Dear Lily,

You should know, I come from a long line of uncles who give bad advice. And it's my duty as your new uncle to tell you this, upfront.

When I was eight, my uncle advised me the best way to lose weight was to eat kudzu. My other uncle laughed at this and said, the secret was, in fact, smoking more cigarettes.

So, since we uncles have no good advice, I'm going to tell you what my AUNT told me instead. She cupped her hands around her ears and said, “Learn to listen. It'll make you smart."

I suppose she's right. After all, the wisest folks

listen a lot, which is why you don't see them going around munching on kudzu salads, puffing on Camels.

Anyway, maybe you'll listen better than I do. Because I run my mouth so often it's a wonder I still have a voice. Let's just say, I'm not exactly the fella you want to go see a movie with.

If you do learn to open you ears, good for you. It will change you. You'll start to realize that other people's lives have more importance than you thought.

Like the woman at Dobb's…

I was sixteen the first time I visited his farm. He came riding up the valley hillside like something out of a movie. He looked like John Wayne, only shorter, with white hair.

At the time, I was a lonely kid who wanted to learn to ride. We became friends. I shared my first adulthood beer with him. There's a difference between childhood beer and adulthood beer. You guzzle one, sip the other.

Or maybe it's the other way around.

We sat on the back of his truck. He popped the bottle-cap using his belt buckle. It was marvelous. I've attempted this trick at least a million times.

Once, I even cut my hand trying. Ten stitches later, I still can't do it.

"You know," he said, one day while overlooking the valley. "I'd rather die than live in the city.”

Me too.

And that's why I spent so much time on his farm. I helped him plant pecan trees. I cleaned stalls, cut grass, roofed his shed, painted his barn. He tried to pay me. I didn't want money. I had no father; his son was a meth-addict.

Yesterday, I drove past a place that reminded me of his.…

My friend's son, Hayden, had a rough first day of school. Some kid in his class—who looks like a sophomore linebacker—gave nine-year-old Hayden a bloody lip then busted his cellphone on the pavement. To say Hayden was sad, would've been a gross understatement.

I've seen happier faces on abandoned puppies.

Listen up, Hayden. I don't know much, but I know a few things about bullies. Though we shouldn't call them that—it's politically incorrect. Today, we refer to these aggressive individuals as miserable little pricks. And I want you to know something: these people can not beat you.

While I have your attention, I'm going to tell you the most

crucial thing any nine-year-old needs to know: buy health insurance—when you're older. And: don't ever play craps in Biloxi on a cold table. But also, what I said earlier: hateful people can't beat you.

They can't.

They might talk about you, or say horrid things. They can belittle, degrade, and when they're finished, celebrate with ice cream. They'll exclude you, call your mama ugly, visit Disney World without you, tee-tee on your tires, steal what's yours, demote you, hog the limelight, and even fire you.

They will fight you. And I…

If I had to guess, I'd say heaven will be a long buffet line. I can't think of anything more fitting for the afterlife than a Wednesday night potluck. Especially something like the one I ate at last week.

I counted the number of white-hairs in the little fellowship hall, then counted the number of plastic-covered dishes.

Same number.

These church ladies have every virtue known to mankind. They slave in the kitchen selflessly, show patience, dedication, and they do not know how to tell a lie. Maybe I'm overdoing it. But I don't think so.

Take, for instance, Verna. She's got white hair. But don't let that fool

you. She can outcook any young woman in the church something fierce.

Her fried chicken is well-known around the region. The man in line ahead of me almost made a gold brick in his pants over this chicken. But that's nothing compared to Verna's creamed corn—which is above description. And her biscuits.

Jesus help me.

Her children have tried to duplicate her biscuits. They can't do it. Her daughter tells me she once followed her mother's recipe—let the dough sour, and used real lard—but she still couldn't seem to make them…