...I'm certainly in no position to tell you how to live your life. But if you do visit our neck of the woods, the trip might do you good

I'm no psychiatrist, but that doesn't mean I can't prescribe mind-numbing medication—which I most certainly can. So, if you feel like your life has turned into cosmic kitty-litter clumps, here's a script straight from the doctor's notepad:

1. get in your car

2. head south.

Do it now—since it's summer. And do it on Sunday, because this is when small towns come alive. Don't take my word for it, listen to Joel:

“Sundays in my town were somethin' else. My dad invited folks home, after church. It was his goal to get so many people around our table that they had to stand around holding plates. His mac and

cheese was somethin' else.”

You'll note: "somethin' else," is Southern for, "pretty stinking good."

Marsha remembers Sundays from another point of view. “For my family,” she says, “the whole day was church. Mother and I arranged the flowers for two services. Afterward, we'd go home, hang up our Sunday clothes, eat lunch, then put'em back on for Sunday NIGHT.”

Sunday night service. You haven't seen anything until you've watched an out-of-town preacher slap the Bible on a Sunday night. It's somethin' else.

Now, meet Gregory and his brother, two middle-aged fellas…

He stopped walking and looked straight at the sky—so clear and empty it looked fake. From where I stood, his lanky frame was black against the sun.

This was not altogether unusual for my father, he was an iron worker. He spent his days stick-welding, walking steel beams that were decidedly more terrifying than this.

We drove backroads, a cloud of dust kicking up behind us. Daddy wore his smudged-up work clothes. He looked out the windshield. Neither of us said much.

While he drove, we stared at the fields and farmland zipping past our windows. Such things have a way of making your mind run quiet. Barns. Farmland. Endless rows of fenceposts.

He turned at the large creek. The old metal bridge looked like a leftover from the heydays of the railroad. He rolled to a stop, then jammed the gearshift into park.

“See this bridge,” he said. “I used to spend a lot of time on this thing, haven't been here

in years.”

He jumped out of the truck. Then, he rapped his knuckles on the iron. A dull ringing suggested this thing was older and tougher than me.

I looked over the edge. It was a long way down.

He leapt onto the iron beam, then scaled to the top. “I used to do this as a boy," he called down. He held his hands outward and walked along like a tight-rope walker.

This was not altogether unusual for my father, he was an iron worker. He spent his days stick-welding, walking…

“We found inventive ways to keep from starving,” the woman says. “Whatever Daddy could do to make money."

The nursing home has a big flat-screen television. And at ten in the morning, you can find white-haired women sitting in front of it, expressionless. TV blaring.

The woman to my left turns and asks, "Have you seen my daughter? I think she's coming today."

"Sorry, ma'am. Haven't seen her."

On TV: a fitness model explains the paramount importance of the perfect beach-body. This girl looks like she's made of plastic and Spandex.

The elderly woman has no problem talking over the noise. “HEY! That girl on television looks like my daughter. Do you know if my family's coming today?"

Fitness-girl is doing step-ups, and punching the air.

The

old woman goes on, "We didn't have time to exercise in my day. My daddy was a cotton-mill worker. We didn't know where our next meal was coming from. By the time I's fourteen, we'd moved twenty-one times around Alabama."

Now the girl on TV is demonstrating how to tone buttocks by squatting on a chair. “MY BUTT," the girl is saying, "is the most ESSENTIAL part of my being..."

The woman ignores the television. "I had a friend when I's young, she invited me and my little brother for supper.…

The words of his antique songs wouldn't make much sense in today's world. After all, it's difficult to understand songs about poverty while listening to them on a seven-hundred-dollar smartphone.

"Boy, there was a time when the only way to hear a song was to watch a man sing it. And if you liked it, the only way to own it was to learn it."

It sounded like a flock of dying cats. Whining, howling, singing voices, accompanied by out-of-tune guitars and laughter.

It was marvelous.

My neighbor. His family was in town for the holiday weekend. While their grill smoked, they sat on the porch working up a good beer-glow, singing.

I sat outside, my ear cocked toward them.

They sang tunes like: “Uncloudy Day,” or, “Peace in the Valley.” And when they got to “I Come To The Garden,” somebody's wife joined in and put them all

to shame. She knew every verse.

I remember my grandaddy saying once, “Record players stole common folks' voices."

As a five-year-old, all I could do was reflect on this, and answer, "Did you know butterflies can taste with their feet?"

Which is true.

He ignored me and went on, "Boy, there was a time when the only way to hear a song was to watch a man…

“At nineteen, you think you're just gonna do your time in the military, get out, and carry on with your life. But Vietnam screwed everything up.

O beautiful for heroes proved, in liberating strife. Who more than self their country loved, and mercy more than life...

Carl, 92, U.S. Army: “During the war, we had everyone pulling for us at home, and we knew it, too. Even movie stars were rooting for the troops. Those were different times.

“As soldiers, there were moments, between the fighting, over in Europe, that we talked about personal things, stuff you don't never tell nobody else. There's a kind of bond between men who know they're going to die, a deep one. I just couldn't describe it.”

Phillip, 86, U.S. Air Force: “Shoot, I didn't even know what the Korean conflict was when I joined up. But, well, wherever they send you, you gotta go. I

wasn't too worried about it. In hindsight, I should'a been. Those were the worst years of my entire life.”

Johnny, 67, U.S. Army: “When I enlisted, I was only nineteen, man. I wasn't trying to be a good American. All I cared about was girls. Guys in uniforms got girls.

“At nineteen, you think you're just gonna do your time in the military, get out, and carry on with your life. But Vietnam screwed everything up.

“When I came back, I couldn't sleep indoors. I was twenty-four, spending the night in my mama's backyard—with…

Then, they'd visit the cooler, saying, “'Nother beer?” Which was only a formality—the speaker already had four in his hand before anyone answered.

It was always hot. So hot, your britches were always a little on the damp side. And whenever you hugged your aunt, your wet skin slipped against hers.

And then there was the guitar. My uncle could make it sing. I don't think I've ever seen anything so mesmerizing as when he picked out, “When We All Get To Heaven.”

I made him sing that tune a hundred times.

Behind us sat the iron beast, with smoke puffing from its stack. Four men sat directly behind it. From time to time, they'd shovel smoldering hickory into its belly, frowning.

Then, they'd visit the cooler, saying, “'Nother beer?” Which was

only a formality—the speaker already had four in his hand before anyone answered.

And baseball. My cousins played catch with Daddy. They remarked on what an arm he had. They'd lob the ball at him. He catch it, spin around like he was turning a double play, then fire back.

My cousin flung his glove off and moaned, “Geez, that one hurt my hand.”

It was one of the only times Daddy felt exceptional.

Beneath the big oak were folding tables, topped with foil-covered casserole dishes. If you so much as…

Don't use the word, “y'all,” “ain't,” or, “reckon,” people might think you're a redneck.

DON'T SWIM IN THE GULF WATER! That's what the experts say. Also: wear enough sunscreen so that you look like a marshmallow. And since we're on the subject, don't eat sugar. Or flour. Or gluten. Or breathe too deeply while in the upright position.

Kids, don't go barefoot. Don't climb trees, or play with bee-bee guns, or eat undercooked hamburgers—which will kill you. Don't play Red Rover, you could break an arm. Don't play baseball, unless you want a concussion. Don't play tackle football. Don't fistfight, you'll go to jail. Don't eat too much birthday cake, and don't you dare ask for more ice cream.

You'll get

diabetes.

Don't watch Westerns—too violent. Don't play with cap-guns. Never use the term, "Indians," that's offensive. Say instead, Native Americans. Don't swing from the monkey bars, don't use tire swings, don't cuss. Just sit Native-American style on the floor and watch the Atlanta Braves take a whooping from the Cleveland Native Americans.

Don't pee outside, ride bikes without helmets, or walk to school. In fact, don't WALK anywhere.

Don't drink anything stronger than apple juice, don't stay up past nine. Don't laugh at dirty jokes. And for God's sake, don't memorize any. If,…

Truth told, I don't know why I count. What does it matter how close the storm is? It's coming for me just the same. There's nothing anyone can do about it. You can't run.

It's raining while I write this. Hard. You ought to see the clouds. They look like dark tidal waves. And in the middle of them, flashes of light, followed by low rumbles. If I close my eyes, the rain almost sounds like a stadium full of people.

This is the best time to sit on your porch. You can see the whole forest soak in a good drink of water. If you're lucky, you might even see a tree get hit by lightning.

Just be careful.

My daddy's friend got struck by lightning once. He was on a job-site. He felt his hair

stand up. So, he laid himself flat on the ground, spread-eagle.

He said it felt like a firecracker went off in his brain. The blast blew off his shoes, burned his scalp, and ruined his hearing. He was never the same. They say he used to be a quiet man who tucked in his shirt; afterward, he was a sloppy, chatty night-owl who liked to chew ice all the time.

He told folks lightning was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Even so, Daddy said whenever it started to rain, he'd…

Males are strange animals. We pretend. In fact, we've been faking it a long time.

“Don't get me talking about my mama,” he said. “Or I'll start crying.”

The man in the necktie started talking about her anyway. There was no way he could help it. He'd just attended her funeral. According to him, it was a small affair. She was in her eighties.

"They did a good job on her," he said. "She looked rested."

It was late. The bartender was tired, musicians packed up instruments, waitresses swept floors, and this man wanted to talk about his mama.

Well, talking about your mother is a tradition in this part of the world. You can hear mama-stories in almost any waterhole across our region. And each tale carries the same weight as a Sunday-school Bible lesson. I don't know if people from other parts talk about mothers quite as often, but I hope they do.

As a teenager, I remember sitting around an Andalusia campfire, watching three boys with beer cans swap mama-stories. Three of us had mothers. John did not.

“You know," said John. "Before Mama died, I fell off the porch once. I broke my leg, I was in a cast for months...”

“I remember that,” said another.

The older he got, the harder it was to speak. He became the butt of a few high-school jokes from fools who couldn't look past his slow-moving mouth.

He had a lot to say—only he couldn't say it.

Whenever he'd open his mouth, it was like, “...someone took hold of my throat," he said. "The words just got all tangled up.”

I knew him back then. He lived to ride horses. And his stuttering might have been the reason for that. On horseback, he could go a whole day without saying anything, which suited him just fine. Because whenever he did open his mouth, it was like trying to extract a tooth. His eyes blinked, his face grimaced. Embarrassment mixed with determination.

Inevitably, someone would finish his sentence for him.

“I hated that,” he

said. “People think they're helping you out when they do that, but they're not. It's like they're kinda saying, 'Geez, man, I'm sorry you stammer so bad.'”

The older he got, the harder it was to speak. He became the butt of a few high-school jokes from fools who couldn't look past his slow-moving mouth. His confidence went down, he quit spending time in the company of his peers—more time in the company of horses.

“I just didn't fit in,” he said. “And if ever I was around girls, I just prayed…