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…

I’d like to make my mama proud. That’s one of my main goals in this world. If I’ve made her proud, well, then I’ve really done something.

My mother, you see, is the kind of woman who taught me how to be nice, and how to have manners.

Long ago, she would make me sit with my cousin, Myrtle, at covered dish socials, so Myrtle wouldn’t be sitting alone. Mama would say things like: “Be polite, and make sure you ask your cousin how her baton twirling is coming along.”

Admittedly, Myrtle was about as interesting as watching ditchwater evaporate. But like I said, I want my mama to be proud.

Maybe I should back up and tell you where all this is coming from.

Earlier this week, I spent some time with people who were—how do I put this— not very nice. Now, they weren’t MEAN people, per se, but you don’t have to be “mean” to be un-nice.

I hope I am never an un-nice person. What would Mama think?

Mama is a woman who says things like: “Don’t talk about yourself too much, it’s like passing gas in an elevator; people will smile, but they don’t mean it.

And: “Be a good listener, your ears will never get you in trouble.”

I don’t aspire to much in this life, but I know that I want to be the kind of man who listens.

Also, I want to be the kind of man who dogs follow for no reason. I want to be the guy who does magic tricks for toddlers.

I want to go around reminding teenagers how important they are. I want to listen to the jokes old men tell when their wives aren’t around.

I want to hear long stories on porches, and I want to be the first to respond: “Well, I Suwannee.”

A good Suwannee…

Dan Lovette became an usher at the Baptist church on Easter Sunday, March 26th, 1961. He stood at the door shaking hands, passing out bulletins.

Nobody knew Dan.

Weeks earlier, Pastor Lovette had introduced Dan as his older brother.

Dan was a tall man with a soft voice, and rough skin. He wore a brown suit that was too small. He hardly spoke.

He sat on the front row during sermons. After service, he smoked cigarettes behind the church. People asked the pastor questions about Dan, but he was quiet when it came to his older brother.

Over the years, folks saw a lot of Dan Lovette. He could be seen pushing a mower, changing the church sign, painting clapboards, passing out bulletins on Sundays, or cleaning the sanctuary on Mondays.

Dan lived in a back room of the church. His earthly belongings were: a cot, a hot plate, a coffee pot, a transistor radio, a shaving kit, and one brown suit.

Nobody

can forget the Sunday that the pastor announced he would be baptising Dan after service.

This surprised people. Most thought it was strange that the pastor’s own brother had never been baptized.

Even so, sixty-four church members stood near the creek, watching the tall man wade into shallow water behind his younger brother.

It was a simple ordeal. Down Dan went; up he came. Applause. Bring on the banana pudding.

But life was not all pudding and baptisms. In 1974, tragedy hit the church. The pastor was in a car accident on his way home from Montgomery, doctors thought he’d had a stroke while driving.

Dan sat beside his brother’s hospital bed without sleep or food. He lived in a hospital room.

The next Sunday, Dan Lovette took the pulpit with tired eyes. It was a hushed room. It was the first time any members of…

Easter weekend—I met someone I’ll call Rebecca. She is mid-forties, smart, has a good job, and is newly engaged. She’s in town visiting her mother.

Rebecca’s biological parents died when she was two. Her grandmother started raising her, but died when Rebecca was five. Then, her uncle took her in. He overdosed and died the next year.

Talk about a string of tragedies. Rebecca would’ve gone into a foster care system, but she didn’t. The neighbors across the street adopted her. An elderly couple.

Rebecca says: “I remember riding on my dad’s lap when he was mowing the lawn. I was little, we were still getting to know each other...”

Seven-year-old Rebecca shouted above the noise of the lawnmower, “Thanks for being my dad!”

Her father turned the tractor off and said, “I don’t ever wanna hear you thank me again. A daughter doesn’t have to thank her dad for being her dad.”

Rebecca smiled at me. “I miss him every day.”

Earlier today, I was at the grocery store. There were three

men in line with tattoos on their forearms and necks. One man had a tattoo of a snake on his bald head.

The snake’s eyes seemed to follow me when I moved—sort of like the creepy painting my aunt Eulah has of Dale Earnhardt Jr., hanging in her den.

These men are former inmates. They are buying cartfuls of spare ribs for a cookout with other former-inmate friends.

“We’re not an organized group,” one man said. “We just try to have fun and be there for each other.”

This weekend, they’ll celebrate Easter, play guitars, play games, and talk. Then they’ll have a short class on how to operate cellphones.

“You wouldn’t believe how hard these @#$%ing phones are, man. Lot of us were still in when they got so popular. Some of us don’t know how to use’em.”…

It’s Easter season in the South. The dogwoods are blooming. The azaleas are pink enough to take your breath away. The pollen is sending people to the ER.

I’m covering the arrival of Easter, and it’s big in the Southeastern United States. Here, the world comes unglued. This is the time of year when small country churches get so many visitors, cars have to park on the lawn.

Sometimes, the excitement is too much for local pastors to bear.

Last year, for instance, Pastor Jeremy Parker of Greene County, Tennessee, made Easter memorable for his congregation. He decided to preach a sermon while dressed like the risen Savior.

He wore a long white robe which his wife had sewn, and carried a shepherd’s staff.

His assistant pastor wanted to take things a step further. He masked the sanctuary windows with black paper and pointed a spotlight on the pastor to better portray the splendor of the risen Lord.

On Easter morning, the church was packed—standing room only. The

lights went off, the church went dark. The spotlight hit Pastor Jeremy and—I’m sorry to say—his paper-thin tunic became semi-transparent.

The children of Israel could see his outline beneath the robe. And everyone knew without a doubt that the pastor did not believe in underpants.

Now, if Pastor Jeremy would’ve attempted this in, say, Ann Arbor, Michigan, they would’ve hauled him away to a padded cell. But this was not Michigan.

Pilgrim’s Primitive Baptist, in Dallas County, is going to bring livestock into their sanctuary this Easter. I spoke to a deacon about it.

“We originally wanted lambs,” said Albert Dillard. “And we were gonna have a donkey, too, since Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey.”

Albert made some phone calls, but no luck. Nobody had lambs. No donkeys, either.

But all was not lost. Albert was able to secure several…

Mama was leaving him. She said she was going to leave my father for real this time.

We drove toward North Carolina, I sat in the passenger seat. My baby sister was in back. We were going to live with my aunt and uncle—at least that was the plan.

It was night. There were no lights on the highways. I was Mama’s navigator. I held a map in my lap and translated highway routes for her. I had no idea what I was doing.

We stopped at a truck stop diner. The kind with linoleum floors and Willie Nelson on the radio.

My mother used a payphone, bouncing my sister on her hip. I sat at a counter, eating a burger. I could hear Mama talking to my aunt in an anxious voice. I was sick to my stomach.

“He’s lost his mind,” I heard my mother say. “I’m afraid he’s gonna try something stupid...”

My father had not been himself for a long time.

Mama didn’t want me to hear her conversation,

so she faced her backside toward me.

My waitress was a woman with phony red hair, big glasses, and colorful pins on her apron. The buttons she wore were spectacular.

The waitress said to me, “Why aren’t you eating your food? You feeling okay?”

She refilled my glass, then leaned onto her elbows. She looked like a sweet woman. She placed a poker chip on the counter beside my plate. It was red.

“If you promise to eat,” she said, “you can have this poker chip.”

I stared at it.

“This is no ordinary poker chip,” she went on. “Why, this thing’s magic. Brought me a lotta luck when I needed it most.”

“It did?”

“You betcha.”

It didn’t look like anything special to me. I reached for the chip and she swatted my hand.

“Not…

I was in Winn-Dixie on important business—buying Chili Cheese Fritos, a Superman comic, and a jar of Skippy for my dog. I met a man who recognized me.

The man shook my hand and said: “Hey, I like your angel stories.”

His name was Allen, and he told me an angel story of his own. And I promise to tell it to you. But first, I owe you a brief history on myself.

When my father died, I was twelve. I was a lonely kid, moderately chubby, uncoordinated, duck-footed. I had a nose the size of Mount Rushmore, and a deep affection for Chili Cheese Fritos. I’m getting ahead of myself.

As a boy, my mother’s friend gave me a paperback book with a worn cover. The book was titled: “Angels: God’s Secret Agents.”

I was thinking to myself, “Gee thanks, lady. Why would any red-blooded boy want a sissy book on angels?”

Today, it’s books on cherubs. Tomorrow, it’s pedicures and swapping lemon bar recipes at bridge club.

I read the book

three times through. Cover to cover.

And I hoped I would see an angel someday. In fact, I wanted it so bad it almost hurt. But I never saw a single feather. And somewhere along the way, I just gave up hoping.

Anyway, years later I started writing. I wasn’t thinking much about miracles anymore. Then I met an old man at a nursing home. His name was Ben.

“I was a boy,” said Ben. “I’s riding in the bed of my daddy’s truck, my brother was following behind in another car...”

The truck hit a bump. Ben bounced out and hit the dirt. His brother couldn’t stop in time and ran straight over Ben.

Ben’s rib cage was crushed. His lips turned blue. His father cried.

Then, a man appeared. A drifter, wearing a fedora, carrying a duffle bag.…

The sun has set. The night sky is blueish. Hartford, Alabama.

It’s suppertime. Highway 167 is getting to me. My wife and I have been on the road for days. My hindparts are sore. We’ve slept in hotels, skipped breakfasts, and today we skipped lunch because we were in a hurry.

Hunger has fallen upon us like General Sherman fighting the Battle of Chik-fil-A.

Hark. A restaurant ahead.

A tiny place. A gravel parking lot full of pickups. A Pepsi sign in front. It reads: “Home Cooking, 7 Days a Week.”

Mom’s Kitchen is your all-American meat-and-three joint. We are greeted by the smell of real food, happy faces, and a few pie coolers.

The waitress is young. She says, “Sit wherever y’all can find room.”

This place is buzzing. There are only a few free tables—a good sign. It’s full of something I can’t put my finger on, but it transcends food.

An old man behind me is eating alone. He’s having a tough time feeding himself. His hands don’t

seem to work. Early Parkinson’s maybe. He’s trying hard.

The waitress takes good care of him. Whenever he sees her, he smiles big enough to beat the band.

Hold it. I owe you an apology for that last phrase. It’s corny, and a low-class habit for a writer to indulge in. And it’s proof that I’m my father’s son. Before he died, he used to end every sentence with: “to beat the band.”

A lot of innocent bands were beaten during my childhood.

I will always miss him.

Anyway, seated beside our table is a redhead boy with his family. His food arrives. He’s eating so fast he’s in danger of passing out.

I was a redhead like him once. I was a big eater, too. Once, my father took me to a country eatery and I ordered…

A crowded restaurant. I’m eating breakfast with my mother and sister.

The newest addition to our family is here, too. My niece. She’s a toddler with reddish hair and the face of a renaissance cherub. Right now, she’s in a highchair, eating crayons, pooping her britches.

She’s a happy little thing.

The waitress comes to take our order, but we’re not ready. We just got here, and we’ve got a lot of talking to do.

“Three coffees, please,” Mama says.

It’s been so long since we ate breakfast together, I almost forgot how to do it. But it all comes back to me.

Mama looks better than she’s ever looked. She’s five-foot-one. All my life, she was five-foot-two, but age has claimed an inch.

She’s tough. She started waiting tables at twelve. During her twenties my father paid for her school by crawling on iron buildings. He worked double shifts; she studied all night to earn her degree.

My father put her through hell, then he left this world unannounced. She worked whatever

jobs she could find.

I remember wandering into Chick-fil-A to see Mama behind the counter. I had just gotten off work. She handed me two sandwiches wrapped in foil, and a double-order of fries.

“You’re looking scrawny,” she said—that’s what mothers say.

I reached for my wallet.

“No,” she said. “This meal’s on the house.”

Then, I saw her dig money from her purse and place dollars into the register.

My sister is sitting beside my mother. She is magnificent. She’s a living rendition of my mother’s high-school senior portrait.

I remember when Sarah was born. I can still remember holding the gangly baby. I remember her sticky cheeks. I remember when she ate crayons.

I remember when she sat in the dugout at my Little League games. I remember when she stood beside me…

He had a stutter. Whenever he opened his mouth, it took effort to get words out. Just one sentence would exhaust him.

As a boy, his sisters spoke for him. They’d been doing it since he was old enough to make noise. They were his guardians. They used fists when necessary.

On more than one occasion, they’d beat the stuffing out of local boys who called him names.

His oldest sister bought a mail-order book about curing speech impediments. For hours, she’d help him recite sentences, enunciating consonants, repeating exercises.

He tried. In fact, he concentrated so hard it made his brain ache. It didn’t work.

When he was nineteen, he attended a speech therapy class in Birmingham. It cost a small fortune. He’d saved his pennies and dimes for three years to pay tuition.

The school term lasted a few weeks, but did him no good. He returned home with a stutter even worse than before.

One of his sisters recalls: “It used to hurt us

to watch him talk. He’d try so hard, but his mouth wouldn’t work with him.”

Until.

A July night, he was washing dishes in the service station in town—the kind that served hamburgers and Cokes. He was standing over a sink when he met her.

She introduced herself as the new waitress.

He couldn’t even get his name past his lips.

So, he shook her hand instead. She rolled her sleeves and washed dishes alongside him. She talked extra so he wouldn’t have to. Her accent was country, her eyes were blue.

He was smitten.

She was pretty, funny, talkative. She could jaw for eight minutes on end without even coming up for air.

Over the next days, he tried to talk to her, but his words kept coming out like bricks. But she didn’t seem put off by…