I don't know his real name, but his friends call him Bubba. He has skin darker than walnut, and a white fuzzy beard.
I met him once. He raises bluetick hounds on a farm with his son, selling them to gun-dog lovers everywhere.
In the short time we talked, he told me about marching from Selma to Montgomery as a young man. About Doctor King. About getting arrested during the riots.
Nice man.
Then, there's the elderly woman I met outside Opp who raised sixteen kids. Sixteen. Her hair, still as red as copper.
She lived in a twelve-by-twelve shed her son made into an apartment—complete with flat-screen television and AC.
Her son told me, "In a big family, we used'a compete for Mama's attention. Man, I feel so lucky she lives with me."
Don—an old man who weighs a buck ten. Maybe less. He runs a mechanic shop out of a barn in North Florida. Auto collectors come from all over for him work on rare vehicles.
"Started this business after I got outta prison," he said. "Was
in the pen four years."
I asked why they locked him up.
"Mary Jane," he answered.
Lydia. She is Birmingham's June Cleaver—Scarlett O'Hara accent. Her nineteen-year-old daughter contracted a rare disease while on a mission trip in Africa. She died suddenly.
Lydia is flying out this week to retrieve her daughter's body.
“When you have a daughter," she said. "You imagine your little girl will get married some day. You never think this will happen."
John, from North Georgia. He's a man who shoots dove and deer on weekends. Once, he was a high-powered attorney. Today, he works part time at Home Depot so he has time to care for his wife with MS.
John said, "Having so much time with my wife is a privilege. Mostly, we watch a lotta Netflix."
Why am I telling you this? Because.
I overhead…