speaking poetically, but as it turned out, he was speaking from his wallet. Flags cost a small fortune.

First there was the oak

flagpole ($35.99), then the mounting hardware ($29.99), the flag hooks ($4.99 apiece), the masonry screws ($8.99), the masonry drill bit ($19.99), and of course, the flag itself ($69.99). For those keeping tally, that’s a grand total of $154.94. It would have been cheaper just to get a flag tattooed on my forehead.

But the American flag speaks to me. I wish I could give you some high-minded patriotic reason for why I spent hours hanging the Star Spangled Banner from my house, I wish I could be ultra poetic and tell you what a great citizen I am. But I’m not a poet. And my reasons are much more low-rent than that.

I just really like American flags.

I love being American. When I was young, people my age were hellbent on traveling to Europe to become internationally conscious. I was so jealous of my friend, Justin, who studied journalism in college. He…

This is our second day living in Birmingham. I am writing this while sitting atop a mountain of cardboard boxes. And I can’t believe this town is officially home.

Home.

How bizarre. I keep having to retrain my brain to refer to Florida as “the place I used to live.” Which just sounds so weird. But it’s even weirder calling Birmingham “home.”

Currently, our house is filled with shipping crates. All I see are cartons in each direction. From wall to wall. It looks like I’m drowning in an Atlantic of corrugated cardboard.

Earlier, for example, an Amazon deliveryperson rang the doorbell, but I wasn’t able to answer the door, inasmuch as I was wading through shoulder-high mounds of boxes in my living room.

So I simply shouted, “Just leave it on the porch!” And the sound of my voice caused a massive cardboard avalanche. I was trapped beneath boxes for three hours without food or beer.

The thing about moving is, until recently, I did not realize how much crapola we owned.

Judging by the amount of boxes within this house, I would estimate that we personally own approximately half the earth’s gravitational mass.

The worst part about unpacking all our wares is that I cannot decipher my own handwritten labels on many of the boxes. I have no idea what we were thinking when we tagged these crates with our runaway Sharpies. We must have been inhaling some major paint fumes because the labels are written in complete gibberish.

I am thinking here of one box in particular, which is marked: JAMIE’S PODE STOPES—NEW.

It is unclear what this label means. However, if we use our abilities as trained English majors, we can tell by the word sequence that this box contains a great many “stopes,” or more specifically, “pode stopes,” which evidently, according to the text, belong to “Jamie,” and are “new,” as opposed to outdated pode…