I like sunny days so bright they make you tired. Black and white movies. Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and John Wayne.

I am on my porch, sitting. The sun is setting. Linus, former feral cat and rodent security patrol, is toying with a mouse. He's holding it by the tail.

Poor rat.

Two neighbor kids ride bikes down my gravel road. They see me. And since childhood knows no privacy, they march up my steps, uninvited. Heavy breathing.

The conversation drifts toward Thanksgiving. Their teacher has assigned writing homework. They're supposed to list things they're thankful for. They're stuck.

"You're over thinking it," I suggest. "Try starting with little things. Like GI Joe dolls."

“What's GI Joe?” one asks.

God help us.

“What are YOU thankful for, Mister Sean?”

Well, it bears mentioning, I am thankful for lots. Namely: biscuits. The kind cooked in skillets. Sometimes, I think I write too much about biscuits.

I'm also grateful for baskets of pine cones. The cones on our cofee table smell like cinnamon. My wife bought them at Walmart for a buck.

A buck.

I'm grateful for the fish I caught. After an unsuccessful day, I tried one last cast. I

snagged a trout the size of a baby cucumber. Not large enough to eat. Big enough to lie about.

Feather pillows, I'm grateful for those. Synthetic foam is a joke.

I like sunny days so bright they make you tired. Black and white movies. Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and John Wayne.

"Who're they?" the kids ask.

Somebody, please save America's youth.

I'm grateful for Baptist hymnals. I have one dated, 1928. Sometimes I thumb through it. And for Daddy's old guitar. The finish has worn off, it looks like hell, but old hymns sound nice on it.

For the mountains in Tennessee, North Carolina, Georgia, and North Alabama. God lives up there. For our soggy marshes in North Florida—his summer cottage is here.

For the creek behind my house. For the fort I found while walking through the woods—it was made…

He was good with a joke. Real good.

Each Thanksgiving or Christmas, he had a pocketful of zingers. All the men in the family would gather in the den after supper just to hear the racy ones.

The boys did, too.

“It was his thing,” says the grandson. “Sometimes, his jokes were so good, we didn't know whether to laugh or clap.”

His sense of humor came from a childhood spent during the darkest days of American history. When the boll weevil, the stock market, and war ruined the world.

One Thanksgiving, the grandson tells me the old man surprised everyone.

"He had no jokes," the grandson says. "He had a story about his life. We didn't expect it from a jokester like him. But you could tell he thought it was important.”

It was. After all, the man came from an era when things like storytelling and guitar picking were thought to be important. When front porches and living rooms were more valuable than, say, twenty-four-hour news networks.

That holiday, the old man sat,

feet propped up, sipping corn liquor—which the doctor expressly warned against. The redder his cheeks got, the easier his memory ran.

He described a lonely childhood after his father's death. About how his daddy died from bee stings—they swarmed him in the woods. It was a freak accident.

He talked about being so poor he shoveled manure for pennies. How suppers consisted of ketchup and water—they called it tomato soup. About stealing chickens from nearby farms to keep from starving. About singing in the living room to keep from complaining.

"It was sobering," the grandson recounts. "None of us knew these things about him. Nobody dared interrupt him.”

The old man spoke of pumping gas when fuel was cheaper than Coke. He talked about country dances, where boys behaved like men. And girls expected them to. About the magic of a fiddle.

He talked about…

“My kids and I are driving to Texas. My girlfriend has a huge family, it's gonna be our first time meeting them."

Pensacola, Florida—a sports bar. I'm eating a burger that tastes like five-day-old meatloaf. My fries are cold. On a gigantic television over the bar: Alabama dominates the football field.

This place is a nut house.

The bartender is chatty. He's a husky man, thick hands, early forties. He asks what I'm doing for Thanksgiving. It's only polite conversation. He can't hear me over the noise.

Alabama scores. The bar goes wild.

He asks how I like my burger. I tell him it's magnificent.

He winks and says, "You're a liar. Our burgers are awful."

Clever fella.

I ask him what he's doing Thanksgiving.

He says, “My kids and I are driving to Texas. My girlfriend has a huge family, it's gonna be our first time meeting them."

As it happens, the girl comes from a Mexican family. And in preparation for the big day, she's been teaching him and his two boys Spanish. But, he explains, he can't roll his R's.

Perhaps it's because he's from Geneva County. R's don't roll in Geneva.

Another touchdown. Screaming.

He goes on, “My boys're

more excited than I am, we usually just eat Cracker Barrel on Thanksgiving.”

He was married once. But a few years ago, she died. It was sudden. She was young. His oldest boy was two. The other boy, a newborn. One morning, he found her body on the sofa.

“Heart defect," he says. "Doctors didn't even know she had it, I thought I'd never make it. Until I met my girlfriend.”

Field goal kick. It's good.

He digs into his pocket and removes his phone. “You wanna see a picture?”


He shows me his boys. Then, an image of an engagement ring.

"Just bought this," he says. My boys and I are gonna ask her to marry us all at once, on Thanksgiving morning.

"My boys wanna get down on their knees and surprise her, do the whole…

"Lotta these boys ain't bad, just mixed up.”

“I won't have you turning my son into a preacher,” his father once shouted to his mother, during an argument.

To men like his father, there was nothing worse than a soft-handed Bible-man, stuck in an office. He wanted his boy to do what men have done since the dawn of testosterone—spit, cuss, grow callouses.

His mother wanted him to memorize the Sermon on the Mount.

So, the kid tried to do both. He attended Sunday school, learned the Bible, recited long passages from memory. Outside of church, he worked with his father, operating heavy machinery, learning to cuss.

He was a rowdy child. He drank too much, smoked more, and hopped from party to party. Since he discovered long ago he couldn't please both parents, he disappointed them instead.

He was successful at that.

He was in the car with his friends when the cops pulled them over. A routine traffic stop. One of the boys had just robbed a grocery store and had a gun tucked in his jacket. Another boy had meth in

his pocket.

Off to prison.

That's where he met Billy, who runs an educational program, teaching inmates to read and write poetry and literature.

Billy says, “It helps'em work through their emotional stuff. You wouldn't believe some of the things these boys write. Ain't a dry eye in the classroom sometimes.”

For his first project, he wrote nothing. Instead, he recited something he learned long ago.

"I couldn't believe he knew the whole Sermon on the Mount from start to finish," Billy says. "There was something exceptional about him."

Billy took special interest in the kid. It only took a few heart-to-heart conversations for the kid to realize what he wanted to do with his life.

He wanted to make his mother proud.

"See" Billy explains. "Lotta these boys ain't bad, just mixed up.”

With Billy's help, the boy finished a GED. When he…

...this world's a lot damned bigger than a TV screen.

Atlanta, Georgia—once, I took my friend to the ER after he broke his ankle running a 5K. The young man in the hospital room beside us was suffering from a gunshot.

His mother sat with him. She was small, gray-headed. She did not cry, nor raise her voice. She whispered while nurses and police officers hurried around him.

He kept mumbling, "I'm sorry, Mama."

She gave one long, "Ssssssshhhhhh," then said, "You're my baby boy."

When they wheeled him to surgery, she lost it. Nurses could barely hold her up. I've never seen a woman scream like that.

Not ever.

Panama City, Florida—I saw a truck crash into a neighborhood telephone pole. It happened during broad daylight.

A police officer lived a few houses away from the accident. He heard the loud sound. There were sparks. Buzzing. The power went out.

The deputy tore out the front door, jogging barefoot. He pulled the dazed kid from the truck and held him. A crowd of neighbors gathered.

The deputy cradled the boy, saying, “It's alright, son.”

Mobile, Alabama—I watched a toddler have

a meltdown in the supermarket. He sat on the floor wailing. His mother tried to console him.

An elderly woman calmed the boy. She used a Snicker's as her weapon of choice.

The mother said, “We adopted him a week ago. He's our first, and I don't think he likes us.” She started sobbing.

The older lady wrote her number on the back of a card and said, “I've raised two boys. You're gonna be fine. Call me.”

I hope she did.

Pensacola, Florida—Boy Scouts held a car wash on the side of the road. My wife and I pulled over. She let them give our vehicle the once-over for fifteen bucks.

I asked why they were raising money.

"Because," one boy said. "My mom has breast cancer. She's not doing good."

When they finished, my wife paid them…

“Dear God,” my uncle began, removing his cap. “May we never forget the true reason we've gathered together here today."

My uncle deep fried a turkey. At age twelve, I'd never seen such a thing. He claimed it made the bird taste better.

But I think he did it because he liked sipping Budweiser outdoors.

It was my first Thanksgiving as a fatherless kid. It was going to be a lonely one. The holidays seemed to make happy people happier, and sad people more lonely. Even our dog was sad.

Daddy's Lab had gotten into a trash bag of his old clothes and made a bed out of his button-downs. I guess she wanted to smell him.

When someone dies. You empty their closet and fill storage bags with their clothes. It's the worst chore you'll ever do. But it's better than looking at orphaned hanging clothes.

My uncle lifted the turkey from the peanut oil.

"Needs more time," he said.

I visited the kitchen. My aunt was preparing a humble meal. Potatoes, greens, sweet potato pie, gravy.

In the den, Mama sat on the sofa, staring out the window. She didn't have much to say. In fact, she hadn't said more than

a few words in months.

A knock on the door.

Mama made a face, saying, "We're not expecting company."

It was my cousins. They brought squash casserole. Mama forced a fake smile. So did I.

Another knock. My aunt and uncle—with chicken gizzards.

More knocks. Two more uncles, two more aunts. They brought cheese straws.


The Millers, McLanes, and Jacksons from church. They'd brought an entire bakery and fourteen rugrats.

Knock, knock, knock.

Dan and Meredith, from the farm behind us. They'd brought a bathtub-cooler of Coke and beer. More knocks. Three members of my ball team, sporting neckties and greased hair.


Mister Dole and his wife. They brought venison back strap, boiled peanuts, and his hunting dog.

Daddy's friend Billy—holding a plastic milk-jug of something clear.

Miss Wanda, with tomato relish, pickled okra, poundcake,…

But girls are nosy, and it's hard to let sleeping mamas lie. So they arranged a meeting. It was in a public place. They're hearts were in their throats.

"My dad raised three girls and a boy," she said. "He deserves an award or something."

She's probably right. She says he was an expert at getting them ready for school, braiding hair, making lunches, and scaring away rowdy love-interests.

She didn't realize how hard he'd worked until she had her first child.

But it was more than that. Her mother left when she was a baby. Her father explained it long ago: “One day, your mother just went nuts."

That was all he said. The family spent their entire lives with nothing but photographs. And over time, even those faded.

He worked long hours, but still managed to win Daddy of the Century. She tells me he never remarried because he was too committed to his family.

“I used to tell my friends,” she goes on, “my mother died. Mostly, I made her sound like a saint. You know, kids wanna remember their mother in a good way, even if it's a lie.”

Now that she's an adult, she's discovered it was as far

from the truth as it got.

Two years ago, they tracked their biological mother down. They found out she'd done time in prison. She was living in a women's rehab.

“We were heartbroken,” she says, “We cried. It opened up a can of worms I didn't know I had. My dad took it hard. All kinds of feelings resurfaced."

They weren't sure about contacting the woman. After all, she was as near to rock-bottom as anyone could get.

Her father tried to put on the brakes.

“Dad wasn't sure," she said. "He didn't want to know about what she'd been doing. I mean, a lotta years had passed.”

But girls are nosy, and it's hard to let sleeping mamas lie. So they arranged a meeting. It was in a public place. They're hearts were in their throats.

They recognized their mother across the room. The…