Lake City isn’t a big town. You’re looking at 12,000 folks. Give or take. It’s one of those old Florida towns.

It’s hard to find Old Florida anymore. You can’t find it in Orlando—too many mouse-ear hats. It’s hard to find in Tallahassee—too many congressmen. You can’t find it in Miami—too much incoming fire.

But you can find it in Lake City.

I’m a native Floridian. I spent my feckless youth near the Alabama line, on the Choctawhatchee Bay. We were poor. I was raised on rusty well-water and homemade tatar sauce. We served cheese grits and oysters at Christmas.

Yesterday, I arrived in Lake City early to perform my one-man spasm at the Levy Performing Arts Center.

At soundcheck, I was accompanied by community musicians and fellow Floridians. There were fiddles, clarinets, upright basses, ukuleles, guitars, and banjos. They play rural music. Porch music.

The group is led by Skip Johns, a lifelong resident of Lake City. Skip is not young. His white hair is tied back in a ponytail, he has lines on his face. He is one of the many unfortunate souls whose lot in life is to play the banjo.

He plays his instrument upside down because that’s the way he taught himself when he was 11 years old.

“I saw my first calf-skin banjo when I’s a kid,” he says. “Fella that owned it was an old man, and he played a tune. Then he handed it to me and he said, ‘You wanna try this thing?’

“‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘I wanna borrow it.’”

Skip went home and taught himself to play left-handed. He is one of the few players in the world to play upside down. Which is exactly how he played the banjo when he appeared on the Grand Ole Opry in ‘79.

“Never forget when my band stepped foot on the Opry stage,” he says. “I was standing there, with my upside-down banjo, a country boy from Lake City, on the radio. Nobody thought I could do it. Don’t never let’em tell you what you can’t do.”

Lake City has a pretty good newspaper, too. The “Lake City Reporter” was among the first newspapers to run my columns, back in the early days of my career. Back when I had no idea what I was doing as a writer.

Actually, I still have no idea what I’m doing. I was a kid from Podunk, USA. I had no high-school education. No training. No clue. In fact, it took me 10 years to realize that I have no talent for writing. I should have given up, but by then I was already syndicated.

And well, I suppose I have places like Columbia County to thank for that. I have small-town Florida to thank. I have guys like Skip to thank.

And I have you to thank. Whoever you are.

Don’t never let’em tell you what you can’t do.