In my front yard is something beautiful. Something living. Something that sometimes reminds me of my mother.

It is a tree, about eighty feet tall, with a gnarled trunk, long limbs, and thick waxy leaves.

When we were building our little home, some twenty years ago, a hapless workman with a chainsaw tried to cut this tree down. I rushed to its rescue and stood between his chainsaw and the tree, shouting, “Turn that thing off!”

Later that day I tied a nylon ribbon around the trunk, reminding all workmen not to harm this beautiful thing.

On cool mornings I would often sit beneath the branches, reading, sipping coffee. This softwood is home to many local creatures like neighborhood cats, squirrels, lizards, butterflies, ladybugs, moths, and 52,349 birds who twitter above me and occasionally drop air-to-surface poop artillery onto my hair.

Don’t get me wrong, this tree is not exceptionally good looking. Actually, it’s average as trees go. Its bark is peppered with scars, knots, and blotchy steel-colored freckles.

It’s

not especially old, either. This particular tree is pushing 50 years old, although the one in my backyard is closer to 120. Still, many of these tough trees have endured droughts, hurricanes, tornadoes, and the devastation of real estate development.

The older ones have lived through eras of war, stock-market crashes, the ragtime age, the jazz age, the disco age, and these trees will survive the veritable hell that is the pop country age.

When I look at my tree I am fascinated by its tenacity. I’m told that these things are hard to kill.

There are about 210 varieties of this particular tree, they are the oldest known flowering species on planet earth. There are fossils of these flowers dating back 100 million years.

This means these plants were alive back when the Tyrannosaurus rex was calling the shots. They also predate honey bees. Which is why this tree…

The wedding was held at an abandoned bank building in small-town Florida. A rundown building. Old security cameras still mounted on the walls. Ballpoint pens on chains. The bride got the venue for a bargain.

I was working as a Sheetrocker at the time. I got off work early and showed up with John Tyler to erect the folding chairs.

There were 40 chairs, the brown kind that were, at one time, responsible for 99 percent of all finger amputations within the U.S.

Next, the caterer arrived. Although, she wasn’t an actual caterer, she was the groom’s grandma. Her name was Marge. She was gray-haired, wiry, from Queens, New York.

Marge barked orders like a jayvee football coach. She had a northern accent that sounded like submachine gun fire, and everything she said sounded like she was supremely ticked off.

Marge and her daughters prepared so much food they had to rent a U-Haul van just to carry all the chafing dishes.

The designated gift area was located at the old walk-up

teller windows. When guests arrived they were to bring presents to the windows that were manned by Laney Daniels and her mom. Laney accepted all gifts and asked guests for valid IDs and account numbers.

Gifts were then stored in the walk-in vault.

The altar was a couple music stands I stole from a local school, both covered in text which read: “Property of Okaloosa Walton Community College.” Which I thought was a nice touch.

And the flowers. You should have seen the magnolias and lilies, Marge did the place up nicely, you would have never recognized the old bank.

Soon, cars began arriving in the parking lot. Before the ceremony, I stood in the safety-deposit-box vault with the bridegroom. I was sick with nerves, holding a book of common prayer in my trembling hands.

“Thanks for doing this,” said the groom, my longtime friend and committed partner…

A filling station. Somewhere near the South Carolina state line. I made a pit stop. I have a long way to get to Charleston. I raced inside the store with both hands gripping my bladder chakra.

I asked the clerk where the bathrooms were.

I was already doing the “I really gotta go” dance. A dance that looks like you’re running in place while also undergoing a public brain seizure.

The guy behind the counter was named Jeremy. I know this because it was on his nametag. Jeremy wore a Metallica shirt. His ballcap was sitting back on his head, revealing a sweaty mop of grayish hair. He was covered in a slick film of sweat, reading an auto magazine. He had a five o’clock shadow that was pushing six thirty.

Jeremy slowly pointed to the bathrooms.

Very. Slowly.

“Bathrooms are back there,” he said.

I was so grateful I almost exploded into a river of pure gratitude.

I walked to the men’s room, stiff-legged, trying not to make any sudden movements that would compromise the integrity of strained urinary muscles.

I grabbed the doorknob.

I tried to turn it. But the door was locked. So I jiggled the knob a few times.

Nothing.

I walked back to the front counter, moving even more gingerly than before, just in case the spirit moved.

“The men’s bathroom is locked,” I said.

Jeremy looked up from his magazine and gazed at me with the same blank stare often seen on the faces of the comatose.

“Your men’s bathroom,” I said again.

He looked at me but remained silent.

“It’s locked,” I said.

He nodded. “Okay.”

I smiled.

I tried to breathe deeply. But not too deeply. Breathing too vigorously flexes the body’s diaphragmatic breathing apparatus, which is located very close to the urethral sphincter. Breathe too deeply with a full bladder and you’ll end up in the ER.

So I went to…

Dan Lovette became an usher at the Baptist church on Easter Sunday, March 26th, 1961. He stood at the door shaking hands, passing out bulletins. Nobody knew Dan.

Weeks earlier, Pastor Lovette had introduced Dan as his older brother.

Dan was a tall man with a soft voice and rough skin. He wore a brown suit that was too small. He hardly spoke. He sat on the front row during sermons. After service, he smoked cigarettes behind the church. People asked the pastor questions about Dan, but he was quiet when it came to his older brother.

Over the years, folks saw a lot of Dan Lovette. He could be seen pushing a mower, changing the church sign, painting clapboards, passing out bulletins on Sundays, or cleaning the sanctuary on Mondays.

Dan lived in a back room of the church. His earthly belongings were: a cot, a hot plate, a coffee pot, a transistor radio, a shaving kit, and one brown suit.

Nobody can forget the Sunday that the pastor announced

he would be baptizing Dan after service. This surprised people. Most thought it was strange that the pastor’s own brother had never been baptized. But no explanation was given.

So, sixty-four church members stood near the creek, watching the tall quiet man wade into shallow water behind his younger brother.

It was a simple ordeal. Down Dan went. Up he came. Applause. Bring on the banana pudding.

But life was not all pudding and baptisms. In 1974, tragedy hit the church. The pastor was in a car accident on his way home from Montgomery, doctors thought he’d had a stroke while driving. Dan sat beside his brother’s hospital bed without sleep or food. He lived beside his brother’s bed, taking care of his brother’s every need.

The next Sunday, Dan Lovette took the pulpit with tired eyes. It was a hushed room. It was the first time any members…

We had no money. We’d been married for less than 24 hours. We rode in my beat-up Ford Ranger, painted primer gray.

My wife was seated directly beside me on the bench seat. Our hands clasped together. Our knees touching.

Trucks used to have bench seats before Planned Parenthood got involved.

We crossed into South Carolina, limping into Charleston County on fumes. The 21-year-old dropout, and his breath-stealing bride.

It was a motel. Not a hotel. Big difference. The guy behind the counter was wearing a wifebeater, reading the box scores.

I approached the counter. “I think we talked on the phone,” I said. “I made a reservation. We’re the newlyweds.”

He lowered his newspaper. He said, “Mazel tov” without dropping the cigarette from the corner of his mouth.

Our room was dated. Orange carpet. Yellow walls. A shower with a rusted drain. The entire room smelled like—how should I put this?—poop.

There were cigarette burns in the bedspread. We slept atop bath towels. We brought our own pillows. The room featured a mermaid night light

with glowing boobs.

The next day we walked through the city. Chucktown was the most exotic city I had ever visited unless you count Texarkana.

The cathedrals, the shops, the cobblestones, the horses and buggies, the single houses, Rainbow Row.

We went out for dinner one night. I think it was the cheapest restaurant in town, not far from a Circle K. I wore my funeral clothes. My wife wore a dress.

The hostess looked at us, wearing our Walmart clothes. “Are you the newlyweds who made a reservation?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, tugging at my necktie.

“We have a special table for you.”

She gave us a table on the…

An old highway. Somewhere in America. Two lanes. No shoulder. Faded yellow lines. Oh, the things you see while driving old American highways will enchant you.

I pass a young woman walking the side of the highway, carrying supermarket bags. She is young. Ponytail. Sunday dress. There is a little boy on a bicycle following her.

This makes me smile. Because I am glad to know children still ride bikes.

When I was a kid, an estimated 69 percent of American children between ages five and 14 rode bikes. Today, it’s down to nine percent. The percentage drops every year.

Growing up, bicycles were our religion. A kid and his bike were invincible. Your bike carried you far from home, into new realms, introducing you to the world at large.

We kids had no technology. We had no social media. No smartphones. The bike was our internet, our phone, and our Instagram.

Used to, our entire neighborhood would be littered with tiny bicycles, scattered in random front yards. And if

you wanted to know where your friends were, you just looked for the bikes.

I pass a Baptist Church, tucked in the trees. Big gravel parking lot. Cars parked everywhere. Mostly trucks or economy cars with muddy tires. No Land Rovers.
The cemetery backs up to a cattle pasture. On the church lawn, I see a couple kids in dress clothes, roughhousing in the grass. If I were a betting man, I’d say one of those kids is about to get his butt reddened.

I pass a baseball park off the highway. And although it’s Sunday, the stands are full. There are players on the field. White polyester uniforms. Parents cheering.

Which is unusual to me.

Because it’s Sunday. When I was a kid, we were not allowed to…

The nameplate over the bus driver’s seat said his name was “B. Love.” Big guy. Broad shoulders. Mid-fifties. Hands the size of supermarket chickens. He was our airport shuttle driver.

Our plane had touched down in Hartsfield-Jackson Third World International Airport. We were riding in the shuttle, which airline passengers affectionately call the meat wagon.

I was riding alongside a lot of people who were trapped in their respective, and invisible, anti-social bubbles, thumbing away on their phones, shutting out the world.

Nobody was socializing. A recent study found that Americans socialize 64 percent less than they did two decades ago. The article went on to say that only one quarter of young Americans physically “hang out” with friends anymore.

But B. Love was breaking through the barrier.

He was a natural comedian. He was happy. He was loud. He was great.

A young family was on their way back from Pigeon Forge when B. Love stared into the rearview mirror and spoke to them. “Remember y’all promised to adopt me?”

The young dad looked up from

his phone. Zoned out. “Huh?” he said.

“Remember,” said B. Love, “you said you’d adopt me, when I picked you up in the shuttle last week.”

“Adopt you?”

“Yep. You said you’d make me your son and take me to Pigeon Forge with you, like one of your kids.”

The young dad finally got the joke. He let out a little laugh, then dutifully went back to scrolling Instagram like his life depended on it.

B. Love was unfazed. He was on a comedic roll. There were some musicians on the bus.

“When you taking me on your next gig?” said B. Love.

One of the musicians replied, “Can you sing harmony?”

She was crying in the airport. A college kid. Maybe 19. She had just goodbyed her family. They hugged each other at least 3,293 times before parting ways.

We were in a long line, waiting to pass through the TSA checkpoint. TSA is the wonderfully unique government institution wherein security agents with cheery dispositions frisk little old ladies and demand them to remove their insulin pumps.

The girl’s eyes were puffy and red. Her nose was stopped up. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her cheeks.

“You should be,” I said. “I’m horrified.”

She smiled.

Then the girl looked back at her family. They were still waving to her in the distance.

“I’ve never flown before,” she said.

“You’re in for a real treat.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I won’t spoil it for you.”

Ahead of us, a barefoot man with a walker was being patted down by TSA agents. His beltless pants fell to the ground, displaying the perpetual whiteness that follows him.

“Nervous?” I asked the girl.

“Little.” She looked at me. “You fly a lot?”

“Some.”

“You have any tips for

me?”

“Plant your corn early.”

“I mean about flying.”

I nodded. “You can use your shoes for a pillow when sleeping in the airport.”

A small trace of another nano-smile worked its way across her face. Meantime, her people were still waving goodbye, as she inched farther away from them.

“That your family?” I said, nodding toward her people.

“Yeah. My mom and sisters. My boyfriend. My little brother is the one on the left.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“He passed away a few weeks ago.”

“Weeks?”

“Last month.”

A crowded airliner. We were somewhere above Virginia. I was sandwiched between two passengers like Prince Albert in a can.

It has been said, if you’re a bad person in this lifetime; if you treat your fellow man poorly; if you live by the code of violence; if you are cruel to elders and children and UPS men; when you die you will wake up in economy class, riding in the middle seat.

Which is where I was.

The guy on my right was tapping on a laptop. The guy on my other side was scrolling TikTok. I had no armrests to speak of.

Throughout the flight, I noticed TikTok Guy kept staring at Laptop Guy. Like he recognized the man. Finally, TikTok Guy leaned over my passenger body to speak to Laptop Guy.

“Excuse me,” said TikTok. “Are you who I think you are, sir?”

Laptop nodded. “I am.”

“Omigod,” said TikTok. “Can I get a picture with you?”

And here is where things got awkward. Because there I was. Stuck between them. Like a man

trapped in hell. Or worse, the DMV.

There was no way to snap a selfie without also capturing the buck-toothed, redhead in the middle seat between them. And I wasn’t wearing any makeup.

I cleared my throat. “Maybe you should wait until we get off the plane to take pictures,” I suggested.

TikTok gestured to Laptop. “Do you KNOW who this is?”

“Yes. He is a man who will still be here when the plane lands.”

“This guy’s famous.”

Laptop shook my hand and recited his name. He was a young guy. Dressed nicely. Matinee-idol smile. I’d never heard of him, but that doesn’t mean anything. I live under a brick.

Laptop…