I’m watching the Braves game on TV, eating a hamburger, trying not to get my keyboard greasy.

The Atlanta Braves are locked in a treacherous battle against the Philadelphia Phillies. Both teams are fighting for a shot at the pennant, and neither team is going down without taking fistfuls of flesh and hair with them.

This column is part of my longstanding tradition wherein every year I write a handful of boring baseball columns. I do this faithfully although I’m no expert on baseball, nor am I an athlete. Also, I’m hard pressed to believe that the same ball players I care so deeply about would ever visit my place of work to cheer for me.

Even so. There’s just something about baseball.

To me, stickball is more than just an American sport. It’s not merely vivid green grass, halide lights, peanut vendors, or howling fans who have been overserved. Baseball is my past. Baseball is boyhood on a stick.

Of course the game has undergone many changes since my day. Even the

entertainment delivery methods have changed.

The TV I’m watching, for example, is about 68 inches wide, plasma, high-definition, and connected to my mobile phone. This television has the capability of answering emails, browsing the Internet, obeying spoken voice commands, and communicating with military aircraft.

When I was a kid, however, the technology of baseball was different. Our beat up television ran on unleaded and picked up one-point-two sports channels. There was WGN, out of Chicago, and TBS out of Atlanta.

The Chicago station broadcasted games wherein the Cubs lost each night by double digits, whereupon Harry Caray would sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” to a stadium of clinically depressed Chicago fans at Wrigley.

But the Atlanta channel had Dale Murphy, John Smoltz, and the fighting Atlanta Braves. To us, they were America’s Team. Los Bravos. The Tomahawks. The Peach Clobbers. They were ours. And there…

I am saying grace before supper. And a lot is going through my mind. Namely, because we are eating biscuits tonight. And I love biscuits. When I am done saying this blessing, I will experience one of the best feelings on planet Earth. Which is peeling open one of my wife’s hot, handmade catheads.

Steam will rise from the soft bread to kiss me square on the nose. And I will swear I can almost hear the Vienna Boys Choir singing “Ave Verum Corpus” somewhere in the distance.

I have a long childhood history with biscuits. The day after my father’s funeral I remember awaking to find our kitchen covered in a fine dusting of Gold Medal Flour. There were old coffee cans of lard on counters, and matronly women in beehive hairdos.

The oven had transformed the kitchen into a sauna. The sound of female chatter was like the sound of geese on a pond. I sniffed the air.

Hallelujah. They were making biscuits.

After a funeral you have a lot

of food around. This happens when someone you love dies. Church ladies with solemn faces show up at odd hours to leave hot pans on your porch, or shoeboxes of fried chicken, or Tupperware containers with notecards attached to the lids.

You receive a lot of biscuits. This is because the American biscuit is not something that merely sits in a bread basket, covered with gingham. A real biscuit is true. It is something real.

Next time you eat a biscuit think of the hands that mixed the flour. Human hands that have seen their share of pain, and loss, and life. See the fingers flex when they knead lard into the ivory dough. Watch the dusty palms use an upside-down cup to stamp each one.

Verily. This is love.

The ironic thing is, after my father’s funeral I didn’t feel like eating. I had no appetite. I…


I’m pregnant. My husband and I have been going back and forth on name options but have no ideas. So right now I have a baby without a name. I know this is a strange request, but can you give me some name suggestions? I don’t want one of those modern names.



The night I was born, my mother took me into her arms and decided that she was going to name me Elvis.

My aunt recalls: “Your mama loved Elvis. Plus, you were a Capricorn, you know. Elvis and Jesus were Capricorns.”

Case closed.

In the end, my mother gave me a Scot-Irish name. But over the years I’ve wondered about how differently my life would have played out if my mother would have gone with Elvis.

PATROLMAN: License and registration, please, sir?

ME: Here you are, officer.

HIM: Do you know how fast you were driving back there…. (looks at license) Elvis?

ME: Uh-huh-uh-huh

As a writer, when you start working on a novel, the first thing you think about

are the names of your characters. In fact, names are one of the most important parts of any story. Think about it. How many pieces of classic literature do you read where the hero was named Heman Pickles?

You do, however, have to be careful when you give opinions on names you like and dislike because feelings can get hurt very easily. My mother and aunt once got into a knock-down-drag-out argument after my aunt admitted that she never liked my mother’s name.

My mother was fuming. She stood from her chair and informed my aunt that she never liked my aunt’s name, either. Things got ugly. My mother said my aunt’s name reminded her of a barefoot and pregnant hick—my aunt at the time, was barefoot, also pregnant.

So then my aunt said my mother had a bad singing voice…

A potluck. A small church. There is more food here than people. A cooler of iced tea. Casseroles out the front door. Coffee. Coke. Fried chicken.

I never met a potluck I didn’t like. Not even when I was in Kentucky and there was a casserole that allegedly had chunks of raccoon in it.

I love food, people, and cholesterol. Combining all three makes miracles happen.

The fried chicken is nothing short of spiritual. My fingers are too greasy to type. It’s euphoria on a short thigh. Lightly battered, golden brown, spiced with black pepper. I am crazy about fried chicken. In fact, you could say I consider myself a chicken enthusiast.

And this chicken is fit for company.

There is also a cream cheese dip made by an elderly woman named Miss Carolyn. It’s addictive. I’ve eaten three quarters of this dip, and am in serious need of Rolaids.

I ask Miss Carolyn what’s in this marvelous dish.

“It’s simple,” she says. “It’s called Cowboy Crack, my grandkids love it.”

This potluck is attended by people of

all ages. A little girl plays piano. She is playing “Heart and Soul.” She’s been playing this melody for ninety minutes straight. Roughly eighty-nine minutes too long.

A church lady finally drags the girl away from the piano and assigns her to kitchen work, washing dishes. The girl is not happy about this. Life isn’t always fair, kid.

The deacon at my table is an avid golfer. He is talking about golf even though I told him I don’t know the difference between a five-iron and a duck-hooked double bogey. He keeps talking just the same. So, I’m smiling, nodding, and willing myself to spontaneously combust into flames. I have always thought spontaneous combustion would be a dramatic way to go.

I take my leave. I go for seconds on the buffet line. Namely, I need more chicken, and antacids.

I meet…

Hi. We hardly know each other. And I know this won’t mean much coming from a stranger like me, but I have to say it: I’m sorry for what you’re going through.

I mean it. I am sorry. I’m sorry about the big and the little things that happen to you. I’m sorry you didn’t sleep last night. I’m sorry your back hurts. And I’m sorry about the long-term repercussions of fiscal American inflation.

Also: I’m sorry you don’t laugh as often as you used to. I’m sorry money doesn’t grow in the backyard—God help me, I am. I know what it means to work long hours and get nothing but a bloody lip in return.

I’m sorry your car won’t start. I’m sorry alternators cost more than booze-cruises to Barbados. I’m sorry that every time you get some money saved, your roof begins leaking, your water-heater goes out, your toilet backs up, or you need a root canal.

I’m double-sorry about the root canal.

I’m sorry your dog died. And for the sour feelings you get when you see the empty food-bowl on your kitchen floor.

I miss

every good dog I’ve ever owned.

I’m sorry your loved one died recently. I’m sorry grief has become a permanent part of you, and that your heart has been polished with a cheese grater.

I’m sorry the doctor said you need surgery. I’m sorry you’re diabetic. I’m sorry your entire world caved in when they said, “Ma’am, you have cancer.” I’m sorry for the undiagnosed illness that no medical people can seem to figure out.

I’m sorry you have felt sick and rundown for so long that you don’t remember what the old you felt like.

I’m sorry life doesn’t go the way we want it. I’m sorry the clock runs out too quickly, and that our bodies don’t last longer.

I’m extra-sorry for anyone who feels unimportant. I know what…

Years ago. Reeltown, Alabama. I don’t know how old the man running the vegetable stand is, but he’s old enough to have white hair and use words like “rye-chonder” when he points.

He and his wife sit in rocking chairs. There are flats of tomatoes, peppers, jars of honey.

“‘Ch’all dune?” comes the call from his wife—a sweet woman with a kind face.

I inspect the man’s last batch of summer tomatoes. They look good. And it's hard to find good fare on the side of the road anymore.

Factories have taken over the world. Homegrown summer tomatoes are almost a myth.

There’s a clapboard house behind us. The roof is pure rust. The front porch is made of pure history.

“Grew up in that house,” he said. “My mama grew up in that house. Been farming this land since I’s a boy.”

His land nestles in the greenery of the foothills. He grew up using a mule to turn dirt fields. He burned up his childhood tending cotton, cane, and peanuts. But he doesn't call himself a farmer.


a country preacher,” he goes on. “‘Fore that, we was missionaries.”

Missionaries. But not overseas. To Native Americans. Primitive tribes in the United States which still cooked over fires and lived without electricity. When they were younger, their missionary work was in Alaska.

“You take a Deep South boy like me,” he says. “Put me in a poverty stricken Eskimo tribe for ten years, that’s an education, boy.”

He’s not like many preachers. He has no doctrine to hammer, no book to thump. All he’s ever wanted to do is help people and to sell vegetables.

And he has a soft spot for Native Americans. He speaks about those he's helped, with wet eyes. This man is made of Domino sugar.

“We just wanted people to know we loves’em,” he said. “Want my whole life to belong to people who…

It was summer. I remember because my truck was covered in yellow powder. And if you don’t know the yellow powder I speak of, you might be from Ohio.

A lot of people who move to the South from other places think our biggest problems are humidity, mosquitoes, or evangelical fundamentalists. But those are nothing. We have dehumidifiers for humidity, citronella for bugs, and fundamentalists won’t bother you if you play dead or talk about beer.

No, one of our biggest pests in these parts is the Satanic tree dust that kills innocent woodland creatures and ushers in Armageddon. Pine pollen.

Long ago, I tried to start a landscaping company. It was a bad idea and a colossal failure. I bought a utility trailer and some equipment. And when pollen season hit, I put a few fliers in mailboxes.

“FIRST LAWN-CUTTING IS FREE!!!!” I advertised, and I used four exclamation points, since four is better than three.

One of my first customers was an old man. He hired me to re-sod his entire front yard during

the height of pollen season. I paid my friend Adam to help me.

Adam and I worked like rented mules. We replaced almost half an acre of centipede grass until our noses were running and our eyes were totally swollen shut.

“This pollen’s killing me,” I said to Adam.

“Who said that?” Adam answered.

While we worked, an old woman came walking out of the house. She wore a nightgown, her hair was white and messy. She wandered through the yard like she were in a daze, letting the sun hit her face. She smiled. She sneezed.

"Oh, Carl!" she shouted. "There are boys out here!"

She sneezed again.

"Boys!" she said. “Two boys!”

I was afraid this woman was going to boil us in a kettle with some toe of frog and the eye of newt.

Finally, the woman announced that she wanted…

She is a waitress here. She has white hair, and a habit of winking when she smiles. Her name is Mary. I know this because it’s on her name tag. I don’t know Mary—today’s the first time we’ve met—but I want to be her forever-grandson.

I just watched Mary get cussed out. It happened when she swiped a young man’s credit card at the register. It was denied. She was quiet and discreet with him, but he wasn’t thrilled.

He shouted at her, “Run it again!”

This made everyone’s ears perk up. It’s not every day you see some punk yelling at Gram Gram.

She swiped the card.


Swiped again.


“Do you have another card?” she asked in a soft voice.

The man shouted, “Another card? Don’t treat me like I’m [bleeping] stupid, lady!”

Her mouth fell open. So did everyone’s. The young man didn’t stop there. He went on to say things which I can’t repeat since my mother reads these things.

The air in the restaurant went stale, like in old Westerns, just before John Wayne sends some desperate bandito into the

everlasting abyss. The customers in the restaurant looked around at each other. The man in the booth beside me stood. So did I. We were walking toward the register, but another man beat us to it.

He was tall, white-haired. He wore a tattered cap. He was mid-seventies, with shoulders broader than an intercostal barge and food stains on his plaid shirt.

The old man said, “What seems to be the problem here?”

The angry kid spat. “It’s nothing. My card won’t work.”

The old man let his eyes do his talking. They were hard eyes. The same eyes I’ve seen in a hundred episodes of “Gunsmoke,” just before the hero gets the girl.

The old man was calm. He reached for his wallet. He said in a syrupy voice, “Mary, I’d like to…

The nursing home had rules. Lots of rules. The powers that be made me jump through all the pandemic-era hoops before visiting. By the time I was finished suiting up in protective gear, I looked like I was dressed for a leisurely stroll on Mars.

A nurse led me past the cafeteria, past the chair yoga class, and into the recreation room where a group of folks played pinochle. I wore a face shield, double masks, rubber gloves, and a full-length PPE gown. I felt like Darth Vader after a wild night.

In a few moments, they wheeled my first interviewee in. Her name was Miss Baker. She was small, wiry, and sipping a Coke from a can.

“So,” she said, “you’re the guy doing interviews?”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”


“Well, I’m a writer.”

“Oh, brother. Why on earth are you interviewing a bunch of old people?”

“Well, I was hoping for some good old-fashioned folksy advice for a column I’m writing.”

“Gee. You must be hard up for material.”

“You have no idea.”

And that was all it took. She opened up like

a refrigerator.

“Well, the first bit of advice I have, young man, is drink lots of water.”

Hydration. Check. I made a note on my legal pad.

“And make sure you always keep moving. Doesn’t matter what you do, just don’t quit moving.”

Got it.

I made a few more notes.

Next, we were joined by Watty, a 93-year-old man using a walker, wearing double hearing aids and a Hawaiian shirt.

“You the gentleman interviewing people?” said Watty.

“I’m no gentleman,” said I. Then I asked for his best spoonful of advice.

“My advice is: You know how they say that youth is wasted on the young? Well, look, I think it’s the opposite. The truth is, wisdom is wasted on the old. In my life I’ve gathered all this experience and knowledge, and you…

The picture of her son was a wallet-sized, high-school portrait from the late sixties. The boy’s hair was painfully dated. His smile was easy. He was a good kid. That’s what they tell me.

He and his mother were close. Best friends, even. She was a single mother; he was a mama’s boy.

They were driving home from Atlanta one afternoon. They saw a car stalled on the side of the road.

“Don’t pull over,” she told her teenage son. “We don’t have time. Don’t wanna be late for kickoff.”

In those days, high-school kickoffs ruled the world. Her son was a good fullback. There was even talk about recruitment. Not serious talk, but talk.

Either way, he was a poster child for the American athlete. He had high cheekbones, mucho promise, a sweet girlfriend, good grades, and no limits.

“I gotta pull over, Mama,” he said. “That person needs help.”

He veered to the shoulder. He stepped out to help an old man change a tire.

She didn’t actually see it happen. But she heard the old man shout, “Move!”

And out

of the corner of her eye, she saw the old man jump. Then: a crash. Followed by skidding.

And her boy was gone.

The days that followed were the worst of her life. Not only because he was gone, but because a piece of her had been buried, too.

Someone once heard her say, “I asked God to take me on the day of his funeral. I wanted to give up living. I couldn’t see the point.”

But God didn’t take her.

Something different happened. One sunny day, a knock at her door. Her son’s girlfriend. They sat at a table together. They cried peach-sized tears. They looked at photos. They held one another.

The girl told her she was pregnant.

And I understand that his mother’s happiness outweighed sadness.

The pregnancy was a normal, joyful one.…