I am in Avondale Park. It’s a sunny day in Birmingham. Pollen is in the air. Allergies are rampant today.

There is an 11-year-old girl in my arms. She smells like shampoo and flowers. The girl’s name is Becca. She is blind.

I am lifting her upward. I am placing her onto a pedestal so that she can use her hands to feel a massive bronze sculpture inasmuch as she really wants to know what this statue “looks” like.

The statue is a depiction of Miss Fancy, the 8,000-pound elephant who once lived in this park about 100 years ago. Back when this place was a zoo. Miss Fancy attracted the attention of an entire city. She has become somewhat of a fascination with me, since I live in Avondale.

For years now, I have been visiting this park, researching Miss Fancy’s life. I have even been lucky enough to interview a few surviving souls who remember her. I am constantly on the lookout for elders who might remember her.

As a result, I have

found many stories about this old elephant. I never thought these stories would come in handy with an 11-year-old girl.

But they have.

I have been telling the little girl about Miss Fancy all afternoon. And she is extremely interested in this elephant.

So I’ve been retelling these tales using my best grandpa voice, trying to make the stories interesting.

Truthfully, I feel a little foolish, telling stories to a child. Namely, because I don’t know how to tell stories to a child. I know nothing about kids.

My wife and I were told a long time ago we couldn’t have kids. Honestly, I wasn’t that broken up about it. For starters, I had a godawful childhood. My father was abusive and died by suicide when I was a kid.

I was raised on the wrong side of the tracks by a single mother. I…

It was dark. The young dishwasher was on break. He was sitting behind the restaurant, out by the Dumpster, tapping a carton of Camels on his palm.

Like all dishwashers, he worked hard for junk pay. He was the first one there. The last one to leave. He bussed the tables. Scrubbed the kitchen. He was also the guy who cleaned the deep fryer.

Verily I say unto thee, no man hath truly known hell until he hath cleaned a deep fryer.

That night, our hero was exhausted when he saw something nosing around the Dumpster. It was a puppy.

Brown coat. Skinny. The dog was bleeding. Cut to shreds. Like the little guy had been in a fight. Gashes on his young face. An open wound on his chest.

“Here boy,” said our hero, stepping on his cigarette. “Come here.”

Our hero had been in 4-H during some of his youth. If there is one thing 4-H kids know, it’s how to be calm and confident around animals.

Our hero, you

see, was raised as a foster child in Wisconsin. He had no parents. No grandparents. No aunts, no uncles. No nobody. A local youth organization had sponsored his entrance into a 4-H club. And the training never leaves you.

The dog was timid. Untrusting. But with enough patented 4-H patience, our hero won him over. The young man adopted him. He named him Rufus.

The first night, Rufus slept by the front door. Rufus had spent most of the evening cowering in the corner and trembling. Whenever his new friend tried to pet him, he began yelping and peeing on himself.

So the first night, our hero slept on the kitchen floor with the animal. He spent eight hours holding the animal in his arms. The next night, our hero lined the kitchen with quilts and pillows, and he slept there again.

Over time, Rufus began to trust…

Dunkin’ Donuts. Not long ago. I was standing in line, trying to buy some doughnuts and, God willing, 16 ounces of street-legal caffeine.

People in line were growing impatient. Service was exceptionally slow. Customers were just standing around.

I was waiting to place my order at the register. And apparently I was the only person attempting to physically place an order. Everyone else had already ordered on their phones.

Which made me feel like Grandpa-Saurus Rex. Namely, because I do not place fast-food orders on a phone. Frankly, I have not figured out how to use my phone.

Yesterday, for example, I spent 20 minutes dialing my wife’s number before I realized I was using the calculator app.

That’s when I noticed the kid in line behind me. She was maybe 20, carrying a huge backpack.

Her clothes were ragged. She had tattoos all over. She smelled like sweat, and she was covered in scabs.

She stood on her tiptoes to inspect the rack of doughnuts. The kid looked hungry.

“Having trouble deciding?” an older woman customer asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl replied. “Don’t know

what to buy.”

“Buy a few of everything. That’s what I usually do.”

“Can’t afford everything,” said the girl. “I only got a couple bucks.”

The young woman’s toes were showing through holes in her shoes.

“How about the apple fritter?” the young woman asked. “Is that good?”

“It’s decent,” the woman replied. “It won’t change your life, but it’s good.”

“Chocolate glazed?” asked the kid.

“Out of five stars, I give it seven.”

The girl smiled. “When I was a kid, Mom used to always get chocolate glazed. They were her favorite.”

“I hate to break it to you,” the old lady said. “But you’re still a kid.”

The woman paused for a beat. Then she did, “Where is your mom now?”

“Mom lives in Georgia. I grew up in Atlanta. Moved here with…

It was a sunny morning when Becca arrived on our porch with her suitcase fully packed. She was wearing Converse Chuck Taylors. Her hair was in ribbons. Her suitcase was purple. Becca is 11.

“I’m ready for our trip to Georgia,” she announced.

Becca is blind. We were taking a road trip to Leesburg, Georgia, where Becca and I would be performing together. Her parents were planning on using this opportunity to enjoy their first kid-free weekend since the Carter Administration.

Her parents, exceptional people who have fostered upwards of 35 children, dropped Becca off on our porch with a mound of luggage, toys, snacks, apple juice, and very specific instructions: “Do not call us unless you are in the ER.”

So we loaded our van, and within moments we were on the road.

Becca spent most of the time in the back seat, singing. Becca has a lot of enthusiasm. In fact, calling Becca an “energetic 11-year-old” would be like calling Santa Claus an “okay guy.”

We began our journey, serenaded

by a kid-centric, dance-intensive playlist of music played at a volume loud enough to crack our windshield.

Our playlist included “Hey Mickey” by Toni Basil. Becca danced and clapped in the backseat. Next came “Who Let the Dogs Out” by the Baha Men. Then, “Electric Avenue” by Eddy Grant. “Footloose,” by Kenny Loggins. “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor. “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey, played at a volume loud enough to split Japanese Steel. We were not even out of our driveway.

Somewhere around Montgomery, Becca had to pee.

“Can we pull over,” said Becca, matter-of-factly, who was rocking in her seat, doing the universal dance of the loaded bladder.

My wife and I looked at each other. We are middle-aged working stiffs who do not have kids. Moreover, as far as I know, my wife has never accompanied a blind child to the bathroom.

We pulled over.

The letter came from a 19-year-old student named Margaret.

“Dear Sean,” she began, “I want to attend [Blank] University, but I am forced to attend [Blank] Community College where I am receiving very little advice on how to actually BE a professional writer… All my podunk professors seem to do is grade papers and get excited over college football. Should I change schools?”

I’m going to stop you right there, Margaret.

First off, I seriously doubt that the only thing your professors get excited about is college football. There is also college baseball.

Secondly, you probably don’t mean to belittle your teachers by calling them “podunk,” but it isn’t fair to discredit your community-college professors simply because they don’t teach at a prestigious State U.

There is only one difference between community-college professors and big-boy-university professors, and it can be summed up in one simple word: Medical benefits, baby.

As we can see, math is not my strong suit. But then, there is a valid reason for this. I went to

community college. This means that during all my math-class exams, most of my adult classmates were busy changing their babies’ poopy diapers directly on their desks. So I was distracted.

Still, I am a proud juco grad. It took me 11 arduous years to get through county college, and I appreciated each golden hour spent at my alma mater.

During my time at school, my college went through a series of name changes. The institution began in 1963 as Okaloosa-Walton Junior College. Years later it changed to Okaloosa-Walton Community College. Then the school renamed itself Okaloosa-Walton College, before it finally morphed into Northwest Florida State College. Meaning, I currently hold degrees from four institutions.

The fact is, when I was your age, Margaret, I would have given my left kidney to attend a major university. I wanted this more than anything. But now that I’m older, I realize that…

I found old photographs in the attic today. I rifled through—literally—thousands of old Polaroids of me naked.

Most were infant pictures of me. I was a fat baby. People were actually concerned about me as a newborn. “Have you seen Sue’s baby?” people would say. Then they would inflate their cheeks.

My hair was the color of a carrot. My belly looked like a No. 9 bowling ball.

In one photo, I was taking a bath in the kitchen sink. My parents made no attempt to hide my little butt from the camera. In fact, I found many pictures wherein my hindquarters were the focal point.

My mother took these pictures.

I know this because my mother was obsessed with my butt. She was always showing these pictures to company when I was a kid.

“Can I refill your tea?” my mother would ask people in our parlor. “Would you like to see my son’s butt?”

There are various photographs of me standing by the fireplace, my rear facing the camera. In these pictures I’m

wearing a ten-gallon hat, holding a little pistol. I am 3 years old, and my unmentionables are showing.

My mother would show these pictures to visitors and say, “Sean was very chilly that day.”

There are photos from my first day of school. I was holding a huge sack lunch in a supermarket paper bag. All my classmates held Evel Knievel lunch boxes, or Charlie’s Angels pales. Whereas my paper bag was large enough to feed a family of eight.

I can only guess that the supermarket bag was a result of miserly parents.

My parents were extremely frugal. My mother was Scottish, my father was German. Legend has it that on their first date, my father did not bring a bouquet, but a packet of carnation seeds. I can specifically remember my mother used to meet pizza delivery men halfway.

My mother used to…

READER: What do we do about AI? I am a writer for a prominent publication, and artificial intelligence is already stealing some of my gigs. Yesterday, for instance, a fellow reporter used material written by ChatGPT, and it was actually published. As a writer, are you afraid of artificial intelligence taking over?

SEAN: At this point, I’d love it for any intelligence to take over.

READER: Hi, Sean. I think tipping has gotten out of control. We used to only tip our servers, now we’re expected to tip everyone and anyone wherever we buy services. It’s crazy. What do you think?

SEAN: I think a recent survey reported that 70 percent of Americans feel that tipping has gotten out of hand. So you’re not alone. Tipping for good service in a restaurant is one thing. Tipping at the supermarket self-checkout is another.

READER: I read something you wrote about Andy Griffith. You mispelled “Aunt Bea.” It’s really “Aunt Bee.” Two E’s.

SEAN: You misspelled “mispelled.”

READER: I don’t believe in angels. I don’t care that eight out

of 10 Americans believe in them, it’s foolish. And when you write about it—just so you know—you lose all credibility to me as a journalist.

SEAN: I am not a journalist. I am a Little Debbie enthusiast with a laptop. However, I still believe in angels, no matter what you say. And if that makes me a fool… Well, God looks out for children and fools.

READER: Why don’t you shave your beard off? The picture of you in our newspaper looks like your face has been dipped into a giant can of hair.

SEAN: Be careful what you say. I am distant kin to Lon Chaney Jr.

READER: I was wondering what you think about the way this country is going right now? Do you believe that this generation is the downfall of America?

SEAN: I don’t believe in pointing fingers. However,…

The radio played George Jones at the barbecue joint where I ate lunch. I was eating Saint Louis ribs. Overhead, George Jones sang “He Stopped Loving Her Today.”

Whenever George sings the opening lyrics to this tune, a chill dances up my spinal column and I get sentimental. Immediately, I remember sitting in my father’s truck cab, wearing my Little League uniform, listening to the staticky AM station.

I glanced around the barbecue joint to make sure I wasn't being watched during my musical moment. Then I dabbed my chin with a napkin and helped George remember the words.

I write a lot about old country music, and I’m sure the subject gets tiresome. But I do this for an important and well-planned reason:

Because I don’t have to do any actual research.

But also, because if you and I don’t keep these timeless melodies alive, who will?

As a boy, my family drove great distances to support the cause of Minnie Pearl and Roy Acuff. We paid good money to watch Roy tear up his

apple-tree fiddle and crack jokes alongside Sarah Cannon. Ernest Tubb was still making appearances at the Opry when I was a babe. And I don’t want to let all that go.

The idiocy they’re cranking out on the radio today simply cannot compare to the country tunes of yore.

Classic country is folk art. Plain and simple. It is subtle lyricism based on a two-beat bassline, a steel-stringed rhythm section, and bottled malt beverages. This music was the poetry of stick welders, sharecroppers, and coal miners’ kids. And it’s ours.

When Loretta Lynn sang “Blue Kentucky Girl,” you weren’t merely listening to a radio. You were listening to one of your own take the microphone. This is why whenever Willie sang “You Took My Happy Away,” your daddy’s allergies always acted up.

I don’t mean to be critical, but new country is an embarrassment…

It all started in Georgia. There was a turtle blocking the highway. It was an old, rural highway. Two lanes. Way out in the sticks.

The turtle was the size of a tea saucer. And it wasn’t moving. The turtle sat on the yellow line, head inside its shell. Cars sped by faster than Chuck Yeager on a beer run. And yet the turtle—somehow—had not yet been crushed.

The year was 1991. Bill had just graduated college. He stopped to rescue the turtle, and flagged down traffic. He lifted the creature into his hands and marched it over to the shoulder.

He placed the creature in the grass and told the turtle to “Go home, little guy.”

But the turtle did not go home. The turtle turned and began walking toward the highway again.

So Bill decided to—why not?—take the turtle home. He had never owned a pet before. He was a 19-year-old guy, and his main hobby at the time was Budweiser.

He named the turtle Skidmark. But everyone called the turtle “Mark” for short.

Mark

was great fun at parties. They’d take him out of his aquarium and watch him wander through the apartment. Bill’s friends would balance beer cans on his shell, or slices of pizza, and let the turtle wander from room to room, making special deliveries.

Raising a pet had challenges. Bill had to learn how to feed Mark properly. Turtle care was not something they covered at the University of Georgia.

At first Bill was feeding his turtle Ritz crackers and cheese. But then he started reading books, and he soon realized that turtles very rarely eat Ritz crackers in the wild.

So he started feeding Mark sardines and turtle pellets.

Time marched on. Mark became a major part of Bill’s everyday life. Bill even took Mark on long trips with him.

“I took Mark to Rhode Island once, Texas, California, and Quebec.”

The…

Doctors thought Mason Martin would never make it out of the hospital alive. It was almost a foregone conclusion. A kid like that, with injuries like that. It was only a matter of time.

Mason Martin. A 17-year-old high-school quarterback who was in critical condition a few weeks ago. It all started in Karns City, Pennsylvania, when something bad happened at a football game.

Karns City High School was playing Redbank Valley High School. Redbank was winning. The score was 35-6. It was a bloodbath. And that’s when Mason took a bad hit.

In the third quarter, the referee saw Mason get creamed. Shortly thereafter, the kid was staggering on the field, moving in zig-zags.

“I had to talk to him,” said the referee, “and when I asked if he was alright, he told me, ‘No.’ So that’s when I knew something was wrong.”

The boy collapsed on the field. The game was called off. And Mason was rushed to UPMC Presbyterian Hospital in Pittsburgh. Mason was suffering a brain bleed and a

collapsed lung. It was bad.

Really bad.

“The truth is we need a miracle,” Mason’s mother said. “I’m not saying that to sound grim, but to let you know that we need the strength of your prayers.”

Within days of the event, people were praying. All over the globe, they were praying. The news circulated via social media. People all over the world were offering up prayers for his deliverance.

I wrote about Mason, and within hours, I had received messages from readers in Kenya, Shanghai, Russia. “We’re praying for Mason,” they wrote. One man from Dubai wrote: “نحن نصلي من أجل ميسون.”

Mason began receiving letters from all over the planet. But for weeks, we heard nothing.

Naysayers messaged me. One man in Dayton, Washington, wrote to me, “I wish you wouldn’t give people false hope, prayer doesn’t work. I just can’t stand to see people…