There is something about this part of Florida. There is a certain feel to it, the closer you get to the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe it’s the cashiers at rural gas stations who call you “sugar” even though they are still in high school.

Or it could be the American flags in the abandoned field, next to the giant crucifix made of hay bales. Or the large sign next to a little country church that reads: “Body Piercing Saved My Life.”

I drive through Starke, I pass a band of Hari Krishnas standing at the traffic light. A bald man in a white tunic is playing bongos, another is playing the kazoo.

A woman knocks on my vehicle window. She looks just like my aunt Eulah, only she wears a sari and facepaint.

“Hey, sugar,” she says. “Blessings upon y’all.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say.

“You want a flyer?”

“Why not.”

“Have a nice day, sugar.”

I am not interested in Hari Krishna, but this woman looks like

she could be kin. When I look at her, I cannot shake the idea that I am talking to my aunt Eulah.

The same aunt who I once stayed with for an entire summer. And when my cousin and I got caught placing an M-80 in the neighbor’s mailbox, she had to discipline me.

I never forgot that. She made me go into the yard and pick out my own hickory switch.

“My own what?” I said.

“You heard me, a hickory switch.”

“What does a hickory tree look like?”

“You’re walking on thin ice young man.”

I drive past a Christmas tree farm surrounded by free-range ostriches. Every few feet there are huge live oaks with Spanish moss in the branches.

Hampton is nice, so is Keystone Heights. Ever since Lake City, I have counted sixteen thousand Baptist…

Willie Nelson is on my radio. He is singing one of my favorite songs.

“In the twilight glow I see her,
“Blue eyes crying in the rain,
“When we kissed goodbye and parted,
“I knew we’d never meet again…”

I turn it up because I am a sucker for this tune. Though, I’m not sure why. When I was a boy, the lyrics never made sense to me.

After all, nobody with blue eyes ever cried in the rain for me. And I certainly didn’t have blue eyes. My eyes are gray. My mother used to say my eyes were the color of our pump shed.

Even so, there’s something about this tune that moves me. I can close my gray eyes and go back in time.

And I see my father’s work bench in the garage. A radio sits beside a chest of mini-drawers that is filled with bolts, nuts, screws, washers, and rubber grommets.

Crystal Gayle is singing “Don’t it Make

my Brown Eyes Blue?”

Then Willie begins playing over the speaker. My father turns it up.

“Love is but a dying ember,
“Only memories remain,
“Through the ages, I’ll remember,
“Blue eyes crying in the rain…”

And I am holding a GI Joe doll, watching a tall, skinny man work on something beneath a shop lamp, holding a screwdriver.

He does all his own repairs, this man. Because he believes it is wasteful to hire people to do work you could do yourself. Just like it’s disgraceful, and even unforgivable, to throw away refrigerator leftovers.

The people I come from are proud and self-sufficient, and they are not above eating ten-week old meatloaf that has turned Sea Foam Green. They cut their own hair. And their own lawns.

When I started travelling a lot for work, I hired a yardman to…

Dear Miss Jean Lee,

I don’t know if you remember me or not, but I remember getting our photo taken together at the Methodist church in Enterprise. You put your arms around me. You squeezed.

I know a good hugger when I meet one. You gave me the same kind of hug my granny used to give.

It was the same way my mother used to hug me, too, just after I’d skinned my knee. She would squeeze me and say, “Sssshhh, it’s gonna be okay.”

Mothers always say that.

I am a connoisseur of good hugs. I collect as many as I can. I have collected hugs that came from as far away as Michigan—which is as far north as I have ever traveled.

But none can compete with your hugs. Yours are top-shelf.

There are people in life who are special. When they walk away, they leave you in better shape than they found you. These are the sort who hug well.

I

used to work with a woman like this. Her name was Millie, we worked in a commercial kitchen together. She was an elderly black woman with a happy face and large eyes.

She was your all-American cook. She could prepare food that would cause people to stand up, throw their napkins on the floor, and shout.

She was a hugger, too. Before each shift, the waiters and waitresses would all get hugs from her. Myself included.

One time, I remember a twenty-one-year-old girl was upset because her boyfriend left her. Millie held that girl for nearly thirty minutes saying, “Ssssssshhhhh.”

Her culinary creations were the products of a lifetime spent before stoves. Her gumbo, for instance, could heal a broken heart. She made fried chicken so good that even barnyard chickens idolized her.

She passed from pancreatic cancer. The kitchen staff all attended the funeral…

I’m standing in a Walmart self-checkout line behind four elderly men. They are wearing polo shirts, tucked into khakis. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re on vacation.

They are pushing a cart full of food, toiletries, and beer. The checkout line is long.

One man says, “I don’t know why they have these god-forsaken self-checkout lanes. I don’t wanna check my ownself out.”

One of my favorite old-man words happens to be “ownself.” It’s even better in its plural form, “ownselfs.”

“Yeah,” adds another man. “It’s just like when they did away with full-service gas stations, remember those?”

“Back when you could get your windshield cleaned, tank filled, a Ko-Kola, and didn’t even have to get outta your car.”

“You know, I reckon if someone tried to wash a fella’s windshield today, the driver would be so shocked he’d think he was getting mugged.”

“Hey, I got mugged once. In Chicago. I thought it was a joke at first.”

“Did he beat you up?”

“Wasn’t a he. It was a woman.”

“A woman mugged you? Did she want your wallet?”

“She certainly didn’t want my body.”

“I’ve never been mugged.”

“Me neither. Ain’t never even been to Chicago.”

“Heard they have a bad smell downtown.”

“Ain’t that bad. Just watch out for the lady muggers.”

“How does this self-checkout thingy work? Are we supposed to just scan things our ownselfs?”

“Here, let me do it, Don, I self-checkout stuff all the time back home.”

“I don’t understand, why we can’t just have a cashier, what was wrong with cashiers?”

“The world’s changing.”

“It sure is. Just yesterday, my grandson asked me to watch a movie on his iPad, he kept pausing it every two seconds to answer texts. He can’t focus for more than a minute.”

“I don’t text.”

“Me either.”

“Yeah, I…

I’m watching my dog run on the beach. She’s running alongside the waves. She stops every few moments to stare.

She’s not too sure about waves.

Last week, it was Father’s Day, and I’m a father—well, almost. I have a bloodhound named Thelma Lou. That’s almost like being a father. The only difference, of course, is that human babies don’t chew your wallet then poop inside your boot.

You read that right. My dog didn’t poop ON my boot—as in the exterior. She did her business INSIDE my boot. The basic physics behind this acrobatic marvel are astounding. I only wish I could’ve captured it on video, it would’ve been worth millions.

So poop in a boot, that makes me a father. At least this is what I’m going with.

People without kids, like me, still have the same amount of love parents have. That love has to go somewhere. That’s where dogs come in.

My first dog was a border collie. My father bought it. We named it Pooch. Pooch was bred to herd sheep, but since there were

no sheep around, he herded redheads.

When my mother yelled my name, Pooch would dart off the porch like a bullet. He’d circle me, yelping, nipping. When he died, I thought a piece of me died.

My next dog was Goldie. A retriever. Long, pretty hair, happy face. I raised her from a pup.

Goldie was Hell on Wheels. She lived beside me. She slept while I did homework, she chased baseballs. In the woods, when I was busy with little-boy things, like catching frogs, or swinging on limbs, she watched over me.

Cody was next. She was my father’s dog. She was a chocolate dog who loved my father. I can close my eyes and see him strolling from the barn to the shed, Cody trailing two feet behind him.

When he died, she laid on a pile of…

WASHINGTON, D.C.—I am in town for the American Library Association’s annual conference. Imagine: fifty gazillion librarians, mostly women, wearing tennis shoes, pearls, and smiles.

Did I say fifty gazillion? Let’s make it five hundred gazillion.

I met an old woman from Kansas. She is a librarian in a small town of two hundred. I met a librarian from Martha’s Vineyard, one from Key West, a few from Salt Lake City, Sacramento, Lexington, Las Vegas, Sheboygan.

I met a guy from Morgantown, West Virginia, the hometown of Don Knotts. I met a woman from Andy Griffith’s hometown, in Mount Airy, North Carolina.

It was a busy day. I shook hands, hugged necks, and in a few cases, kissed librarians from every state in the U.S., including Alaska, and Hawaii.

Also, some from Shanghai, Puerto Rico, Iran, Montpellier, Moscow, Greenland, Sydney, South Africa, and one from Auburn University.

I have history with librarians. I was a seventh-grader when I dropped out of school, after my father’s suicide. My family’s life went down the

toilet.

At some point during my youth, I started visiting the library. And I visited a lot.

The library was a dilapidated building. It smelled like mildew and old paper. It had floor heaters, mouse traps in the corners, and a bathroom not quite big enough to hold a representative of the Lollipop Guild.

The librarian was a slight, elderly woman who wore tennis shoes and pearls. She would often find me wandering the aisles and ask what book I was looking for.

She knew who I was. And she knew about my educational failures.

“I don’t know which book I want,” I would often reply.

One day, she handed me the book Lonesome Dove.

“Do you like cowboys?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“You’ll like this,” she went on. “I’d bet money on it.”

I took…

I am waiting for my wife to get ready. We are going out to dinner. She is in the bathroom. I see her in front of a mirror, pinching her belly. She asks if I think she is fat.

“No,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I feel fat.”

“You aren’t.”

“How about now?”

“Still no.”

“What about from this angle?”

“Negative.”

“From this side?”

“Nope.”

“What about when I turn around?”

“No.”

“How about when I hike up one leg, spin in circles, and recite the Pledge of Allegiance?”

“No.”

“Do you REALLY mean it?”

“If you were any skinnier you’d have to stand up five times just to make a shadow. Now can we please go to dinner?”

“But I feel fat.”

My whole life has been spent in the company of women. When my father died, he left me in a house of estrogen. There, I learned something about the opposite gender.

Namely, women often think they are fat. And they are always wrong about this, no matter what their size.

It isn’t their

fault. Every printed advertisement and commercial tells them to feel this way. But it wasn’t always like this.

Things were different seventy-five years ago. Back then, nobody went around saying Marilyn Monroe looked like a North Atlantic whale, or told Doris Day she needed to go paleo.

People weren’t this obsessed with being skinny. Consequently, American families ate more bacon, and butter. And you know what they say: “The family that eats bacon and butter together, stays together.”

But things have changed. Famous women from bygone eras would be called “large” or “fluffy” in today’s world.

Marilyn Monroe, for instance, would be considered a Clydesdale. Barbara Eden, a Holstein. Ginger and Mary Ann wouldn’t have a chance with their muffin-tops. Daisy Duke would be playing the part of Boss Hogg.

Last…