Enterprise, Alabama—I stood before a small auditorium of people. Guitar strapped to my chest. I told a story about my cousin falling off a chicken house and breaking his big toe. People laughed at the punchline. I sang a song to go with it. I told another story. Another song.

And I was thinking to myself.

“I’m not qualified to be here,” that’s what I was thinking in the moment. “I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

After the show, I went to the back. I hugged necks. I shook hands with people who were kind enough to attend. One woman told me her son died this past month. Another man embraced me and said: “I’m eighty tonight, thanks for making my birthday good.”

And a nine-year-old named Emily gave me a handwritten letter. As it happens, I’ve written about Emily once before. Months ago, I mistakenly wrote that she was seven years old.

“I’m actually nine,” Emily clarified. “But you’re okay.”

Sometimes I feel like an impostor

doing what I do for a living. I mean it. I have no idea what I’m doing. Furthermore, why would anyone read my words? Why would anyone care to hear to my stories?

I’m so painfully ordinary it hurts. I grew up among lots of grass, and plain people, and tiny post offices. I was not a good athlete, a terrible student, and I was chubby. With freckles. And a big nose. And ugly hair.

I remember when Mother used to take family photographs. She would position us just right. “Say cheese!” she’d yell. She’d send me to the drugstore to pick up the photos after a few weeks.

I would open the Kodak envelope and thumb through glossy photographs. When I’d see my own picture, I wanted to crawl under a flat rock.

Nothing was “okay” with the way I was put…

Hi. We hardly know each other. And I know this won’t mean much coming from a stranger like me, but I have to say it:

I’m sorry.

I mean it. I am sorry. I’m sorry about the big and the little things that happen to you.

I’m sorry you didn’t sleep last night. I’m sorry your back hurts. And I’m sorry about the long-term repercussions of fiscal American inflation.

Also: I’m sorry you don’t laugh as often as you used to. I’m sorry money doesn’t grow in the backyard—God help me, I am.

I know what it means to work long hours and get nothing but a bloody lip in return.

I’m sorry your car won’t start. I’m sorry alternators cost more than booze-cruises to Barbados.

I’m sorry that every time you get some money saved, your roof begins leaking, your water-heater goes out, your toilet backs up, or you need a root canal.

I’m double-sorry about the root canal.

I’m sorry your dog died. And for the sour feelings you get when you see the empty food-bowl on your kitchen floor.

I miss every good dog I’ve ever owned.

I’m sorry your loved one

died recently. I’m sorry grief has become a permanent part of you, and that your heart has been polished with a cheese grater.

I’m sorry the doctor said you need surgery. I’m sorry you’re diabetic. I’m sorry your entire world caved in when they said, “Ma’am, you have cancer.”

I’m sorry you have felt sick and rundown for so long that you don’t remember what the old you felt like.

I’m sorry life doesn’t go the way we want it. I’m sorry the clock runs out too quickly, and that our bodies don’t last longer.

I’m extra-sorry for anyone who feels unimportant.

I know what it’s like to lose your confidence. Confidence is a funny thing. Once you lose it, you can’t get it back.

The filling station sits on a rural highway, across from a kajillion acres of peanuts. A kajillion, you will note, is more than a bazillion, less than a zillion.

He is outside the filling station, sitting in a wheelchair. He wears a camouflage cap, hunting T-shirt, tattoos everywhere. He is drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He is young.

“Nice weather,” he says when he sees me pumping gas.

And no matter how old I get, I love to cuss the weather. I come from a long line of men who cussed the weather. It’s something humans have in common. We can all talk about the weather with complete authority even though we don’t know much about what it will do.

“Yeah,” I say. “Great weather. But a little hot.”

“I know,” he says. “But I like the heat. It’s better than being stuck in a dark house.”

He seems to know what he’s talking about.

He parks his motorized wheelchair here at this station almost every day except

Sundays. He does it because he is Chatty Cathy. Here, he meets people. And he likes people.

“I get all cooped up in my house,” he says. “I need to be around people, and feel like I’m really here.”

After his accident—which he tells me nothing about—he’s been isolated from life. His friends have all have jobs, and girlfriends, and he’s been fighting to recover.

“Man,” he says. “I used to do so much cool stuff, four-wheeling, and hunting, and fishing, and you know, everything. It’s tough not being able to do that no more.”

He doesn’t say it, but I can see it. He’s lonely. He just wants someone to talk to. Someone to do things with. His friends used to go fishing with him, and go riding.

Even so, this isn’t getting him down. Not when the weather is…

Dear Young Me,

I hope you are well. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, I forgot what a kid you are. You are eighteen. And even though you don’t know this, you are very, very stupid.

But that’s okay. Stupidity isn’t all bad.

You have big ideas. I’m tempted to call them dreams. But then, they aren’t dreams. Dreams are ambitious things. You aren’t ambitious. You start a project, then peter out.

You’ve been told you’re lazy, and slow, and not good at things you do. But I’m writing to say that you are good enough.

If you remember nothing else I write, please remember that last sentence.

You once had a girlfriend tell you—and in one case, even her mother told you—that you were going nowhere. You believed them.

You’re watching friends get accepted into good colleges. They’ve set compasses for their lives. They are doing well for themselves. Everyone seems to be succeeding. Except you.

Take heart, Young Me. Your life is going to be full

of surprises. You don’t know it yet. You have no idea what’s around the corner. None. I get excited just thinking about it.

For example: you will meet a beautiful woman who knows how to make beautiful biscuits. You will marry, and you will be beautifully poor. So, so poor. And it will only make you happier.

Let’s see. What else? You’ll total a few trucks. You will have back surgery. And on one occasion, you will be lost in Toledo, Ohio, without a car.

And brace yourself for what I am about to say:

The Chicago Cubs will win a World Series.

I am dead serious about this. When this happens, you will shout at your television—even though you aren’t a Cubs fan. Even though your wife is asleep in the other room.

You will…

Hartford First United Methodist Church. Small church. Small town. One barbershop on the square. One insurance place. A Chinese restaurant.

In the church entrance, I am greeted by eight white-haired men who all take the time to learn my name. Then, we males dispense with playing nice and start talking about last night’s game.

These are old men who wear University of Alabama belts, War Eagle shirts, or Troy University lapel pins, with khakis. These are Methodists.

Something I know about Methodists: they don’t pronounce “amens” the same way Southern Baptists do.

A Methodist says “AH-men.” You can hear this at the end of their hymns. There is a long “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh-meennnnnnnnn” in the final measure.

A deepwater Baptist, wouldn’t “AH-men” if our piano was on fire. We are of the “AY-men” persuasion. Long “A.” We shout our “AY-mens.” Sometimes right at the preacher.

I sit in the center of the small sanctuary. The pews are oak, with history in them. This building was built in 1921, and feels it. Tall

windows adorn pure white walls. Sun shoots through colored glass and falls upon churchgoers like halos.

The service is straightforward:

A hymn. A scripture. “AH-men.” Another hymn. A few more words. Another “AH-men.”

“Our town is shrinking,” one man told me before service. “With every funeral, another little piece goes away, but we love our town. Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it just wonderful?”

Yeah.

Next: organ music. An older woman plays. She moves her feet, hands, and eyeballs at the same time. Modern people forget how hard it is to play the organ. It’s a dying art.

I am sitting next to Mister Frank. He is aged, with liver spots, and hearing aids. I can hear Mister Frank’s weak voice sing “The Doxology” and recite the Apostle’s Creed. He says the Lord’s Prayer with his eyes closed.

We sit.

Sister Jean…

He was just a kid. Not an adult. And even though he’s a man now, even though he has a family, he’ll always be a kid when he tells this story. I can see it on his face.

The kid had a father—a man who was forty-one. Tall. Handsome.

That Sunday, the kid’s family threw his father a birthday party. It was a grand affair, with steak for supper.

There was singing, joyous voices, card games. The kid’s mother made a cake with blue icing. The room went black, the candles were lit. He took one breath and blew them out.

Monday was sunny. The kid’s father loved yard work. He lived for it. So, by God, they did plenty. The kid mowed near the barn. His father changed a belt on the tractor.

Tuesday, the kid’s father came home late from work. A blue collar man, he put in long hours. Overtime. Then worked more.

The kid noticed his father’s face had changed. Something behind the eyes. The

kid will never forget this. How can a kid know a father his whole life—really know him—but not know him? How?

But then, he was just a kid.

There was a fight. A big one. The kid says he remembers how bad it was.

His father’s mind was not working normally. His mother pleaded. The father screamed things that weren’t making sense. The forty-one-year-old tossed furniture against walls. Spit frothed at the corners of his father’s mouth.

The kid tells me he does not want to talk about this anymore. Because after all, this was not the kid’s father. This was a sickness.

The kid’s baby sister was terrified. She buried herself in the folds of the kid’s clothes. The man they called “Daddy” lost his mind.

There are too many things that happened on that night. Far too many.…

I’m at the bank. I’m standing in a line that is one hundred miles long. I’m in the rear. The line is not moving.

I would rather have open heart surgery administered by Howdy Doody than wait in line.

Through the doors, I see a woman, walking across the parking lot. I’m trotting toward the door to open it for her.

This is because I was raised by women. Polite behavior was beaten into me with hairbrushes and unabridged King James Bibles. I believe in opening doors for anyone you’d refer to as ma’am, miss, or Mama.

But someone beats me to the door.

A boy in line. He is twelve, thirteen maybe. He’s here with his mother. He swings it open.

“Thank you,” the woman says, grinning.

Two more women are strolling through the parking lot. The boy flies into action. He opens the door.

They thank him. They even call him “sir.”

He likes this.

Here comes another. She’s waltzing toward the door, talking on her phone. You ought to see the surprise on her face when the kid pulls the Open Sesame trick.

She giggles. “Aren’t you sweet?”

Yes, he is.

And I remember a time when most men were. “Gentleman,” my granddaddy would’ve called them. “Polite,” Mama would’ve called it.

I call it being considerate. And I believe in it.

Long ago, we had men who raced to the door to prove that their mothers had raised them right. They were men who wouldn’t use a four-letter word in the presence of long eyelashes, not even if you threatened them with soap operas.

But those days are evaporating. And I don’t like saying it, but the world has changed.

Even so, some of us still remember our Mama, reminding us to treat every girl, woman, and granny better than the Queen of England.

I asked the boy’s mother how her son became such a knight in…

DEAR SEAN:

How do I get a girl to like me? I am a 7th-grader who goes to (blank) Middle School and I really want her to think I am cool even though I’m not one of the cool kids… I am a little chunky, but I’m really nice.

Please write me back with advice,
UNCOOL-IN-THE-7TH-GRADE

DEAR UNCOOL:

Let’s take a look at “coolness.” First, when I was your age, coolness was dependent upon a surprisingly short list of criteria.

1. Did the child in question own, or have sufficient access to, and was thereby able to use at will, without administrative or parental restriction, a Sony Walkman radio?

Secondly: Did this kid wear dorky khaki pants?

It was that easy.

The problem for me was, of course, my mother believed in the Gospel According to Khakis. She ironed my slacks with so much starch the creases could slice cantaloupes.

Thus, while other kids wore blue jeans, I wore khakis that had been—and this is very hard for me to say—purchased from

Sears.

AND…

These were not just pants. They were “Husky” pants. You might not know what that is. They were pants designed for boys who loved church potlucks.

I looked like a khaki-colored Butterball ham.

So anyway, there was this girl. Her name was—never mind, it doesn’t matter. I thought she was wonderful. She was one of the “cool” kids. I wanted her to notice me.

More importantly, I wanted her to notice me AT THE ROLLER RINK.

Now, I know what a kid from your generation might be thinking: “What’s a roller rink?”

I’m glad you asked. Long ago, after the dawn of the electric lightbulb, we had big buildings that were dimly lit and smelled like body odor. We would skate for hours to such unforgettable hits like: “Do the Hustle,” “Love Train,” and “Tico Tico.”…

I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday today. I hope you’re doing well. Life is pretty good down here. Things have been going great.

And hey. You know what? I’m going fishing today, in your honor. I thought you’d get a kick out of that. If I catch something, I’m going to throw it back. That way people won’t mistake me for a good fisherman. We don’t want that.

It’s too bad we can’t get together and catch up. That would be fun. I think you would like the adult me. I think I’m a nice guy.

Let’s see, what else? I live a simple life. I have a small spot in the woods, a workshed, a bass boat that has seen better days.

And, I have a little office for writing. In fact, that’s where I’m writing now. In my office camper.

The camper is a ‘52 Yellowstone. It was cheap, and ugly as homemade soap. I spent a year gutting her and

fixing her up. It’s still ugly. But it’s mine.

Inside I have a desk, a kitchenette, a bed, a small shower, several books, a few mounted bass, knick-knacks on shelves.

I also have several of your things, situated near my desk.

I am looking at your barometer, for instance, which used to sit on your garage workbench. I have a Hank Williams record, an old watch, your baseball bat, your Bible.

The Bible is red, cracked, and old. Remember? It was originally Mama’s Bible from her teenage years. She gave it to you when she bought a new one.

There are highlighted verses, dog-eared pages, and notes in the back. The notes are yours. They date back to God-knows when.

I remember when you’d sit in church. I can still see you, dressed in your pressed clothes. You’d doodle on…