I am in the backseat of our van, sitting in a tiny, hollowed-out cavern of stuff.

We are traveling to Tennessee and Kentucky this weekend where I will be performing my one-man shipwreck at theaters where, if I’m lucky, I’ll get a standing ovation like a few nights ago. Although to be fair, the ovation was moving toward the exits. Also, they weren’t clapping.

So anyway, my wife is driving. My cousin Randa is in the passenger seat. And here I sit, trapped in the backseat. Boxed in by hordes of cardboard crates, musical instruments, hanging clothes, T-shirt containers, and one female mannequin torso whom I have nicknamed “Dolly.”

Dolly models our T-shirts at the merchandise table after shows. Dolly is extremely shapely and very talented. Currently, due to our overpacked vehicle, Dolly’s talent is shoved directly in my face.

Sometimes, Dolly is my only friend in the backseat. I have long conversations with her because she understands me. Although, sometimes I worry about her. I think that on some level, deep inside herself, Dolly feels hollow.

Meanwhile, Jamie and Randa are blissfully unaware that I am having conversations with foam-core representations of female thoraxes. They’re far too busy talking.

That’s mostly what female persons do on long road trips. They talk. I realize this statement is a broad generalization, but as is so often the case, I don’t care.

Currently, Jamie and Randa are eating their Chick-fil-A salads, and talking with the trademarked hushed whispers females use whenever gossiping.

Sometimes I chime in from the backseat to ask the ladies who they are gossiping about. This annoys them. They assure me they AREN’T gossiping, they’re just TALKING, so mind your own business, dammit.

Then they tune me out.

And I go back to hanging out with Dolly who,…

The bag of vegetables magically appeared on our front porch along with beer. I looked around for angels and wisemen.

Then I turned to my wife, saying, “Ray, is this heaven?”

She looked at me flatly. “Who’s Ray?”

You have to worry about this woman.

So, we brought the vegetables inside and commenced admiring the produce. Admiring beautiful things is every bit as euphoric as experiencing them.

We held the heirloom tomatoes in our hands, and just appreciated the mere weight of them.

Oh. Has there ever been anything more heavensent than a homegrown tomato? I lifted it to the light. It was so round, so firm, so fully packed.

“Look at this thing,” I said, gently caressing its supple curves.

My wife yanked the tomato from my hands. “Go take a cold shower.”

All other tomatoes were equally as glorious. Bright crimson skin, beautiful little stems, each fruit with little bits of gnarl on the surface.

Everyone knows the best tomatoes have gnarl on the outside. This

gnarl is rarely talked about, rarely appreciated, but it’s important. Good gnarl gives the tomato personality, and makes the tomato an individual.

Gnarl comes in different variations. There’s “catfacing,” which is the grayish brown puckering and scarring portion at the blossom end of a tomato. Usually the bottom. Catfaced tomatoes are misshapen and lovely, and often taste like cherubs singing Handel.

Then there’s “zippering.” This effect is a zipper-like scar on the tomato. My mother used to grow tomatoes; she said this happens when the flower’s stamen sticks to the side instead of shedding cleanly. A zippered tomato is worth driving across at least four state lines.

And of course, there are the beautifully decadent common growth cracks. There is nothing like a…

Dear kid,

I know this is a hard day for you. It’s hard because everyone in the known solar system is throwing a party for their dad, and you’re not.

It’s difficult, because everyone’s family is posting happy pictures of themselves online, but yours isn’t. Difficult, because at every little church, in every region, all over this country, small-town preachers, priests, pastors, and parishioners are honoring fathers publicly. At which point services conclude and everyone tries to beat the Methodists to the Mexican restaurant.

For this reason you’ve grown to dislike this holiday. You feel a dull pain on this calendar date, and you’d rather forget the occasion even exists.

But I want to remind you that today is actually a beautiful day. Believe me. Even though it doesn’t feel that way to you now, take my word for it. Today is magical because dadhood itself is magical.

Fatherhood, in all its various forms, be it successful or screwed-up, heroic or tragic, wonderful or painful, is magnificent. Because being a dad means you helped create new

life.

Life.

Think of that. Have YOU ever created anything that incredible? When I was your age, the coolest thing I’d ever actually created was a papier-mâché castle with a moat made of cellophane, and the role of King Arthur played by Stretch Armstrong.

But your dad helped create actual biological life. Years ago, during a moment of pure love, your dad and your mom brought life into this world. Your life. Your beautiful, rich, vibrant, amazing life. Your dad had a part in that.

Yes, I’m aware that you probably don’t feel like your life is rich and vibrant and beautiful right now. I get that. But that’s the grand illusion of life itself. But someday you’ll unsee the illusion. Someday, you’ll see life…