We went for a walk. Becca and me. Yes, I know that’s bad grammar. But oh well. Whenever my 12-year-old goddaughter visits, we take walks through old Birmingham neighborhoods at dusk. We talk, laugh, and climb impossible hills with our pale, middle-aged, pathetic chicken thighs.

Becca uses one arm to hold me and the other hand to brandish her white cane. She’s gotten pretty good at using the cane.

I remember when Becca had just gone blind, and she wasn’t adept with her cane yet. Now, she can find her way through even the most confusing, disorganized, dangerous, and possibly fatal mazes. Such as, for example, my office.

But mostly, she likes to use her cane to whack me in the shins as we walk. She does this on purpose. She places her cane before my feet and I walk right into it and it always stings like a mother. This gives Becca great pleasure.

The rhythm of our walks usually goes:

Step, step, WHACK! Step, step, WHACK!

“Does that hurt?” she will say with a smile.

“Yes.”

“How bad does it hurt?”

“I don’t know. Bad.”

“Scale of one-to-ten.”

“I need a baseline. How bad is ten?”

“Being burned alive.”

“Then it’s about an eight.”

Step, step, WHACK!

We met a lady who was playing with her grandson on the playground. The kid was on the swingset, swinging next to Becca.

The lady introduced herself. Then the lady asked what I did for a living. I was about to answer but Becca beat me to it.

Mid-swing, Becca shouted, “OMIGOSH! HE IS A WRITER! HE IS MY FAVORITE WRITER IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD! AND HE IS THE BEST WRITER OF ALL TIME HE WRITES ABOUT ME SOMETIMES! AND HE…!”

“That’s enough, Becca,” I whispered. “This woman doesn’t care about all—”

“The best writer of all time?” the woman said.

“She might be a little biased.”

“…HE’S SO AMAZING! DID YOU KNOW HE CAN BURP HIS ABC’S?! AND HE’S AND HE’S THE ONLY PERSON I’VE EVER KNOWN WHO CAN PUT HIS HAND IN HIS ARMPIT AND MAKE NOISES THAT SOUNDS JUST LIKE REAL…!”

“Becca,” I said. “Please, sweetie.” By now, I was blushing.

“…AND HE SAYS TONGUE TWISTERS, REALLY FAST! LIKE THE TONGUE TWISTER THAT SOUNDS LIKE HE’S ABOUT TO SAY THE S-WORD, BUT IT ONLY SOUNDS THAT WAY! DO IT, SEAN!”

“Becca,” I said quietly. “I’m not doing a tongue twister for this nice lady. Now let’s quit bothering this woman.”

“No,” the lady said. “I want to hear it.”

And so, drawing upon my training as a former Second Class Boy Scout, I recited an age-old poem taught to me by Arnold Wannamaker during the fifth grade. A poem which has, through the years, provided me with more warmth and comfort than anything on earth including most major religions:

“I slit a sheet,

“A sheet I slit,

“Upon a slitted sheet I sit.”

The woman applauded me.

“…AND THERE’S SO MUCH MORE TO MY UNCLE SEAN!” shouted Becca, still swinging. “HE CAN WHISTLE! HE CAN DO A BRITISH ACCENT! HE CAN POP HIS TOES WITHOUT USING HIS HANDS! AND HE CAN…!”

I finally removed the talkative little girl from the swing. I was forced to clamp my hand over her mouth because, otherwise, Becca would have recited my Social Security number.

Before we left, the woman said, “I don’t think she likes you very much.”

“She needs to raise her standards,” I said.

And soon, we were once again walking through Birmingham’s neighborhoods. The middle-aged dork, and—evidently—his biggest fan.

Step, step, WHACK! Step, step, WHACK!