Lynn Haven, Florida—I’m about as close to home as I can get. Right now, I’m about to walk onto a stage and tell stories to a small auditorium.
This is Mosley High School. I have friends who graduated from Mosley. I am wearing a sport coat. My hair is combed. I have a breath mint in my mouth.
The reason I am here tonight is because…
Well, I don’t truly know why. I guess I’m here because there’s no place like home.
This town is practically in my backyard. Long ago, we used to come to Panama City to do grocery shopping, or for summer jobs. And, when I was a young man, any buck who was worth his salt would take his date to Panama City for dinner and a movie.
I live in the adjacent county, Walton County. And—it’s important that you know this—I live in a trailer. Just like my mother does. Just like a lot of people in our part of the world do.
The reason I tell you that is because I owe it to you to tell you that we are simple people who sometimes eat pimento cheese sandwiches for supper. And we are happy in our simple worlds—where front lawns don’t get mowed regularly.
This is home. I still fish the nearby Choctawhatchee Bay of my youth. My fishing hole in Hogtown Bayou, where the ashes of two good dogs are scattered.
A man backstage is tapping his watch and telling me it’s almost time to go on stage. I am nervous because I know many people in the audience.
The bluegrass band is playing before I go on. I peek through the curtains and see friends, family, and even an old boss who once fired me.
Earlier tonight, I met an old friend. I knew her long ago. We weren’t close, but we…