Before you read another word, you should know: I'm an optimist. I believe in hope, love, and puppies. Which is why you'll often hear me say things like, "Mother of Frank, this world has really gone to hell."

Because optimists say things like that.

The truth is, all good things keep vanishing. They make cheeseburgers out of chemical Jell-O and grow fish in Japanese labs. Hardly anyone uses paper money, film-cameras, or manners. Church ladies have disappeared, along with their casserole dishes.

And so have potlucks.

Don't take my word for it, listen to seventy-three-year-old Phillip, who I met at a bar in Geneva, Alabama.

He said, “Growing up, summer was one big party. Our churches had homecomings and potlucks. Also, Granny held family reunions. There was always a cookout going.”

I love cookouts.

“Not anymore," he said. "After Granny died, we just kinda quit having family reunions. And our church homecomings aren't the same either. Mostly, food gets catered nowadays, sometimes it's Chinese food.”

God help us. I'd rather eat a cold slice of undercooked beaver than eat egg foo yung at a church potluck.

Not long ago, summer used to be ninety-days of home-cooked barbecue, fish-fries, and gospel…

Alan is a salt-of-the-earth fella, whose wife just bought him a camouflaged recliner. It's the first thing he shows off to visitors. The second thing he takes you to see is a mounted buck head the size of a Chevrolet.

Framed photographs litter his side tables. Pictures of Alan's kids, grandchildren, weddings, baby pictures, big kills, vacations.

And one chocolate Labrador.

“This is Babe,” he said, tapping the photo. “She was THEE dog.”

If you're a dog-person, I don't have to explain what such a statement means. And if you're not a dog-lover, you might as well stop reading here.

Alan went on, "I got her for hunting, but then realized, she wasn't that kinda puppy. So, I ended up spoiling her. She rode shotgun with me, ate whatever I ate. She loved Big Macs."

Don't we all.

It was one spring, while Alan was installing a deer-stand in the woods, he noticed his chest felt funny. His heart raced, he felt dizzy. He fell, caught himself. Stumbled again. He lost consciousness.

Babe licked

Alan's face until he awoke. When he got up, he didn't know where he was.

“I was bad lost,” said Alan. “Didn't know what the hell was happening, I felt like I was dying. Babe just kept licking me, nudging me home, from behind, a few feet at a time. I really thought I was a goner.”

When he got closer, Babe alerted Alan's wife. She rushed him to the hospital. Doctors say he was lucky to survive.

In Alan's backyard, a wooden cross pokes out of the grass. Alan removes his ball cap whenever he stands in front of it. “Throat cancer,” he said. “She quit eating when she got old. We miss her.”

I'll bet.

To be honest, I don't know why people love dogs so much. After all, there's nothing filthier than a canine. Take mine, for instance, they've destroyed rugs, pantries, reading…

My sister's instructions were to wear a nice shirt. Something that didn't look like I'd, “just rolled out of bed.”

I tried to set her mind at ease, assuring her I almost never roll.

That day, I left work early. I changed my shirt in traffic while I sped to the courthouse.

It was a small ordeal, I hardly remember anything except the words, “Who gives this woman away?”

Woman.

I answered for the entirety of my family. They kissed. Mama cried. Everyone shook hands. And then it was over.

No party. No dance bands.

The truth is, she deserved more. A proper ceremony, a dress, photographs, a honeymoon. What she got was

zilch, with a steaming side of jack-squat.

Well, I know that's just the way life goes. I'm not complaining about it. But sometimes, I like to imagine things.

For example: let's imagine I'm walking along a beach. I see a rusty bottle wash ashore. And, let's say I pick the thing up and give it a good scrub.

A genie pops out.

He says in a booming voice, "I am Genie Of The Seven Seas, who hath awakened me from thy slumber?"

And I say, "It is…