December 13th—there is a meteor shower tonight. That’s what they tell me. They say it will be a good one.

I am on a porch, waiting to make a Christmas wish on a falling star. But it’s raining.

If this rain ever lets up, I know what I’ll wish for first:

I am going to wish for a lifetime supply of cheese.

Laugh all you want. But when I was ten, I sat at a campfire with my Little League teammates and I saw a shooting star. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. I wished for endless cheese.

My buddies cackled. They told me I’d wasted my wish.

“You poop monger!” My buddy Allen said, “You should’ve wished for MORE WISHES! That way you could have all the cheese you wanted.”

Consequently, until that day, I had never heard of a “poop monger.” I’ve never heard of one again, either.

My friend Reynold reasoned, “You should’ve wished for endless MONEY, then you could’ve BOUGHT all the

cheese in the world!”

“Yeah,” my cousin remarked. “And girls would automatically like you because you’re rich. That’s always a plus.”

Well, hooey.

I wanted cheese. Not wishes. Besides, I’ve never been very good with money or girls.

Cheese is my game. I could live on smoked Gouda. I could bathe in melted Swiss and use spray cheese for hair conditioner.

Growing up, whenever we ran out of cheese, it was like the Great Depression in my house. I would lie on my side for forty days and forty nights, praying for a miracle.

Tonight, if I see a second falling star, I will also make another Christmas wish. This one is equally important.

I will wish for you and me to have our best day ever.

You might think I’m joking, but I’m serious about this…

Brewton—it’s cold and wet in South Alabama. Forty-nine degrees. In this part of the world, that’s cold enough to cancel school and make snow angels in the mud.

Last night, the town was supposed to pepper the sidewalks with luminaries—little paper bags with candles in them. But it was too wet.

It’s too bad. You ought to see those lights. They line Evergreen and Belleville and take your breath away.

Last year for Christmas, I strolled down Belleville Avenue with my wife to see the luminaries, I marveled at how beautiful they were.

There was a live-action nativity at the Methodist church. Children played the roles of Mary, Joseph, and stable animals. One kid was dressed like a cow with the biggest set of udders you’ve ever seen.

My connection to this city is my wife, she grew up here. Long ago, these people sort of adopted me, when nobody else would.

I’m in town for an early Christmas celebration with her family today. I stop at Walmart to

buy a few things before the party.

I see someone I know in the produce section. They shout my name. I hug their neck. We talk.

I see two more people in the meat department. More conversation, more hugs. More talking.

In the beer aisle, I see five people I know. But we don’t even make eye contact. These are my fellow Southern Baptists.

I stand in the checkout line, and I’m behind a woman who I know from Pensacola. She is from my childhood. The mother of a good friend of mine. I’m surprised to see her in Brewton.

“What’re you doing in town?” I ask her.

“My husband’s family lives here,” she says. “What about you?”

“Same.”

“You know,” she goes on, “they say everyone in the world has SOME kinda connection to Brewton.”

And I…

Milton, Florida—brick buildings. Old houses. Cute storefronts.

My wife and I roll into town early. The Imogene Theater is our destination for the evening. I’m here to tell a few stories at a benefit for Big Brothers Big Sisters of Northwest Florida.

Everyone tells me this theater is haunted, but I don’t buy it. I was raised by evangelicals. Believe in ghosts? We didn’t even believe in two-piece bathing suits.

This old opera house has been standing since 1912. Hank Williams played here once. So did Roy Acuff, and Minnie Pearl. My late father would’ve danced a jig if he’d known I was taking the same stage as Hank.

Anyway, they say the ghost’s name is Miss Imogene. She roams this auditorium, along with many others.

The stories are all alike. Some report hearing things, some claim to see a girl wandering the balcony. Paranormal enthusiasts around the nation believe this theater is a gathering place for metaphysical beings.

But not me. That’s kid stuff.

I am given the dime

tour of the old hall. There are tall ceilings, stunning acoustics, and ornate woodwork. There is a rope and pulley system outside, once used to hoist steamer trunks for vaudeville performers.

“Here’s your dressing room,” the man says, flipping a lightswitch. “Can you believe Hank changed his clothes in this VERY room?”

“Really?”

“Yep. Hey, maybe he’s even in this room with us now.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I tell the man.

“Good,” he says. “Then you won’t mind if I leave Hank in here with you? He’s been getting in my way all day.”

Soon, I am in the dressing room alone. I’m thinking about things.

Mainly, how thrilled my father would have been to know I was in a room where Minnie Pearl once did…

1:12 A.M.—I’m in a motel room. It’s a rundown motel with a queen bed that’s about as soft as industrial plywood.

The place smells like mildew. I found a cockroach under my pillow. I named it Bill. I told Bill to get out of my bed and sleep in the bathroom.

The whole world is asleep. I am eating a tuna salad sandwich, watching a holiday special on TV.

I just got in from playing music. I haven’t played with my buddies in awhile, and I didn’t realize how much I missed the old band.

Lately, I have been writing and traveling so much I haven’t gotten to see them. But it all came back to me tonight.

The joint was like every waterhole you’ve ever visited. Neon signs, graffiti in the men’s bathroom, good burgers, a bartender who calls everyone “pal.”

The patrons in this glorified shack were salt-of-the-earth people. They were shouting over each other, laughing, eating. The characters were all the same, but with different

names.

The manager: perpetually mad at the world.

The waitress: tired.

The loud man at the bar: a traveling sales rep.

The musician: refers to everyone as “man.” Even women and innocent children.

I sort of grew up in places like this. These are my people. I was eighteen when I started playing music for a living. In my daytime hours, I would work construction. At nighttime, I would play in spots like this.

On Sundays I would play at church.

The first night I ever played in an actual beer joint was for a Christmas party. I was nervous. People were smoking cigarettes, wearing holiday hats. There were bouncers at the doors. Folks were dancing, holding their belt buckles.

I was raised as a dyed-in-the-wool Baptist. The only dancing I’d ever seen was in a Gene Kelly movie—my mother…

You are a writer. You open your laptop. You’re inspired today.

This means you might write something profound that will change the way you see the world, life, and the nature of love. But then you suddenly realize that this can never happen.

Because you have dogs.

You can’t write today because you can’t concentrate. The dogs are making too much noise, scratching at the back door.

So you let them outside.

When you get back to your keyboard, you sit to write something.

This is going to be glorious. You can feel it. You might write your best stuff ever today.

You’ve already got the story. You’re going to write about an elderly veteran you interviewed in Georgia, who has dozens of miniature American flags in his front yard. Now THAT’S a good story, and in it you’ll include—

Scratching.

Just forget about the noise and keep writing.

Scratching.

Pay no attention to them. Focus, Grasshopper.

Scratching.

You let the dogs inside.

They bound indoors and begin to play

so hard they knock over a coffee table. Then, even though your Labrador is fully neutered, he becomes so overcome with romantic feelings he attempts a marital act upon your bloodhound.

Your bloodhound sprints to the back door with a love-crazed miniature Lab riding piggyback on her hindparts. A brawl ensues.

So you let them outside.

Finally. Peace and quiet.

You place your fingers onto the keyboard, but you can’t remember what you were going to write about.

Think, man.

“Hey, I’ve got it,” you say. “I’ll write about the leather chair in the corner.”

Granted, it’s not the most inspired idea you’ve ever had, but maybe it will work.

After all, that chair has memories. It was your mother’s. You remember when she used to sit and read her Bible in…