The preacher got there early. He was wearing his Sunday clothes. Necktie.

His truck came roaring into the driveway of an ugly old house.

The preacher slid out of the cab. He was old and bent. Hair the color of a retired dandelion. He brought to mind Walter Mathau after a long night.

The elderly cleric grabbed his Bible. He knocked on the front door, straightening his collar.

A young mother answered. Little girl on her hip.

“Thank you for doing this,” the mama said.

He followed her through the dingy house. They were poor, but the house was in perfect order. A lot of people think the poor don’t keep clean houses. This is a Hollywood myth. “You don’t have to be rich to own a dustrag,” the author’s grandmother used to say.

The poor are often proud.

The preacher passed through the den. Tonka trucks littered the floor. A few GI Joes, fallen in the line of duty.

He arrived in the backyard, where he met the Tonka truck owner. A little boy, with a shovel in his

hands. The boy smelled like little-kid sweat. His cheeks, flushed from manual labor.

There was a newly dug hole in the earth beside the boy. There was an object beside the hole, wrapped in a bedsheet. A canine tail poking from beneath the sheet.

The preacher removed his jacket. “You lift her from one side, son, I’ll get the other.”

The boy was strong for his size. And there were holes in his little shoes. It took some doing, but together they placed the heavy remains of Boy’s Best Friend into the ground.

“What do we do now?” asked the boy.

“Now it’s my turn.”

The old man put on his jacket.

The pulpiteer opened his leatherbound book. He read some. He read the one about the Lord being a shepherd, and about the Valley of the Shadow of Death,…

My interview was scheduled for noon. It’s not every day you are a keynote speaker for Miss Bernice’s fourth-grade class career day, via video call. I wore a necktie.

Miss Bernice’s class has been interviewing a lot of people lately about their careers by using video calls. She has been introducing the kids to people with different occupations from all over the U.S.

So far, her class has welcomed guests from all fields. The class has interviewed PhDs, celebrated journalists, famous musicians, chefs, well-known songwriters, people who work in finance, pro fishermen, doctors, and anyone else who drives a Range Rover.

I was scheduled to go on after the decorated navy pilot.

While the fighter pilot gave his presentation, I started to feel like a an idiot. I looked at the little camera image of myself on my laptop screen and cringed. My red hair was disheveled, my face looked tired. The bags beneath my eyes could have been used for a Samsonite ad.

Captain America wowed his audience, and I was trying to remember when

and why I became a writer in the first place.

Truthfully, I don’t know when exactly I first wanted to be a writer. I can’t remember ever NOT wanting to be one.

Still, I think it must have happened officially for me in the fourth grade. That was the year our teacher read “Where the Red Fern Grows.”

She would read aloud to us after lunch period, every weekday for an hour. And she did all the voices.

It takes real talent to do the character voices right.

That beautiful woman with the cat-eye glasses and the coiffed hair possessed such talent. I can never forget that period of my life.

We would file into the classroom after gorging ourselves in the cafeteria. She would turn off the lights, sit by the window, and read to us.

Students would gather around her like disciples…

So here’s something. February 29th is the rarest birthday on the calendar. Did you know that?

There is only a one in a 1,461 chance of being born on February 29th. This means that a leap year baby is more rare than an albino peacock, or purple carrots, or a totoaba fish.

February 29th babies are earthly rarities. And rare things are, by default, noteworthy. I know this to be true because February 29th is Superman’s birthday.

Superman’s real name isn’t Superman, of course. It’s Clark Kent. And, actually, if you’re getting technical, his true name isn’t Clark Kent, either. It’s Kal-El.

Kal-El was born on Planet Krypton. When he was a baby his birth parents sent him to Earth on an infant-sized spaceship shortly before the planet’s natural cataclysm. He was found by a farmer who named him Clark.

I know this because I am a huge Superman fan. And we Superman fans do not call him Superman, if you must know. We call him “Supes.” It is our way.

I am still a

big fan. Currently, Superman comics litter my office. I have Superman statues everywhere. I collect Superman lunchboxes. I grew up wearing Superman underpants.

When I was a kid, every February 29th, I’d sit before our Zenith console TV and watch reruns of the “Adventures of Superman” starring George Reeves, who looked like a regular person, not like a professional wrestler. George Reeves looked like a guy who had put in some time around the queso dip.

The local station broadcasted Superman marathons all day on the 29th. I celebrated his birthday by watching each episode, clutching my figurines, dressed in my little Superman undies.

I had a crummy childhood. My homelife wasn’t the stuff of dreams. Mine was an abusive home. My youth was painted with suicide and gun violence. I failed a grade. I was not a smart child. I had bad teeth. We…

I have here a letter from Randy. “Sean,” the note begins—people are always calling me that. “Do you have any words of wisdom I can give to my son?

“My son, Jason, is getting married on Friday, and I am responsible for his wedding toast. I’d like some wisdom to pass on, the only problem is, I don’t have any.”

Well, Randy, I asked a handful of friends for words of wisdom from elders in their lives.

The rules were simple, the wisdom giver had to (a) be over 75, and (b) they had to be—technically—still alive. The deadline for submission was yesterday. The maxims and folk expressions came in from all over the US.

Here are some:

LINDA, 91—Being frugal doesn’t mean you have to be cheap. Being cheap doesn’t help anyone, and it takes the fun out of life. My late husband was so cheap he wouldn’t have paid a nickel to see Jesus riding a bicycle.

SIMON, 82—A lot of people are into fitness, and that’s great, I guess. But you can’t live longer, you can only

live deeper.

BEVA, 89—Happiness is a town halfway between Too Little and Too Much.

RITA, 83—American girls need to eat real food. Eat until you have to unbutton your pants now and then. Heavensake, there are girls on TV so skinny you can’t even see their shadow.

JERRY, 80—Being rich isn’t the same as being comfortable. My uncle was so rich, he bought a new boat every time the other one got wet. And he was miserable.

ROBYN, 78—Even if someone is ugly to you, don’t be ugly back.

DANNY, 91—This is a generation of workaholics. On the farm, we stopped work every day at three to enjoy our life. But young people today are busier than a cat covering crap on a marble floor. Slow down.

SAM, 88—Being humble don’t mean you ain’t got your pride. But a Rolls-Royce…

Somewhere in Georgia. An old cafe. Vinyl booth seats. Duct tape on the cushions. Country music overhead. Reba is singing about Fancy.

The waitress is young. Maybe sixteen. She is wearing dental braces. She’s dressed in the local high-school colors. She is pregnant.

Far as I can tell, she’s the only waitress on duty.

She takes my order, and apologizes in advance for slow service.

“Ain’t got no other waitresses today,” she explains. “And I’m pregnant.”

“How far along?”

“Seven months.”

“Is the baby kicking a lot?”

“Hardly even moves. I asked my doctor when my baby would finally move. Doctor said, ‘With any luck, after he graduates college.’”

The waitress is in the weeds today. Her dining room is full. She tells all customers there is going to be a wait. But people don’t seem to mind. They don’t get worked up in small towns.

While I wait, I look around. The dining room features all types. Men in camo. Workers in neon vests. Muddy boots galore.

Young marrieds, nestled in booths, speaking animatedly with one another.

Old married couples, hardly speaking. You can always tell a couple who

has been married a while. They barely speak.

Last week, for example, my cousin and I were on a golf course. We overheard an elderly couple having a sparse conversation. The old man said, “Honey, if I died, would you remarry again?”

“No sweetie,” she said.

“I’m sure you would.”

“Well,” she said. “Maybe I would.”

He said, “Would you let him sleep in our bed?”

“I guess so.”

“Would you let him drive my truck?”

“I suppose.”

“Would you let him use my clubs?”

She replied, “No, he’s left handed.”

Also in the dining room today are a bunch of high-schoolers. I don’t know why they aren’t in school. They seem to be friends with the waitress.

They’re laughing with her. Being loud. Playfully giving her a hard time.…