When I drive in the rain, I usually have to pull over. This is because my truck tires are almost bald, they slip in heavy rain.

You might not care about this, but I bought these tires just before a road trip to Savannah, Georgia. And at the time, they were all I could afford.

I was about to take a job, writing for a small magazine, right after I graduated college—I was a thirty-year-old man when I graduated.

It was a big deal for me. A big, big deal. I could hardly afford the trip, but I wanted to be a writer, so:

“Look out, Savannah.”

I paid two hundred bucks for tires that were supposed to get me there. They were missing most of their treads, but the price was right. I bought them at a secondhand tire shop. The owner was Russian.

He said: “These be very okay tires, but you no drive in rain or you die.”

Die. Right.

So on the

way to Savannah, I pulled over at a Citgo station when it started raining.

A man stood beneath the awning, smoking a cigarette. He had wrinkled skin, he wore denim and boots. He was a carbon copy of the people I come from. Steelworking men who dangle from iron beams with little more in their hearts than family and cuss words.

There was a little girl with him, nine or ten, maybe. She was watching the rain. The girl was his granddaughter.

She was out of school for a doctor’s appointment. Her parents couldn’t get off work, so he drove three hours from Nashville to take her.

Three hours.

“When this rain lets up,” he said. “I’m dropping her off and heading back to Nashville for work. I’m working overtime tonight.”

Age sixty-seven. Still working overtime. Driving six hours, roundtrip,
in one…

A dim-lit bar with greasy burgers and three choices of beer—two are Budweiser variations. A jukebox is playing George Jones.

Heaven, I am convinced, is a place with a jukebox.

It’s quiet tonight. The folks here are mostly out-of-towners. Take me, for instance, I’m an out-of-towner.

The woman sitting beside me is from Atlanta. She lost her husband a few years ago to a work accident. She starts talking about Heaven.

This is not typical barroom conversation. She’s had a little too much to drink. The server has to call her a cab.

She asks if I believe in an afterlife. Before I can answer, the bartender answers:

“Honey, nobody wants to hear about Heaven,” the bartender says. “Why don’t you go wait outside for your cab.”

But it’s too late. We are talking about the afterlife in a saloon. The conversational train cannot be stopped.

The man beside me is a mechanic for factory equipment. He repairs the things that make things.

“Yeah, I believe in it,” he says. “I think going on to Glory

is different for everyone.”

Glory.

A waitress speaks. She’s late-forties. I understand she has a bachelor’s in literature. The money in food service is better.

“Heaven’s real,” she says. “I just know it. I’ve seen it. When I was a little girl, I had an experience, I almost died. I saw things.

“Heaven’s all around us, all the time. Our dead loved ones are in the room with us right now. We just can’t see’em.”

Hi, Daddy.

She lost her mother to lung cancer. Her mother was sixty-one.

Everyone has lost somebody.

The busboy-slash-dishwasher enters the room. He’s early twenties. His brother joined the Marines a few years ago. His father abandoned him when he was a teenager. He and his brother practically raised each other.

“I WANT Heaven to be real,” he says.…

My childhood friend, Danny, was a dog-person.

I remember once, we were painting a house together. The house was old. Four of us boys were painting it because the owner was too old to do it himself.

We took several days to finish—earning twenty bucks per boy. We painted the clapboards flat white and the shutters green. We drank well over our legal limit of Coca-Colas.

And one sunny day, a dog trotted into the yard while we painted. It walked with a limp. It hobbled toward the house and crawled beneath the porch.

Danny was the first to crawl in after the dog. Dog-people, you see, do strange things like that.

We could see the dog was in bad shape. There was dark, shiny blood on its stomach. It growled if anyone got too close.

“He’s hurt,” said Danny. “I think he’s needs our help.”

The first thing we did was name the animal “Blackie”—an original name, I know. Then, all four of us laid on

our stomachs beneath a sagging shotgun house, in the dirt, talking in high-pitched voices to Old Black.

“Hey boy,” we said. “Who’s a good boy?”

“Here Blackie, here Blackie.”

But it did no good. Blackie a nervous wreck. He panted so hard it looked like his chest was going to explode.

Danny came up with an idea. He suggested we read books to Blackie.

“Read to him?” I remarked.

Danny reasoned that whenever his own mother read stories to him before bedtime it calmed him, lowered his blood pressure, and made him an all-around amiable human being.

So, we worked in shifts. Three boys would paint the house; one would stay beneath the porch with a book and a flashlight.

We did this for a day.

Blackie started to trust Danny. Whenever Danny was nearby, the dog seemed relaxed. Whenever…

I’m warning you beforehand, what I’m about to say is going to seem utterly ridiculous:

My mother once told me that I could conquer the world if I ate a decent breakfast. The whole world. All because of breakfast.

See? I tried to warn you.

Anyway, to this very day I’m still not sure how this meal can make conquering the world possible, but my mother never lies.

I remember the day she told me, I was having a devastating morning. I was about to take an entrance exam into the sixth grade. And this was a big deal because earlier that year, I’d failed fifth-grade—which drained my confidence.

But back to breakfast.

Mama made the greasiest meal. Three eggs, cooked in fat from a Maxwell House can, bacon, potatoes, grits, and toast hearty enough to sand the hull of a battleship.

I passed my test. I made it to the next grade. And eventually, my confidence began to improve. Thusly—and I’ve always wanted to use that word—I can

only assume that breakfast played an important role.

Since then, I’ve always believed in the first daily meal. I ate a good breakfast the day I got married. A big one. That day, the waitress kept bringing me plates of pancakes.

“You must be starving, honey,” she said.

I smiled. “Thusly,” said I.

But I was only nervous-eating. Truth told, they weren’t even good pancakes—the blueberries tasted like freeze-dried goat pellets.

I also ate a big breakfast the day I got fired. My boss called me into his office and chewed me a new nose-hole. He said things so hateful I can still remember them. I quietly walked out of his office before he finished speaking.

I went to eat breakfast. I read the paper, I watched the sunrise. I had one of the best mornings I’ve had in years.

Birmingham, Alabama—I’m eating a hamburger at a bar. The men on stools beside me are shouting over each other. There are seven of them, all wearing nice suits.

They are from New Jersey.

Our bartender’s name is Mandy. The New Jersey men are asking Mandy about various Southern expressions.

Mandy knows a thing or two about regional dialect. She has a thick accent, deep lines on her face, and she’s got more country expressions than Carter has liver pills.

Mandy comes from Sylacauga, which is home to such American treasures as: Jim Nabors (Gomer Pyle); Bill Todd (world’s lowest gospel-singing bass voice); and Ann Hodges (first woman in U.S. history to be struck by a nine-pound meteorite while taking a nap).

“Is it true?” New Jersey asks Mandy. “That you Southerners say ‘bless your heart’ to stupid people?”

Well, yes and no.

“Bless your heart” was once a common phrase uttered by anyone from Granny to Andy Griffith. But somewhere along life’s way, it got ruined by People Magazine, chain-email jokes, and Paula Deen.

“Yeah, we say it,” Mandy points out. “But most of the time, I’d rather say something like: ‘Ain’t he precious?’”

Which, when translated literally, means: “That poor man must’ve been exposed to lead paint during infancy.”

Many expressions in the South involve the weather. Here, we hold deep affection for the heat index.

One New Jersey man shouts: “I know a country expression about the weather: ‘SWEATING LIKE A HOG IN CHURCH!’”

Mandy rolls her eyes.

“Nope,” Mandy points out. “That ain’t how it goes. It goes: ‘Sweat’n like a WHORE in church.”

The New Jerseyans laugh hysterically.

Thus, Mandy teaches these men various regional expressions, free of charge. They listen and marvel at how many different ways a Sylacaugian like her can say something as simple as: “It’s hot outside.”

—“It’s hotter’n Hades.” A…

Oxford, Alabama—I am in the car. I am sipping a coffee. And I am waiting to take a stage and entertain a bunch of good-hearted people.

I have ten minutes until showtime.

And I love you.

Admittedly, I don’t know WHY I love you. Because chances are, we’ve never met. But I DO love you. And I guess you could say that I’m only passing it on. Because that’s what you do with love. You don’t keep it in your pocket.

See, once I was once a kid who looked out a bedroom window at acres of sadness. After my father departed this world, it took two decades to find myself. I didn’t know if I ever would.

I was a drifting soul. I’ve had a hundred grunt jobs, and a hundred more, and not a single job paid over a few bucks per hour. I was a blue collar nothing. You would’ve walked past me in Walmart and never remembered my face.

At big gatherings, I was the

man who sort of blended into the upholstery. I am a high-school dropout, a person who once felt like a waste of cosmic space.

A man who would usually find himself in the kitchen after a family event, doing dishes because that’s where I felt I belonged.

I don’t know. Anyway, I felt unloved, unwanted, unseen, un-special, un-smart. For the largest piece of my life, I wondered if anyone gave a damn about me at all. And if they did, I wondered why.

Growing up, it seemed like other kids had more important things to do than worry about love. Most were interested in sports, girls, fast vehicles, beer, or combining all four of the aforementioned.

So I didn’t believe in love. I thought it was a made-up idea. And a cruel one at that. But I was wrong. Because somewhere along the way,…

The sun is shining in Montgomery. The river is a mirror. The sky is cloudless. The downtown couldn’t look better if it were gold plated.

I’m a sentimental little thing. I make it a point to visit Hank Williams at his perch, overlooking Montgomery when I’m in town. Today, there was a blue jay sitting on his head, that has to be a good sign.

My wife and I are only passing through town for an early supper. We are on the road for three weeks, living in our old Dodge Durango.

And I’ll tell you the truth, I’m in heaven. I could be on the road forever, eating from coolers, watching sunsets, making new friends.

We’ve had this Dodge for years. The old girl is running ragged, but she’s a special vehicle.

Long ago, I bought this old thing from a newspaper ad. My wife needed a car in a bad way. We’d been sharing my truck for a whole summer—which wasn’t all that bad.

Our workdays all went

the same: she would drop me off at my job, then head to work. At the end of the day, I’d stand by the curb with a lunchbox. Mama Bear would arrive. I’d jump in.

Then, we would drive to the local Pizza Hut.

Pizza Hut was our place. Back then, it still had an all-you-can-eat grease buffet. My friend, Matt, worked behind the counter.

In another life, Matt and I were friends. As younger men, we would entertain ourselves by driving secluded beach roads after dark. We would search for stranded tourists whose vehicles were stuck in the sand.

We’d hook chains to their axles and save the day. Some folks offered to pay us, but we refused money. And we used unnaturally deep voices on the off-chance we might impress any girls in the area.

That’s how Matt met…

He’s good to my mother. And in my book, that qualifies him for Catholic sainthood.

You’d like him. He has a silver mustache, blue eyes, works with his hands, and when he talks he sounds like Birmingham.

The first time we met was at his home in the sticks of Mossy Head, Florida. My mother sat on the sofa, watching us sip beer and talk baseball. She smiled—she smiles a lot when she’s around him. We hit it off.

Later that night, my mother told me, “I think I might love Mike.”

I looked at my five-foot-two mother and my eyes got blurry. For twenty years after my father left this world on purpose, my mother wouldn’t even date a Dorito. She’d sworn off love altogether.

Instead, she worked. She served food, cleaned houses, or threw newspapers. There was no time for anything but raising kids.

After my baby sister left home, my mother became seriously ill. It felt like the greatest tragedy of the twenty-first century.

I visited her in Atlanta and hugged her frail body. The Emory Doctors forecasted the worst, and I cried for weeks.

But the worst did not happen. She got better. It was a genuine miracle. In fact, I considered it to be the biggest miracle I’d ever seen.

But I was wrong. Heaven was only warming up. Because then she met him.

He built a sewing room for her in his house. There, she quilted, knitted, and used her old Singer sewing machine like she’d done long ago. My mother can sew the pants off the Pope.

They made a life together. She decorated his place; he built her a fire pit. She adopted stray cats; he worked outside.

He’s a quiet man—he won’t speak too loud. And this makes him very different from the hot tempered man who raised me.

And he…

Yesterday, I was digging through boxes in the garage. The boxes were covered in dust. I found things I didn’t even know I owned. A fondue pot, for instance. Brand new. Just what every man of the modern age needs.

I found our wedding photos, too. I had to sit down to look at those.

In one photo, I’m cutting a cake while the woman on my arm is laughing, holding her belly. Young Me is watching her.

I remember exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking the same thing I’m thinking now:

“I like making this woman laugh.”

Easier said than done. She doesn’t know how to fake laugh. It’s not in her. In fact, she doesn’t laugh unless something is worth dying over.

And if you’re lucky enough to see her get tickled—big “if”—the first thing she’ll do is hold her stomach. And IF you can get this woman to clutch her stomach, your life has been worth it.

I also found a certificate

in one of the boxes. The thing was covered in plastic, with my name written on it. My college degree.

I was a grown man when I went to college. It took me eleven years to finish. The only reason I completed was because this woman believed I could.

Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m her sidekick or if she is mine.

Either way, she is a woman who does too much. She works too hard, she loves harder. She has quirks, too. And nobody knows them like me.

For example: she cannot fall asleep without an assortment of machinery.

In her arsenal is a foam wedge (for her lower back); a heating pad (for her cold nature); a mouthguard (she grinds her teeth at night); a sound machine (apparently I snore); earplugs (apparently I am not an amatuer snorer); an eye…

The smell of barbecued ribs is in the air. I am with a friend who knows his ribs. His father taught him everything he knows.

My friend can also handle more beer than I can—he can drink several, back-to-back, without spontaneously bursting into “Louie Louie.”

We were good friends once, but we lost touch a long time ago.

I liked his father, who was a natural teacher. For example: his father taught me how to change the oil in my truck when I was a younger man.

He also attempted to teach me to throw a football—which is on the large list of things I never learned. Also on the list: water skiing, pronouncing “Worcestershire,” parallel parking, making my bed, earning a living.

My friend’s father is here today. He is white-haired and shaky. He has Alzheimer’s. He is not the man who once showed me to throw a spiral in his yard. In fact, he doesn’t remember me.

He’s holding a beer can.

My friend says: “It’s non-alcoholic beer. We replaced it

with fake beer. It makes him feel like old times to hold a can. We hope it jars a memory.”

The old man sits in a chair between us. His language is a mixture of gibberish and one-liner jokes, and he ends every sentence with “Inallmylife.”

When he starts talking, it’s impossible to understand him.

“Whositwasasittlemershimackinpillowhapper…” he chuckles. “Inallmylife.”

We all laugh—we know by the tone of his old voice that he’s telling a joke. And you always laugh at punchlines, even if you don’t understand them.

My friend answers, “Oh yessir,” to almost everything his father says. And this suits his father just fine. Any response will do.

“Listenlistenlistentome,” his father begins. “Wasabackinnineteenerother…”

“Yessir.”

“...AnshesaidtomeIwasadoosiebut…”

“Oh, yessir.”

“Philorandaosamerjonathan…”

“Yessir, Dad. That’s right.”

“Inallmylife.”

And so it goes.

The old man sits…