I am at my friend’s house, watching the ballgame. Dogs everywhere.

Otis, our new three-month-old Labrador is at my feet. He looks like a Holstein cow, only smaller, with considerably more stink.

The ballgame plays. And I am looking at a pond behind my friend’s house. There are lillies on the water, acres of them. Water lilies. The the sound of insects is louder than screaming baseball fans on television.

Crack.

A hit.

The crowd goes wild. I go wild. My friend goes wild. Otis pees. And it’s time for another beer.

My friend’s wife makes soup for supper. And biscuits. Hot, buttery catheads. And we are sitting together, eating, talking, almost like family.

We are talking about everything and nothing. And I’m glad. No, not just glad. I’m glad to be here. Right now.

You might not care about this, but for my whole life, I wanted to be something else. Namely, a musician. I wanted to sing songs in important places. But I wasn’t good enough. A man

has to accept when he’s not good enough.

I had a lot of ideas for my own life. The list goes on and on, and it embarrasses me to talk about. Some ambitions were more idiotic than others.

I wanted to work in radio, for instance. My aunt always told me I had a face that was made for radio.

A man at a country music station auditioned me. He liked my voice and he let me read a few ads over the air.

The night before my artistic debut, I memorized the ads I’d been given. The next morning, I announced them over the air, using a radio announcer’s over-excited voice.

Here’s an ad I still remember—the names have been changed to protect the innocent:

“Phillips and Sons used CHEVY and PRE-OWNED FORD DEALERS, the city’s lowest prices…

The last thing we needed was another puppy.

This whole day seems like a blur. I woke up, ate breakfast, read the sports page, took a shower. And (snap!) I have two puppies. It all happened so fast, I’ve forgotten my own name.

The puppy’s name is Otis Campbell. He is black, with white socks, and a snow-white belly. He is part Labrador.

Otis has the disposition of your classic dog. Calm. Quiet. Loyal. Big eyes. He has a sixth sense for things like human emotion, basic spirituality, and how to rip stuffing from residential sofas.

It all started when my wife and I visited a puppy adoption fair today. This was a bad idea.

There were several cars in the parking lot. And inside were people from all walks of life.

A young couple in Spandex workout attire wandered the cell blocks. They poked fingers through cages. They spoke in high-pitched voices.

A red headed little boy held a terrier mutt who looked

like a malnourished Benji.

“He likes me, mom,” said the boy. “He licked me, look! He likes me.”

A young woman and her daughter sat in a kennel with a puppy so skinny you could see its skeleton. It was missing hair, and looked sick.

I asked about this dog.

“Yeah, he’s sweet,” said one volunteer. “He came to us half-starved.”

This upsets me.

There were dogs with names like “Pete,” “Sam,” “Duke,” and “Scruffy.” They watched me walk by with wide eyes and sad stares.

Many of these pups will not be adopted, the volunteers tell me. Many stay in shelters long enough to learn to prefer sleeping in concrete corners.

“Please, mom,” said the redhead again. “He’s so pretty, I promise I’ll take care of him.”

The mother shook her head. She said, “Put him down, I said…

What a day. It was magnificent. Beginning with the first beam of sunlight.

The sun came up at 6:21 A.M. here in Northwest Florida. It happened the same as it does every day.

The sun woke before everyone else, got itself showered, combed its hair, ate some Corn Flakes, and made its ascent above the Gulf of Mexico.

I watched the sunrise. I was in my truck, parked near the beach, eating a breakfast sandwich.

The ball of light made the Gulf look like emeralds. I had to cover my eyes to look at the water.

Not many people talk about the sun, but they ought to. Because the sun will eventually burn this earth into a Pop Tart.

I hate to get all sciency on you—you’re looking at a 2.3 grade point average here—but scientists tell us that the sun keeps getting bigger. And one day, it will engulf the world as though it were my Uncle Tommy Lee engulfing dozens of innocent devilled eggs.

And when this colossal event happens, everything will be gone. Even devilled eggs. There will be no more trees, no grass, no skies, no more Lawrence Welk reruns. It will be lights out.

Well, actually, it will be lights ON.

You know what else? We are pretty small in the big scheme of things. The sun contains 99.86 percent of the “mass” found in the solar system. What does that mean?

Okay: imagine objects in the solar system were shrunken into miniatures. Imagine the earth were the size of a basketball. That would make the sun about the size of Bryant-Denny stadium.

The sun also makes its own gravity. Meaning: every dadgum thing in this universe sort of hovers around it—like folks at a potluck table.

In fact, if it weren’t for the sun’s gravity, the earth would shoot forward in a straight line through space.…

Thelma Lou sleeps on my lap. She is seventy pounds of bloodhound. She is wearing a handkerchief around her neck.

Tomorrow is a special day for her.

The handkerchief is red. We call this her “blanky” because she carries it wherever she goes. It used to be my everyday handkerchief. Now it’s hers.

I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, boy. Here we go again. Not another sentimental dog story.”

No. That’s not what this is. The last thing I would ever write is a sentimental dog story. Those are dumb.

I’m writing an adventure. It’s about a tough guy named John.

John emailed me. He told me a story. John was a wayward young man, with a criminal record, and a knack for falling in with the wrong crowd.

John worked at the liquor store. Late one night, after closing shop, he was taking out the trash. He heard noise. He saw someone digging in the dumpster next door.

“Who’s there?” he hollered.

John heard quick footsteps. He saw silhouettes leap into a vehicle. He heard the engine roar. He saw a car drive away.

Then, whimpering came from the dumpster behind the supermarket.

He peeked inside.

A trash bag. It was covered in stale bread, rotting vegetables, and shredded paper.

John removed the bag. It was lumpy. And squirming. He opened it with a pocket knife. And, as John puts it: “Those puppies were no bigger than your hand.”

Newborns. Nine. Only eight were living. One puppy was not. They were black and white. They had pig-like faces. They made squeaking noises.

“Those guys left them to die,” says John. “I mean, the puppies were living, and those guys WILLINGLY wanted to change that.”

John took the puppies home. He washed the deceased puppy with dish soap—she was covered in stink and urine.…

Hey. Thank you for the tomatoes. I don’t know who you are, or how you got them to my doorstep anonymously. But thank you.

They are Slocomb tomatoes. The best in the known Western world. The last of the season. Red. Warm from the sun. Juicy. Have mercy.

I’d also like to say thanks to the little girl who opened the door for the boy in the wheelchair. The boy was wheeling toward the door. She raced to the door and held it open. She must’ve been nine years old, hair in ribbons.

He thanked her.

She answered, “Sure” in the voice of a little girl. But she is not a little girl. She is an incredible human being.

Thank you to the man who gave his hat to the Hispanic kid. The kid was in the open sunlight, standing beside his older sister, who held a cardboard sign. They were begging for money in Pensacola.

People drove past them. People wouldn’t even look at

them.

But you did, sir. You gave that child your own hat. An Arkansas Razorbacks hat, of all things.

I was three cars behind you. I made a note about what you did in a little notebook in my truck. That’s what writers do. We carry notebooks. And I’d almost forgotten about what you did until today, when I found that notebook.

And thank you, Robbie. You are the right arm of my elderly mother-in-law. You drive her around town. You water every fern, scrub every dish, change every light bulb. And I’ll bet if you had a mind to, you could install brand new heating and cooling ductwork using nothing but a roll of duct tape and the Bible.

Thank you, Sylvia. Thank you for hugging my neck in the middle of a grocery store, even though we’ve never met in person before. Thank you for…

6:39 P.M. A bar. I am here to watch the ball game. The beer comes in tall glasses. The chicken wings are sizzling, and come garnished with a jalapeno pepper that causes serious medical damage to all who eat it.

The Braves are playing Tampa. The Braves look good this year.

I realize you might not care about baseball, and I wouldn’t blame you. It’s a slow game, without much action. But it is very important to me.

My father was the kind of man who played catch with me nearly every summer night of my childhood. I remember when he bought me my first real glove. Until then, I’d been using secondhand gloves that were too big for my hand.

He oiled the new mitt with bacon fat, then wrote my name inside with a grease pencil—my father always scribbled names on things we owned. Even on shirts, hats, and underpants.

When I found the leather mitt on my dresser, it had a red

ribbon tied around it. It took my breath away.

The fact is, I didn’t have much of a throwing arm, but I could catch. And this was one of the few things I ever heard my father brag about.

“My son can catch anything,” he once said at a church picnic. “Why, if I threw a washing machine across the lawn, my boy’d find a way to get his glove on it.”

This made me so proud it hurt.

That night, my father decided to back up his claims for the fellas on the church lawn. I slid my glove over my hand.

My father was a pitcher. He could throw trick balls. He threw four-seam fastballs, two-seamers, Bugs Bunny balls, Dipsy Doodle curves, split knuckles, and a pitch he called the “Wandering John”—in which the ball would travel so slow that it would visit the…

This morning, I went to the gas station to get a newspaper, coffee, and lottery ticket. My bloodhound, Thelma Lou—poster child for moderate hyperactivity disorder—usually goes with me.

The way our morning routine usually works is simple: I buy a newspaper, maybe some powdered donuts; she steals my donuts, and eats my newspaper.

But this morning, when I walked into the gas station, something was wrong. Before I even got to the donuts, I could tell the air was tense.

The scene was this:

The cashier behind the counter was frazzled. She obviously did not know how to use the computerized cash register.

A customer at the counter was aggravated with her. There were five customers in line. They were all displaying universal gestures of annoyance.

Clearing throats. Folding arms. Tapping feet. The woman in front of me glanced at her watch. One man sighed hard enough to knock over a circus tent.

“Not-niceness.” That’s what we’re dealing with here. And it’s running rampant in today’s world.

The customers were

growing not-nicer by the minute. Finally, a man slammed his change on the counter. Another man mumbled a cuss word before storming out.

One woman shook her head and said, “Learn how to do your JOB, sweetie.”

When I got to the cashier she was too overwhelmed to say anything. Who can blame her? It’s not every day five customers behave like walking-talking jack mules.

She was a woman who looked older than she was. Her hair was blonde. She had tattoos on her arms, and on her hands.

“People can certainly be mean,” I remarked.

“Yeah,” she said. Then, she sort of broke down. She placed her head in her hands.

“I just CAN’T figure out this computer,” she said. “I ain’t stupid, I know how to do stuff, but this thing’s acting weird.”

So, I made conversation.…

Tallassee, Alabama—what a night. I’m in a tiny town. An ancient theater. I am standing where Hank Williams stood. I’m about to sing and tell stories to an audience.

I’m clutching a penny so hard it leaves a mark on my palm. The penny bears the birthdate of my late father upon it.

It was in this room that The Drifter himself once performed to a full house, singing through a tin-can microphone.

The Mount Vernon Theater hasn’t changed much since Hank. It is your all-American brick building. A ticket booth, folding seats, stage, velvet curtains.

I’m a kid in an opry house. What a night.

Anyway, one reason I’m here is to record the fiftieth episode of our podcast show.

Fifty episodes might not sound like much of an achievement—and it’s not, really. But if you’re me, it’s a big deal.

Nobody expected much out of me when I was a kid. Take, for example, the day my father taught me to ride a bicycle. He jogged beside my

bike, holding my seat for balance, cheering, “You can do it!”

Then he released me. I rolled forward. I wobbled. I fell. I tumbled. I bled. My mother gave me ice cream for supper.

I wanted to please my father so badly. I wanted to pedal a bicycle, then shout, “LOOK DADDY! I DIDN’T FALL!” But all I could do was skin my knees, and look like a clown doing it.

Years after he died, I found a penny with his birthdate. It reminded me of the man who once loved me enough to jog beside my bike, even though I inevitably disappointed him.

But right now I’m not disappointed about a thing.

I can see the audience through the curtains. And I am overcome. I’m clutching this penny tight. What a cotton-picking night.

The Goat Hill String Band…

A Mexican restaurant. Suppertime. I’ve been traveling. Earlier today, I spoke to a roomful of Presbyterians.

They were emotionally stiff. Only one gentleman in the audience laughed. His name was Davidek. Davidek is from the Czech Republic. Davidek laughed because he doesn’t understand English.

In fact, he only knew two English words: “Thank you.” Davidek shook my hand and said “Tankyou tankyou, tankyou,” nearly nine hundred times.

I pull off the highway. This joint is small. It borderlines on a dive. The stool cushions are torn. There’s a funny smell. A television above the bar.

My waitress is not Mexican. She is from North Tennessee. Her drawl is so mountain-thick it’s music. She has red hair and freckles. She is twenty-two.

It’s a slow night. Servers are playing on phones. The cooks are bored. My waitress is a talker.

“Where’re you headed?” she asks.

“Lake Martin,” I say.

“Oh dude, I LOVE it there, that’s where we went on our honeymoon. I SO wish we could move there.”

“You’re a long way from

Tennessee. How’d you get this far South?”

“Oh, we been here three years. We came after my husband got laid off, I was pregnant. My husband needed a change of scenery.”

“What’s your husband do for a living?” I ask.

She points to the kitchen. “Right now? He works here. That’s him, cooking in back.”

The Hispanic man waves a spatula at me.

She laughs. “He’s one semester away from being an engineer. We’re so proud.”

“He must be smart. I can’t add more than two numbers at once.”

“He is. And I just started college, too, end of last year. Only taking a few classes ‘cause I’m busy all day with my daughter.”

She removes a cellphone. She shows me a photo of a toddler with a ribbon on her auburn head, a feeding tube…

You probably never met Ricky Edenfield. But you would’ve liked him. He played a banjo downtown, Crestview, Florida. He was a big fella, thick-bearded, with a personality so jolly he made Santa look like a jerk.

I saw him play. I remember it like it happened a few days ago:

“Whatcha want me to play?” he asks a few kids.

Somebody’s mother asks, “Do you know ‘Will the Circle be Unbroken?’”

“Know it?” He laughs.

He knows it. And he plucks through it like a man whose beard is on fire.

That’s my memory of him. He played this music like he belonged in a different world. An older one.

The world your great-grandparents came from—long before twenty-four-hour news channels and cellphone-based entertainment.

He was homeless for a long time, and it was hard on his body. He used a wheelchair. Once, he even died on the operating table from a collapsed lung.

But he was a cheery son of a banjo.

He had a way of looking at you that made

you feel seen. And you’d wonder about things for a few minutes while he played. Big things. Universal things.

Like: why are people homeless? And: is anyone truly without a home?

“I ain’t homeless,” Banjo Bear once told me. “Got me a mansion. A nice one. It just ain’t down here.”

Then, I saw him fingerpick the tune, “I’ll Fly Away.” And even though I never knew this man, I knew him. Just like I know all the verses to this song. It’s a melody which sounds like a hymn, but isn’t. It’s more than that.

It’s a rural church, with wood floors. Where preaching is more like shouting, and the pastor rolls up his sleeves to pray for folks. Where miracles happen, but not the big kind. The little kind. Everyday miracles like babies, marriages, and second chances.

His…