Washington, North Carolina. She was small. White hair. A slow, shuffling gait. She wore Velcro shoes.

She was 94. She came through the meet-and-greet line after my one-man shipwreck. She waited her turn patiently, while I ran my mouth, signed books, and kissed babies.

When it was her turn, we embraced. She spoke in a quiet tone. I leaned inward, straining to hear her whispery voice over the murmuring crowd that mingled in the lobby.

The message was short. But important. A message she had waited 94 years to learn. Of course, at the time I had no idea she was delivering a message at all. At first, I just thought I was meeting a sweet, beautiful 94-year-old woman.

“Tell the people,” she said in a whisper.

I smiled. “Ma’am?”

“Tell them,” she said.

She was weak on her feet, holding my belt with both hands for support. But smiling at me.

I returned fire with my most polite smile. I leaned in even closer.

“Tell them?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What should I tell them? And who am I supposed to tell?”

She pulled me closer. “Tell your

loved ones how much you love them.”

There were tears in her little eyes.

“And don’t just tell them,” she added. “Show them. Show them how much you love them.”

“Show them?”

“Don’t ever miss a moment to show them love. Give all your love away. Until you’re empty. This is the only reason we are here. And we’re not here nearly long enough.”

Her words were brief, but something in the delivery touched me. She was still clasping my belt for balance.

“Do you understand?” she said.

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I think I do.”

“Tell them.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I dabbed an eye. “I will.”

“Show them.”

I blew my nose loudly. “I will, ma’am. I will try.”

“Good,” she gave a broad smile. “Now, have a great rest of your…

Day two of our Great American road trip.

Our little white van rolls into the Walmart Supercenter in Raleigh, North Carolina. My wife and I step out and stretch our muscles in the parking lot.

“Sandwiches?” my wife says.

“Yep,” I reply.

My wife has been driving the last shift. She uses this opportunity to do yoga stretches while simultaneously catching up on missed texts. She does this, skillfully, by placing her phone on the pavement beneath her while performing a uniquely unflattering squatting pose, a position which I call “Bear in the Woods.”

Then she scrolls on her phone while random onlookers watch her, squatting and concentrating on the pavement. You can see looks on people’s faces. Bystanders are seriously wondering to themselves whether any public sanitation laws are being violated.

My wife and I have been road warriors for the last decade. We have traversed almost the entire US in our tiny Ford Transit, taking my one-man train wreck to various theaters, civic centers, campus auditoriums, and used car dealership grand

openings.

I doubt whether my wife envisioned marrying a man whose livelihood was showbusiness, but there you are.

We are a showbiz team. George and Gracie. Fred and Ethel. Mork and Mindy. She works behind the scenes, sending emails, fielding phone calls, and just generally making our whole lives possible. I am simply eye candy.

My wife, for example, drives the bus. She prefers to drive. I know this because whenever I get behind the wheel she grips the chicken handle with both hands and recites the Lord’s Prayer.

Mostly, we putter along the United States in our own mental zones, without conversing. She drives; I am the passenger-seat princess.

Often, I practice material for upcoming shows. I am usually playing a fiddle with mute affixed to the bridge; or a banjo with a sock stuffed inside. Likewise, my wife will be listening to an audiobook, ‘90s…

There is a double yellow line running down the middle of State Street, in Bristol. The line separates Tennessee from Virginia.

Passersby stand with one foot in each state and get their pictures made. People who do this look comical and downright ridiculous.

We pulled over so I could do this.

Namely, because this is Bristol. And American music still lives in Bristol.

The rest of the world has gone techno. Even country music has succumbed to the wiles of the “scrolling generation.” But in Bristol, it’s still the 1920s.

I have been playing music since I was 9 years old. And I owe a lot to Bristol.

In 1998, US Congress stopped shooting spitwads at each other long enough to officially declare Bristol the birthplace of country music. And yet, many Americans still don’t realize this is where it all began.

“A lot of people in this country don’t even know Bristol is related to country music,” says one local waitress, warming up my coffee. “But this is where the big bang happened.”

Today, most people travel to Nashville to pay homage to country music, only to find themselves caught in 24-hour gridlock traffic, non-stop outlet malls, and eternal bachelorette parties clad in white cowboy boots, custom T-shirts, operating giant pedal-buses down Lower Broadway.

But I choose Bristol.

It all began in the summer of 1927. Coolidge was president. Babe Ruth was a household name. Lindbergh was making headlines. Silent movies were no longer silent.

Ralph Peer, a freelance producer for the Victor Talking Machine Company in Camden, New Jersey, visited Bristol. He set up a temporary studio in Christian-Taylor Hat Company warehouse on State Street, beside the train station and the hotel.

The newspaper ran a story saying Ralph would record almost anyone who walked through the doors.

They came from all over Appalachia, all seeking their 15 minutes. They drove raggedy Model A’s along the jagged spines…

It was only an experiment. I wanted to see if I could change America in only one day by being the nicest person on earth for 24 hours.

I’m not talking normal-nice. I’m talking OBSCENELY nice. I’m talking do-you-need-a-kidney nice.

It should be noted, I’m not nice in real life. I’m just a regular person. Sure, I’d like to consider myself friendly—kind of. And, certainly, if a motorist on the highway has a flat tire I always pray for them as I speed by.

“But what if I acted differently today?” I thought to myself. I wondered, would niceness actually change this country?

“Being nice can change the world,” I’ve often heard it said.

So I conducted research.

And so it was, I started my day by forcing myself to smile. Not just sometimes, mind you. But ALL the time. For the entire day. When I showered, I smiled. When I drank coffee: smiled.

Because niceness starts with oneself, I’ve been told. Which is why when I combed my hair, I repeatedly told my reflection how handsome he

was.

Next, I took my dog for a walk and I smiled whenever I passed other dog-walkers who were solemnly on their potty-walks before sunrise, caffeine deprived and dismal, with right hands snugly covered by Little Blue Baggies of Death. I hope you never learn about Little Blue Baggie of Death.

I smiled bigly. I made eye contact. I’d like to think my smiling made these people feel good because many of them picked up their pace. In fact, some of them started walking so fast they were practically sprinting away from me.

The next thing I did to change America was offer to help people in public, even if they didn’t need it.

There was, for example, the old man at the store who couldn’t get his buggy unstuck from a mess of shopping carts. So I helped him.

When I…

We did not choose Otis. We let our oldest dog, Thelma Lou, pick him out. She was just a puppy. We felt strongly that Thelma deserved to choose her own brother since, after all, she would be the one stuck sniffing his butt for the next 12 years.

And so it was, one summer afternoon we took Thelma to the adoption fair at the local dog rescue.

Everyone had turned out. Families galore. Parents in work uniforms, holding the hands of excited kids. Lots of glee.

We walked inside. The first thing that hit me was that powerful bouquet of puppy breath, disinfectant, and urine. The dogs were barking so loud you couldn’t think.

We had a lot of dogs to meet. Jamie and I split up to cover more ground.

Of course, I fell in love with all the sick dogs. Jamie found me holding a little dog named Amber in my arms. Amber was about the size of a Beanie Baby, underweight.

My wife told me to put her down. She reminded me this

was not my decision. This was Thelma Lou’s choice.

“But,” I pointed out, “just LOOK at her.”

My wife removed the animal from my arms.

So, with Thelma on a leash, dragging me through the labyrinth of kennels, we interviewed all dogs. Thelma inspected each cage carefully. Rears were sniffed. But the multitude of butts had been found wanting.

At some point we passed Jamie, she was cradling a little white dog who was missing an ear. She was holding the puppy like a newborn, declaring her love to the animal.

“No,” I reminded her.

“But,” Jamie offered, “just LOOK at her.”

Thelma dragged me to the ends of the earth. But she found no suitors. Each puppy we encountered was either too yappy, too little, too weakly, too chill, too alpha, too excitable, or too whatever.

That’s when I noticed a pen in…

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, one hot plate, a coffee pot, a transistor radio, 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, a few dozen 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. Thirteen years later, 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 took the pulpit with tired eyes. It was a hushed room. It was the first time any…