If I had to guess, I'd say heaven will be a long buffet line. I can't think of anything more fitting for the afterlife than a Wednesday night potluck. Especially something like the one I ate at last week.

I counted the number of white-hairs in the little fellowship hall, then counted the number of plastic-covered dishes.

Same number.

These church ladies have every virtue known to mankind. They slave in the kitchen selflessly, show patience, dedication, and they do not know how to tell a lie. Maybe I'm overdoing it. But I don't think so.

Take, for instance, Verna. She's got white hair. But don't let that fool

you. She can outcook any young woman in the church something fierce.

Her fried chicken is well-known around the region. The man in line ahead of me almost made a gold brick in his pants over this chicken. But that's nothing compared to Verna's creamed corn—which is above description. And her biscuits.

Jesus help me.

Her children have tried to duplicate her biscuits. They can't do it. Her daughter tells me she once followed her mother's recipe—let the dough sour, and used real lard—but she still couldn't seem to make them…

My wife cleaned out our closet. On the top shelf, she found an old pair of cowboy chaps. Next to it: a faded quilt which I retired many years ago. Once, the quilt was dark brown and forest green. Now it's khaki and celery-colored.

I smelled it and took in a lungful of dust. I remember when Mama made it for me, and how long it took her.

As a girl, she made her own clothes. She'd walk into town, peek into the Weaver's shop window, then go home, fire up the sewing machine, and duplicate them.

During my own childhood, half my wardrobe was handmade. A lot of my closet was Western wear. She'd use discarded bolts of fabric to make costumes which would become legendary in three counties.

She produced so much child-sized cowboy finery, she learned to do it without patterns. She could close her eyes and whip up a pair of wooly chaps (snap) just like that.

But it was more than this. She did nearly

anything she thought would make me happy. Namely: biscuits. After working two back-to-back shifts, she'd get home in the wee hours, smelling like commercial disinfectant. She'd cook the biggest breakfast you ever saw and watch me eat myself sick.

Then, after doing dishes, she'd fall facefirst onto the bed and sleep straight through supper.

But her sewing. The woman has sewn everything for everybody. She's taken in tuxes, let out dresses, made denim quilts from blue jeans, and even made Barbie clothes. She's rescued wedding dresses from ruin, and sewn the split crotch of an eighty-year-old Baptist minister's trousers.

While he wore them.

Throughout my life, she's altered millions of my slacks—since God made my legs too long. When I hit college, she mended my scuffed work clothes, knitted hats to keep me warm, and even darned my socks. When I got married, she upholstered chairs, beds, sofas, pillows, and…

Obnoxious loud-talkers who sit at bars, rank right up there with dogs who lift their legs on your welcome mat.

Take, for instance, the fella at the bar beside me. He launched into a well-rehearsed speech about his world travels. First, the Alps. Then, Belgium, France, Italy, South Africa, Timbuktu.

By then, people at the bar had cleared out.

He asked me, “You done much traveling?”

I shook my head and said, "No, but I've woken up in a cattle pasture."

Loud-Talker rolled his eyes. “See?” he went on. “Now THAT'S your problem. You can't find your true-self unless you TRAVEL!”

So, I paid my tab and traveled my true-self

outside.

The truth is, I've never owned a passport, never stepped foot in Canada, and the closest I've come to self-discovery was South Texas in July, where I saw a real mirage.

I'm uninteresting on paper. I concede. But I regret nothing.

My life hasn't been bad. After all, I've known exceptional people. Like my friend who I'll call, Alan. Alan has no face. Nothing but eyes and pink flesh. This happened when he woke up in a burning mobile home. Pieces of the smoldering ceiling fell on his face…

I'm watching a boy drive a John Deere, in the distance. At least, I think it's a boy, he's too far away to tell.

I know this kid. I can't see him, but I know what kind of clothes he's wearing, I know how he talks—he uses words like, "ain't," too often. And he gets up early.

I once overheard some folks speculate on why the rural-minded start work so early. One person thought it was to avoid the heat. Another suggested that the Bible commands it.

But if you ask anyone I grew up with, they'd tell you it's because their fathers made them. And these early risers are the kind who say the word, "ain't," too often.

It might go like this:

Before the stars have disappeared, you're still half-asleep, wearing work boots, and you are not a happy customer. It's dark. And since you're too young for coffee, you get lukewarm Coca-Cola.

The barn stinks. The tractor is louder than the Second Coming. And even though you're not old enough

to have a learner's permit, you steer this Ford Model 2N, built during World War Two, until your hindparts go numb.

You watch the morning sky change from purple, to gray, to rose-colored. Then: full sunlight.

The engine makes you deaf. You couldn't hear your own ideas if you had any. You pay attention to the rows you're cutting. Whenever you veer off-line, you cuss yourself.

You look backward at your house. It never occurs to you that one day they'll sell this place. Or that the new owners will let the surrounding fields go to weed.

Then, you grow up, move away. You spend a lot of energy convincing people you aren't a dumb hick—cleaning up the way you talk. You quit saying, “ain't,” and stop slicing the cuffs of your jeans with pocketknives.

It works for a while. You convince yourself you've forgotten that life.…

“Hurry up!” Miss June said. “It's happening!”

I came running toward the porch as fast as my chubby seven-year-old legs would take me. “I'll protect you, miss!” I shouted, holding on to my cowboy hat, waving my pistol.

“You don't need to protect me,” she said. “Just hurry, we don't wanna be late!”

I sat in the front seat of Miss June's Cadillac—no seat-belts—staring out the window, my Smith and Wesson holstered around my waist. On my chest: a gold star.

These were the days before iPhone games and juice boxes. If I wasn't wearing a cowboy hat and packing a six-shooter, I was rescuing a maiden from peril, shouting, “I'll

protect you, miss!”

Which is what cowboys do.

Anyway, folks my age might not be as technologically brilliant as today's youth, but we did know how to play dead whenever someone shot us. Which must count for something.

The hospital was a sterile-smelling place. When I walked into the delivery room, I met the smallest thing I'd ever seen—except for frogs. Once, I'd shoved nearly four bullfrogs into my pockets. And then, while sprinting toward the house at top speed, I tripped and fell.

Only one frog survived.

After…

The last thing I remember before the wreck was Jamie singing along with Garth Brooks on the radio. She gave it all she had. I watched her belt out lyrics while I drove along the interstate. Her singing voice: a mixture between Gomer Pyle and a 1953 Buick Skylark.

It was sunny, it felt like the whole world was on fire. We'd just finished camping in Pelham, Alabama. And, after a small spider had found its way onto Jamie's bedroll, she swore off tents for good. And sleeping bags. And husbands.

So, there we were on the interstate. The truck hit us from behind. My wife choked on

the Garth lyrics and flung toward the windshield. I lost control.

He hit us again. On the side.

We spun.

The impact crushed my side of the cab. My windshield turned into shaved ice.

This sent our vehicle sliding into oncoming traffic. It took a quarter of a millisecond for my wife to glance out her window and see a semi-truck honking at us. We screamed, since that's all we could do.

Garth Brooks kept singing.

To tell you the truth, I don't remember much else except a baseball-bat-type sound, accompanied by…

We're at a gas-station-barbecue-joint, a wooden shack that's seen better days. We're the only ones in the place. The waitress serves me tea in a pickle jar which still has the Vlasic label on it.

You don't see that sort of thing anymore.

The truth is, I come from a long line of quart-jar aficionados. My grandaddy sipped a jar on weekends, holidays, fishing trips, and baby dedications. My father also had a collection for special occasions—stored in the shed rafters above the tractor. I wasn't supposed to know about those.

I did.

Once, my friend and I sampled the contents. We climbed into the rafters. He took a swig and

coughed.

“It burns,” he said.

A few seconds later, he fell off the beam onto the dirt. When I asked if he was alright, he laughed, saying, “I never felt gooder!”

That kid is a missionary now.

It doesn't end there. My environmentally-minded wife carries a quart-jar of water in her purse—instead of a plastic bottle. Once, to be funny, I drew three X's on the front.

During a church service, in Wetumpka, Alabama, a ravenous case of cottonmouth overcame her. She unscrewed the lid, then turned it upside…