ATLANTA—I am in the big city today, covering the arrival of fall. I am sitting on a bench, reading an Atlanta Journal-Constitution newspaper. I am a longtime admirer of this paper. I’ve been reading it since boyhood, back when we would visit family here in Atlanta.

When I hold this newspaper, I still remember my first pangs of literary ambition. I was a kid who wanted to be a writer. A columnist, even. I dreamed of a thrilling life in journalism, filled with rewarding work, the machine-gun sound of newsroom typewriters, grumpy editors in suspenders, and above all, an expense account.

But some things are never meant to be. I didn’t even start writing until I was a grown man who had barely finished community college.

I am taking the MARTA bus today. I figured, why not? The weather is nice. Fall is here. And most importantly, I hate Atlanta traffic.

When I was a kid we lived here for a hot minute. To live in this city means spending half your

life stuck on Interstate 285, physically abusing your steering wheel during gridlock.

Riding the MARTA bus is a more mellow experience. The bus takes me through town while I read the sports section.

The bus arrives at an upscale shopping area. I visit a few stores. A strange lady sprays cologne on me against my will. One man in a kiosk begs me to buy a timeshare. I get a three-dollar massage in a coin-operated recliner. You can’t beat it.

For lunch, I eat at a taco joint. Atlanta is full of taco joints.

“Tacos are huge in Atlanta,” one taco employee tells me. “We cater tons of weddings, everyone wants tacos at their wedding.”

I believe it. A few months ago, I attended a friend’s wedding. It was a fancy event with porta-potties and an outdoor tent. A dance band played “Mustang Sally” for country club members…

SOMEWHERE IN GEORGIA—We are driving two-lane highways that are draped in scenery from the Old South. My wife rolls the window down. It’s perfect morning weather in Georgia.

I’m having a good hair day. This doesn’t happen often, so let us pause and give thanks. I was born with curly hair. I haven’t had a good hair day since the mid 1980s.

We enter a small town. There isn’t much going on here. I wish I knew which town, but I didn’t see the town sign coming in.

You know the sign I’m talking about. The Welcome To Our Little Town sign with all the service-club shields—Rotary Club, Lions Club, Kiwanis, Freemasons.

And don’t forget the church signs. We pass a million of those. They litter the old highways, just in case any degenerate sinners are looking for a Freewill Baptist church.

There are a lot of denominations to choose from today. We pass a hundred Baptist churches (those who believe in full-immersion baptism), a few hundred Methodist churches (wet-your-hair baptism), a few Presbyterian churches (former Baptists

who drink beer), one Church of Christ (we don’t need no stinkin’ piano), Episcopal churches (former Presbyterians who drink Crown Royal), and a Church of God (hairspray).

We ride through tiny towns with churches on each street corner. In one place, I count nine steeples peppering the skyline above the trees. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Norman Rockwell was mayor.

The towns keep coming. I see a small downtown area that looks frozen in time. There is even a deputy walking the sidewalk—and I am not kidding about this—twirling a long keychain around his fingers.

In another town, I see children playing hopscotch in a driveway. I pass a few kids riding bikes that have baseball cards attached to their spokes.

We finally pull over at a cafe. My wife and I are overdue for a stop. We have been…

DEAR SEAN:

Will you come to one of my games? I have no dad anymore but I read your stories because you are like him is what my mom and I say. You like baseball and I just started to learn it. I should be playing center filled if you come to it next summer when we are playing. I am a redhead like you are. Thank you.

NINE-YEAR-OLD-IN-NEBRASKA

DEAR NEBRASKA:

Nebraska is a long way from me. Seven states away, actually. That’s practically another world. If I drove the whole way, it would probably take me—factoring in the slow speed I travel; the number of pit stops I take due to my teacup-sized bladder; and all the roadside cafes I will have to visit to meet my daily quota of bacon—ten years to reach Nebraska.

So to answer your question: Yes. I will try to come.

Firstly, because I believe in baseball. Also, because I am flattered that you read my writing. You could read anything you want, but you choose to read my few hundred

words. Which raises the question: Are you nuts?

But then, maybe it has something to do with the color of our hair. We redheads are a dying breed you know.

Experts claim that long ago, during caveman times, redheads ruled the earth. In those days, the mythical ginger was often an important leader of a powerful tribe. Sometimes we were even worshiped.

Historians also tell us that redheads were mankind’s first poets, philosophers, and discovered many important medical breakthroughs such as tinctures, compounds, tonics, and out-of-pocket copay deductibles.

But somewhere along the way, the number of redheads decreased. We dwindled to two percent of the world’s population—which is a true statistic.

It was hard growing up as a two-percenter. In my childhood, people didn’t see us as tribal leaders, and they certainly didn’t worship us. They sort of saw us as weirdos.

It’s…

My wife and I are leaving for Weeki Wachee, Florida, on a sunny morning. It’s supposed to be fall, but the joke is on us. It is still 320 degrees Fahrenheit outside even though it’s October.

This morning, for example, after packing the car I had to change clothes because I was sweating worse than a chubby kid doing Zumba in the attic.

We’re traveling to Weeki Wachee, of course, because of mermaids. Real mermaids. They are legendary mermaids who have been performing underwater shows since Harry Truman was in office. They swim. They do backflips. They blow kisses to lucky schmucks in the audience. I am hoping to be one such schmuck.

All my life I have wanted to see these Floridian mermaids swim underwater from the famous 450-seat aquarium theater.

Once when I was a child, we got all the way to Hernando County and actually stood outside the attraction gates, but the doors were locked and the place was closed. So we ended up eating at a rundown buffet

and buying a bunch of lacquered gator heads as Christmas presents for family members.

The ride to Middle Florida is a fairly uneventful one. My wife and I take turns driving. When she drives, I nap. When I drive, she gives me instructions on how to drive because I am male and therefore not smart enough to pull up my own underpants let alone pilot an automobile.

She shouts things like: “PUT ON YOUR BLINKER, DUMMY!”

“NO! NO! NO! STOP! IT’S A YELLOW LIGHT!”

“I THINK YOU JUST RAN OVER THAT OLD WOMAN AND HER LITTLE SHIH TZU!”

But there is nothing like a Floridian drive to put you in a good mood. Today, the scenery is unbeatable. We see open fields and fat oaks laden with moss.

Pretty soon, we are in the middle of nowhere and we lose cell-phone reception. I get a little excited about…

I remember the first time I ever put hands on a computer. My cousin Billy had one. It was the size of a Buick Roadmaster and it smelled funny. He would play this glorified game of slow-motion ping-pong as though it were a matter of national security.

His mother, my aunt Eulah, worried about using computers. She believed they were invented by the Devil. But then, Aunt Eulah worried about everything. She was the same woman who, whenever she heard ambulance sirens, called her entire family to make sure they weren’t dead.

During childhood we would receive random calls from Aunt Eulah wherein she would shout, “I heard an ambulance, I had to make sure you weren’t bleeding to death!”

We would always answer the same way: “Aunt Eulah, have you been drinking again?”

And she’d get so mad.

Anyway, when I was a kid, only rich people owned computers. Or doctors. Or people who worked for the government. We didn’t have them in school.

I learned to type on a manual typewriter in a

classroom with eight other kids. Our teacher was an elderly woman with a beehive hairdo and five-inch-thick stockings. We practiced typing sentences like: “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”

Or: “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.”

I timed myself while typing those words just now. It took thirteen seconds, not counting the quotation marks.

I’m not a fast typist, never was. But I still own my old typewriter, and I use it. I wrote most of my first novel on it. And I completed ten books with it.

It’s a workhorse. It has fallen down stairs, tumbled out of my car, dropped into a puddle, and on one occasion it was dropkicked by a man named Marvin Lloyd.

I adore typewriters. But I have a love-hate relationship with computers. Sure, they’re okay,…