Paul William Bryant was born in the late summer of 1913 in a Cleveland County, Arkansas, backwater. His hometown of Moro Bottom wasn’t even a town, technically. Only seven families lived there.

Paul was a large infant. Feet like rowboats. Hands like ball gloves. A stern, righteous face that looked like he helped write the Ten Commandments.

He was the eleventh of twelve births. His boyhood friends said he was fearless. And when I say “fearless,” I mean that Paul once wrestled a bear in a traveling circus sideshow tent. The animal nearly ripped off his ear, earning him the nickname “Bear.”

Paul’s generation grew up during a toilsome time. It’s hard to imagine just how difficult things were in America. But make no mistake, they were hard.

The War in Europe was killing 20 million. The Spanish Flu was taking another 50 million. Then came a Great Depression. Bankers leapt off tall ledges. Dust storms killed the Heartland. Sharecroppers were migrating across the US to keep from starving. Another

day; another global war.

As a kid, Paul’s father was sickly. His mother had too many children to manage. She couldn’t afford to feed his big-kid appetite. So Paul went to live with his grandfather in the nearby crossroads of Fordyce.

And it was there that football history would be written deep within the Arkansas mud. He had just turned 13.

Paul remembered it like this:

“One day, I was walking past the field where the high school team was practicing football. I was in the eighth grade, and I ain’t never even seen a football before.

“The coach naturally noticed a great big ole boy like me and he asked if I wanted to play.

“I said, ‘Yessir, I guess I do. How do you play?’

“Coach said, ‘Well, son, you see that fella catching the ball down there? Well, whenever he catches it, you…

I have here a letter from Greg, who recently got a gig writing for the local newspaper. “I don’t know how to produce a column,” Greg writes. “Do you have any advice for someone who is suddenly a real writer?”

Greg, yes. The first rule of being a real writer is: Stay Focused. Do not allow yourself to get distracted. Distractions are the bane of all writers.

Here is how the typical morning of a columnist goes. You sit down at the computer. And before you write, you begin by asking yourself the age-old question, “Why should anyone care what I have to say?”

This is the driving question all writers must ask themselves.

Immediately after you ask this question, the honest, humbling answer comes flying back: “You were supposed to empty the dishwasher.”

Ah, yes. The dishwasher. Your wife asked you to empty the dishwasher this morning. But you always forget. Wives are always asking columnists to empty dishwashers. Nobody knows why.

As a columnist, emptying

the dishwasher just doesn’t make good sense. Namely, because the Dishwashing System at your house has always worked the same way. You put your dirty dishes in the sink and—snap!—magically, the next day the dishes are neatly stacked in the cupboards. Sort of like the Magic Laundry System.

Even so, your wife insists the dishwasher needs emptying, in much the same way she is always insisting, for example, that you pay the health insurance.

But it’s hard to do tedious tasks like this when you’re a columnist, trying to conjure something to write.

After all, literary ideas just don’t happen. Literary ideas are like fermented dairy products. The columnist is the cow.

First, a cow’s udders must be warmed, then yanked aggressively, until finally the cow produces valuable milk which will eventually be transformed into Limburger or—if the cow is lucky—Government Cheese.

But…

The old timers in my childhood used a word I never understood. The word was “Providence.” The old timers couldn’t give me an exact definition of this word. Probably because it had more than two syllables.

To be fair, Providence truly is a difficult word to define. Even now, when researching this column I couldn’t find a concrete definition.

One dictionary called the word “archaic.” Which is true. Today the term is so outdated that, if you’re a younger reader, I’ve probably already lost you.

So I’ll explain Providence by telling you how the word was invoked by the rural people of my youth.

Okay. Let’s say there was no rain, the world was dry, farmers were losing money. It wasn’t “bad luck.” It was Providence. And when the rain finally began to fall; also Providence.

When two people fell in love? Providence. If someone got cancer and died, people prayed for the family to receive solace in Providence.

Job promotion? Providence. Finding $20 in your coat pocket? Big-time Providence.

My people, you see,

did not believe in good luck, coincidences, or even flashy miracles. There were no mistakes. There were no accidents. It was all Providence.

To my people, life was a trapeze act. Mankind was always swinging recklessly from trapezes, back and forth. Sometimes man fell, sometimes he didn’t. Either way, there was a divine reason for everything—good and bad. You weren’t supposed to know the reason. That’s Providence.

The thing is, nothing makes sense in life. Not a single thing. I’ve been trying to figure the world out since I was a kid but I’ve never been able to.

I went through a period of sad living, when I believed this universe was against me. I lost faith in everything: in people, in goodness, in miracles. For a while I quit believing in God. I told him this often.

But the big merciful sky…

Yesterday, I was digging through boxes in the garage. The boxes were covered in dust. I found important things I didn’t even know I owned. A fondue pot, for instance.

I found our wedding photos, too. I had to sit down to look at them.

In one photo, I’m wearing a tux. I’m cutting a cake while the woman on my arm is laughing, holding her belly. Young Me is watching her.

I remember exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking the same thing I’m thinking now: “I like making this woman laugh.”

Easier said than done. She doesn’t know how to fake laugh. It’s not in her. In fact, she doesn’t laugh unless the joke is worth doubling over. Whereupon she’ll hold her stomach like she’s going to have an accident. It’s great.

I also found a certificate in one of the boxes. The thing was covered in plastic, with my name written on it. My college degree.

I was a grown man when I went to college. It took me 11

years to finish. The only reason I completed was because this woman believed I could.

Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m her sidekick or if she is mine.

Either way, she is a woman who does too much. She works too hard, she loves harder. She has quirks, too. And nobody knows them like me.

For example: she cannot fall asleep without an assortment of machinery.

In her arsenal is a foam wedge (for her lower back); a heating pad (for her cold nature); a mouthguard (she grinds her teeth); a sound machine (apparently I snore); earplugs (apparently I am not an amateur snorer); an eye mask (to shield her face from my professional snoring); and a woven synthetic blanket (for suffocating husbands).

More about her: she writes thank-you notes for every occasion including the onset of daylight saving time. She likes her coffee…

One of the greatest joys in my life is receiving questions and remarks from readers via email. Here are a few recent ones:

Q: Hi Sean, I recently read your column on Taylor Swift and I lamented. You aren’t a Taylor Swift fan, are you? I might have to stop reading you if you are.

A: I would not recognize one Taylor Swift song.

Q: Seriously, Sean? You wrote about Taylor Swift? If you think she promotes kindness and benevolence you need to read up.

A: Except “Shake it Off.” I’d recognize that song. Everyone knows that one.

Q: I was dispirited to read that you encouraged interest in Taylor Swift. Don’t you watch the news? She’s not good for this country.

A: Also “Love Story.” But only the first and second verses, I swear.

Q: I read that you were urging young girls to be “Swifties.” Taylor Swift goes against the Bible, she is not a role model for young women, she dresses like a [deleted],

she is a thief and a liar and an adulterer, and you know where these kinds of sinners end up, don’t you?

A: On church committees.

Q: You did NOT just write about Taylor Swift! She is not a good example for our children. I will not allow Taylor Swift music in my daughter’s life. Have you HEARD what she says about Christians? She basically came out and called us hypocrites!

A: Clearly, she was mistaken.

Q: I wish you’d do your homework before you spout off lies regarding a topic you know nothing about! Taylor Swift is involved in witchcraft! She glorifies Satan and is influencing her fans to practice witchcraft!

A: I’ll bet they call you the “fun mom.”

Q: Taylor Swift’s music is not welcome in my household, or in my girls’ lives! She is stealing the innocence of…

I awoke early and went for a walk with my dog. The sun wasn’t up, I let my eyes adjust to the darkness of Birmingham.

The locals call Birmingham the “greatest city in the world.” Which is sort of silly if you think about it. I mean, it’s a great city. But, the whole world?

Come on.

Even so, it’s a nice town. The cashiers at the supermarket know my name. The guys working the local taverns know which variety of Ovaltine I always order. The people here are great.

Once upon a time, Birmingham’s primary employer was steel. Now it’s healthcare. We have hospitals out the wazoo. This city saves more helpless souls than Oral Roberts and Doctor Ruth combined.

It’s early morning. A dog barks. A distant train sounds. A cop car passes me at slow speed.

Not long ago, newspaper carriers would have been out at this hour, throwing papers. But those days are gone. Birmingham has no physical newspaper anymore. Neither do many American cities. For the

last few years, America has been losing two newspapers per day.

Readers in Birmingham now get their daily columns from no-name writers on the internet. Take, for example, this no-name writer. .

On my walk, I passed a few joggers. They were running at breakneck paces, covered in sweat.

“Morning,” they wheezed.

“Good morning,” said I.

Those poor souls. Personally, my most vigorous form of exercise this year comes from serving as pallbearer for my deceased friend who exercised regularly.

When I arrived at the local park, the sun was above the treeline. The foothills of the Appalachians were kissed with purple and gold. My dog sniffed every blade of grass until she finally urinated in the same spot she has used for the last 3,298 consecutive mornings.

I saw a few people in medical scrubs, power walking in the park. They stopped to greet my…

Regions Field was alive with people. The theme for the night was Taylor Swift. Taylor Swift music was playing overhead. The ballpark was almost completely obscured by a cloud of estrogen.

The opposition was on the field, playing a game of pepper, while random clusters of teenage girls wandered the park, exchanging friendship bracelets.

Exchanging bracelets, I am told, is what Taylor Swift fans do when they encounter each other in the wild.

I felt like Grandpa Walton.

I met a few girls in the stands. They were maybe 11. They wore T-shirts with Taylor Swift’s face on them.

“We’re Swifties,” they pointed out.

“I would’ve never guessed,” I said.

“We have been listening to Taylor since we were little kids.”

“Time flies.”

One girl nodded. “I was nine when I first got into Taylor.”

“That long?”

They nodded in unison.

I asked how they became Swift fans.

“At first, we just liked her music. But then we sort of discovered a community of friends.”

Another girl explains, “We

all kind of believe in the same things. That’s what unites us as a group.”

I asked what sorts of things those were.

“Kindness, and love.”

Her friend added: “And we also believe in being strong, and standing up for what you believe in. That’s why we do the bracelets.”

My buddy, Aaron, wore a smile and asked what I believed in. I told him I believed I would have a beer.

I got a beer and made my way through the Swifties crowding the park. They came in all ages. All sizes.

“I have actually been following Taylor since my divorce,” said a middle-aged woman I met in the concession line. “I went through a bad period and the community of fans helped me through some hard times.”

I noticed the bracelets on her arm. I asked whether her…

It was the dogs. The dogs are what got me. A few years ago we visited the 9/11 Memorial Museum, and we saw a lot. Twisted steel girders. Baby-faced portraits of the deceased. Mutilated emergency vehicles.

But it was the dogs that wrecked me.

The dog exhibit is pretty small. Located in the far corner of the museum, with photographs of search and rescue dogs.

You see dogs nosing through rubble, wearing safety harnesses. You see them in their prime. They’re all deceased now. But they were spectacular.

There was Riley. Golden retriever. He was trained to find living people. But, he didn’t find any. Instead, he recovered the remains of firefighters. Riley kept searching for a live survivor, but found none. Riley’s morale tanked.

“I tried my best to tell Riley he was doing his job,” said his handler. “He had no way to know that when firefighters and police officers came over to hug him, and for a split second you can see them crack a smile—that Riley was succeeding at

doing an altogether different job. He provided comfort. Or maybe he did know.”

There was Coby and Guiness. Black and yellow Labs. From California. Surfer dogs. They found dozens of human remains.

And Abigail. Golden Lab. Happy. Energetic. Committed. Big fan of bacon.

Sage. A border collie. Cheerful. Endless energy. Her first mission was searching the Pentagon wreckage after the attacks. She recovered the body of the terrorist who piloted American Airlines Flight 77.

Jenner. Black Lab. At age 9, he was one of the oldest dogs on the scene. Jenner’s handler, Ann Wichmann, remembers:

“It was 12 to 15 stories high of rubble and twisted steel. My first thought was, ‘I can't send Jenner into that…’ At one point, [Jenner] disappeared down a hole under the rubble and I was like, ‘Ugggggh!' Such a heart-stopping moment..."

Trakr. German Shepherd. Tireless worker. Worked until he couldn’t stand…

The weather is great. Meteorologists call it “fake fall,” when summer weather, for whatever reason, undergoes what the local weatherman called an “identity crisis.”

Perhaps this means summer starts looking into buying a sports car, getting a facelift, or begins shopping at Lululemon. I don’t know.

Either way, this glorious weather doesn’t last for more than a few days, but it’s a nice break from the summer agony.

During fake fall, you can sit on your porch and wave at your neighbors without sweat stains beneath your arms. And your neighbors are actually outdoors to wave back.

“Hello!” you say, waving your arm at your neighbor.

“Hello!” comes the response.

“How do you like this weather?” you ask.

And everyone usually answers that they are content. And we ARE content. Because faux autumn is great.

Last week, Alabama’s temperatures were akin to the Fifth Circle of Hell. Last week you couldn’t check the mail without seeing buzzards overhead.

The Alabama heat can

be oppressive. You start sweating within seconds of exposure. Your drawers get soggy. Your feet squish in your shoes. The humidity can reach the triple digits, which means that if you have curly hair, you will look like you forgot to take your psychiatric meds.

Take me. I have curly hair. Humidity is not good for my hairdo. In high humidity, I look like the love child of Bozo the Clown and Eleanor Roosevelt.

But with fake fall, everyone’s hair does what it’s supposed to do. Also, birds are singing. The sky is blue. Kids are riding bikes. Distant leaf blowers are singing their encore chorus.

And suddenly, you’re grateful for little things. Like honeycrisp apples, or the sound of children playing tag in the distance. For iced tea in sweaty glasses.

For crickets and cicadas. For the Latino music hovering in the air, blasting…

Pelham, Alabama. The year was 1927. Coolidge was president. Gas was 21 cents per gallon. Beer was illegal. Charles Lindberg crossed the Atlantic. Henry Ford unveiled the Model A.

And way down in Alabama, the Twenty-Second state bought 940 acres which included Double Oak Mountain and parts of Little Oak Ridge. The foothills of the Appalachians.

It was such magnificent country that years later, the National Park Service got involved with its development. The NPS acquired 8,000 acres of additional land.

The federal government was going to turn this place into a national park, on par with Yellowstone and Yosemite. They were going to call the park “Little Smoky Mountain National Park.”

But then some guy named Hitler screwed up the world, started a war. Construction ceased. Every able-bodied male was sent overseas.

Today, what remains is Oak Mountain State Park. Otherwise known as “My Office.”

I hike Oak Mountain a lot. It isn’t far from my back door. And whenever I visit, I feel my shoulders lower from my ears.

This morning, I

hiked with my dog, Otis (alleged Labrador). We hiked for hours. He sprinted ahead, while I struggled to stay oxygenated.

“Slow down, dangit!” is what I was saying for most of the day.

And I met a colorful mosaic of human beings on the mountain.

Three older women, hiking together, using walking sticks, singing hymns aloud. They were from Alabaster.

“We’re Church of Christ,” they told me. “But we drink like Catholics.”

I passed a young man who was hiking with a newborn baby strapped to his chest. A single dad. His wife died in a car accident. He is raising his infant daughter alone. He feels peace on this mountain.

I met a woman hiking with her teenage daughter. The daughter just graduated college and is joining the military. She is about to ship out for training.

I passed a family from Denmark. They are…