Women to my left. Women to my right. Pastel colors everywhere. Enough conflicting perfume scents to make my head swim. This might be the largest female gathering on planet earth.

And I'm in their hotel lobby.

If you want to know what I'm talking about, visit Atlanta during a Mary Kay convention. You'll see women of every shape, size, and hair-color—too many different Southern accents to count.

Such as the eighty-year-old woman who sits next to me while I'm eating a lukewarm complimentary breakfast. Her daughters are with her— granddaughters too.

“We ah from Marietta,” the elderly lady says, using eleven syllables.

Then, instead of shaking my hand, Mamaw

extends her wrist. Kind of like the Queen of England does when she blesses a NASCAR race.

Anyway, I'm not sorry about my strong affections for the women of Dixie. There's something special about them, and I'll die believing that.

They are well-behaved, and unpredictable. Using only one breath, they can cuss you blind, then turn around and preach a full-blown sermon. Sometimes they do both at once, using so much charm you end up thanking them for it.

They dress to the nines, often spending upwards of six hours before…

They were poor. Deep-fried poor. So destitute, they didn't have running water. And according to my sources, they cooked meals over an oil drum. The kids had hardly any meat on their bones.

They say the pastor visited their house with money. The father refused the money, claiming things were looking up. But this was a Depression. There was no up.

The pastor left a check anyway. And I understand he cashed it before lunchtime.

The first thing school kids noticed were her new shoes. Red leather ones, she loved red. I don't know what it is about shoes and poverty. They're the first things to go when

times get rough; first things you buy when you can.

The oldest girl walked with a bounce in her step, down the school hallways. She was a nice-looking girl, who rarely spoke. Nobody paid her any mind. Too bad. She had an angel-face. I suppose ratty clothes are hard for junior-high brats to look past.

It was during field class—when kids changed into white T-shirts and white shorts and exercised outside. She left her new bright-colored shoes in her locker.

When class was over, her shoes were gone.

They say she cried…

“Nobody likes me, I'm a loser,” claims my friend's son, Billy.

Loser.

That's a sad word, coming from nice-looking Billy. Today, he's as blue as a twelve-year-old can be. I asked his daddy where Billy got this ludicrous notion.

“Group of boys,” he said. “Middle-school cliques, you remember how it was.”

Do I.

In middle school they elected me president of the Mouth-Breathers Association of America. I still have my tiara somewhere. So unpopular did I become, I approached my forgetful grandfather for advice one day. My grandaddy pulled me aside and he left me there.

Billy, listen up, I want to tell you about my friend, Murphy. Murphy sought

popularity, too. When Murph was seventeen, he wanted to fit in with the athletes—who all had tiny eagle tattoos above their left nipples. We tried to talk him out of it, but Murph had a will of iron.

So, a carful of us drove two hours into the bad part of town. After Murph worked up a whiskey-glow, he stumbled into a parlor and proclaimed, “Hey, I wanna tatermy misshongreat sallerwacky.”

They knew what he meant.

We boys waited outside, watching various folks dressed in leather walk by. One woman…

“Would you write a tribute about my dad?” John asked. “I don't mean publicly, just something for my family, his birthday's coming up. I wasn't sure if you did that kinda thing.”

Well, not really, John, but how about a little information? Maybe I can help.

“Okay, he was an abused kid, our grandfather beat him and his brothers. Sometimes bad. My grandfather was awful, I believe that's why my daddy never got mad about anything. Even when my brother backed the car into the garage... Dad just laughed.

“He worked in a pulp mill since the sixties, loved hunting dogs, he thought my mama was a frickin' goddess, he liked humor, too. I think he would'a liked you.”

You've got my attention now, John.

“He was a coon hunter. He and his buddies were some of the only men I knew who went after coons at night. But he was also an artist. He painted, I still have lots of his paintings, and his wood carvings. When Mama died, he got into whittling pretty

good.”

A coon-hunting millworker, who likes hounds, painting, and whittling. Keep talking.

“He carved bears, buffalo, coyotes, and all sorts of animals from out West. But it was funny, because in reality, he never really travelled anywhere outside Dallas County.

“Oh, and there's one time, he saved someone's life. Yeah, he was on his way home and saw a car on the shoulder, this guy was choking, dad said his face was purple, the guy would'a probably died.”

A good Samaritan.

“No, he was a Methodist, but not a serious one, you know?"

My favorite kind.

“Everyone invited him to parties, he was the life of parties, had a million jokes he could run through, like the one about the farmer's daughter and the...”

This is a family story, John.

“After he died, our family kinda fell apart, it's hard getting together, 'cause he was…

I was going to write about something else, but I can't do it. Not after last night. It wouldn't be fair to the good people I saw.

This is a small town. Our band played music in a small abandoned storefront with dusty floors and plywood on the windows.

I asked about the plywood windows. Someone said that recently, two different vehicles smashed into this place. The surprising part was: both drivers were stone sober—if you don't count beer.

Anyway, I believe it. No sooner had I arrived in town, than someone shoved a longneck in my hand.

I met country accents. I met kids. I met a fella

with so many freckles, he put buckshot to shame. I met an elderly woman who said she'd skipped her nightly meds— since they would've made her drowsy. She said, “I don't want to fall asleep and snore during your music. Or worse.”

I didn't ask her what could be worse than snoring.

In the front rows: my friends, my wife's friends, my family, cousins, surrogate aunts, somebody's lap dog, and folks who were at my wedding.

I shook hands with opposing mayor candidates, and swore that—if I were a resident here—I'd…

He started college. To his wife's knowledge, he's one of the only forty-year-old students wandering around campus. But there are probably others like him.

His wife said he was surprised at how the fashions have changed throughout the years. When we were much younger, folks dressed different. Girls, for instance, wore enough to cover their hindparts. Boys tucked in their shirttails. Today, kids have primary-colored hair.

He's interested in teaching agriculture, has been for a long time. I've never understood this. The world is a huge place, with lots of exciting things happening. Why study cattle mating practices, or how to recycle goat pellets?

It's been a long

time coming for him. He's got two daughters, who look alarmingly like his mother did at their ages. And her. He's been with her his whole life. I've never known him with another. So many years have they been together, I can't say his name without saying hers.

Their friendship started way before high school, on a playground. He plucked a handful of tall grass and told me, “I'm gonna ask her to marry me.”

"Nice. What's the grass for?"

"It's a bouquet, stupid."

It seemed like a good idea at the…

I have a thing about railroad crossings. I like them. Once, I sat parked at one for twelve minutes, watching freight car after freight car in the dark.

In my passenger seat: a woman in her thirties, Mexican, ninety-five pounds sopping wet. Her children mixed—looking more black than latino. Her oldest kept asking me, “You gonna stay for cena?”

The other boy chimed in. And pretty soon, they were threatening suicide if the seventeen-year-old with red hair didn't stay for supper.

Hers was a bad neighborhood; the area had gone to pot. It might've been nice once-upon-a-time, but the front porches had bars on the windows.

I sat in her

den while she, her aunt, and her cousin cooked.

Her boys showed me their toys—different-colored blocks of wood. They were building a city. The youngest was King Kong, smashing the metropolis to pieces. A stray block hit his brother on the lip. That did it.

King Kong died, right there.

Supper was Hamburger Helper. Not the good kind, but the cheap, off-brand variety. I've eaten expired hog livers that tasted better. Her sons went back for seconds. King Kong led the charge.

I helped with dishes. It was a manual…

I don't care if you believe in heaven. But I hope you believe in angels. If you don't, you owe it to yourself to visit a school. You'll see plenty.

And I'm not talking about kids, but about folks who know how to swat hindparts, kiss bruises, and are familiar with the conflict at Valley Forge.

I know one such teacher. Long ago, he was a rambunctious kid, with a proclivity toward accidents. We called him, Shinbone—he busted his shin into three pieces sliding into first base.

We signed his cast, “Get well you ornery little shin.”

Nowadays, he goes by another name. One much more coordinated-sounding. And to his students, he's about as cool as Frigidare. He teaches science and history. He used to coach middle-school football, too, but parents didn't think it was fair letting every child with a bellybutton on the team.

Parents.

Anyway, with his first eighth-grade class, he made a promise to students. If everyone got A's, he swore to shave his head, right there in class. If their combined

average was less than A, he would shave their heads.

On the last day of school, they scalped him like a bunch of Comanches.

I have another teacher friend. She tells me during her first year teaching high-school, one boy's mother overdosed.

She attended the funeral. When she arrived, there were only three people in the room attending the service.

“Mine was the only name in the guestbook,” she told me. “Broke my heart.”

She encouraged the boy to go to college, and even helped him get a football scholarship. That child went on to participate in a national playoff.

And if that doesn't make you feel older than shin, here's another:

I know a woman who had a Mexican boy in her second-grade class. The boy showed up unable to speak a word of English.

“Sometimes,” she said. “You just connect with certain kids.…