Hey, you don’t know me, but I herd you needed some in couraging so I wanted to write you.

My name’s Sean—please to meet you—I just failed the fifth grade.

I’m serious. I just up and failed school this year. It’s a long story, but I feel pretty dumb bout it.

Anyway, Teacher said we was supposed to write how we talk when we write letters, so that’s what I’m doing. Thing is, I probably shouldn’t, cause Mama said I use the word “ain’t” too dang much.

I promised her I wouldn’t use it no more. Unless, course, I half to, on count a I can’t think of a better word.

Anyway, I really want to be a writer when I grow up, but I don’t know if it’s ever gonna work out, cause I’m obviously not very smart. But I’m trying to keep my chin up bout it.

Whenever I start to feel crappy bout my own self, from failing fifth grade, Daddy said I should look in a mirror and say:

“World. You ain’t seen nothin yet.”

Well, I feel kinda dumb doing that, but he says it works pretty good. And he’s usually right.

I ask Mama about writing tips all the time since I’m plannin to be a writer. She helps me a lot. Mama went to college and she knows more than your average mama. She said I got a long way to go.

For one thing, she tole me to quit using the word “Mama” whenever I write about her. Stead, she says I should use the word “Mother,” cause she didn’t raise no hick.

And she thinks I need a dictionary cause I dont spell to good.

So it was my own fault I didn’t do good at school, I didn’t get good grades. But the main reason is cause math hasn’t never…

The Grand Canyon could not look any better. The colors of morning shine on the rocks and make purple shadows.

My wife and I stand at the rail and overlook one of the best things ever forged.

A family from Shanghai stands beside us. The Chinese man asks me to take their picture by speaking in fluent hand gestures.

His family poses.

“Say CHEESE!” I shout.

“SHREEEEEEEE!”

“No! CHEESE!”

“SHREEEEEEEX!”

Close enough for American.

I have been to the Canyon a handful of times because this was one of two places my late father loved most.

Years ago, I came here to camp and hike by myself. I had gone through a rough patch and I was here to clear my head. I slept in a tent, I lived on canned food and warm beer. It was great.

One night, I camped beside an older man named Jerry. He was from Oklahoma. Jerry was a Church of Christ deacon. And even though I wanted to be

alone, Jerry started tagging along on my hikes without invitation.

After one full day of walking together, we shared supper. Beans and bacon cooked over a fire. When I cracked open my can of warm beer he got upset.

He said, “You’re not actually going to DRINK that are you?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I prefer to guzzle.”

I took one sip and wished I hadn’t. The next thirty minutes were filled with a bona fide sermon about beer. I started to feel so bad that I emptied my can on the campfire and apologized for offending him.

The next morning, I tried to sneak away from camp before Jerry awoke, but I was not quick enough. Jerry was already up with the chickens.

He was wearing a tucked-in shirt, khakis, and his backpack.

“Hurry up,” he said. “We have…

Montgomery—I’m sitting beside Judge Jimmy Pool at a baseball game. He’s wearing a ball cap. We’re talking during the third inning.

“Montgomery’s downtown wasn’t always this alive,” he says. “The downtown used to be dead in the water.”

I remember those days, back when tumbleweed rolled down Coosa Street and shop windows were vacant.

My cousin and I came here long ago to visit some friends. The downtown felt empty. A man wearing a trash bag asked if we had a few bucks. My cousin gave him a five. The man thanked us, then showed us a dandy little knife.

“How about a little more?” the man said.

My cousin gave him the rest of his cash. I gave him all my pocket change, a rubber band, some plastic-wrapped Saltines, and an expired Florida Lotto ticket.

The downtown is very different now. It is hip, and vibrant. The Hank Williams statue stands near the river, overlooking bustling streets and nice barbecue joints. Acoustic music comes from a sidewalk

restaurant.

“I can tell you exactly when this town changed,” says Judge Jimmy. “It was when Mayor Bobby Bright said, ‘I’m gonna bring baseball to Montgomery.’”

And so it happened. Fifteen years ago, the quaint stadium became a reality. And that, by God, was that.

Locals voted on a mascot. Lots of choices were offered, but the buttermilk biscuit logo won by a country mile.

“We’re really just a big small town,” says Jimmy. “And the Biscuits bring that out in us, we’re like family at this park, sometimes this stadium is my living room.”

I see what he means. In this small park, I am lost in the bygone era of our grandparents. Maybe it’s the gruff voices of umpires, the smell of stale beer, or the sounds of children laughing.

The food isn’t bad, either. Here they serve Conecuh Sausage.…

Pensacola—A sports bar. The Auburn Tigers were playing the Virginia Cavaliers, and I was the only person in the place not wearing orange and blue.

I am not an Auburn man. I root for the Crimson Tide. My mother roots for the Tide. You cannot change horses this late in life.

Even so, when the Tigers made Final Four basketball history, my Auburn friends lost their minds and nearly set fire to their own hair.

Because that’s how Auburn Tigers are.

One of my Auburn friends called me to say: “I don’t care who your team is, if you don’t come watch the Tigers with me you are a heartless sinner who drinks sugarless iced tea and doesn’t love the Lord.”

Message received. So there we were.

The television above the bar played the game. I sat beside two older women from Mobile. Both had white hair. Both sipped from wine glasses and wore Auburn colors.

“We’ve been friends since high school,” said Carol. “We even finish each other’s sentences.”

“I was gonna say the same

thing,” said Marie.

They cackled. They toasted their glasses.

Marie is an Auburn graduate, and she warned me that if I divulged their ages, I would be singing soprano for the rest of my life.

They have a lot in common. Carol lost her husband some years ago from prostate cancer. Marie lost her husband nine months later from pancreatic cancer.

“I never cared for sports,” said Marie. “It was always my husband who liked them.”

“Same here,” added Carol.

But that changed when their husbands died. Both admit that after the shock wore off, it felt like a vital routine was missing in life. The world was different without their husbands’ tailgating trips to Jordan-Hare stadium, or games blaring on TV.

“Yeah,” said Marie. “I just missed John so bad, I had to do something to keep him alive.”

Birmingham—I am in the Hyatt Regency Hotel, overlooking the city. This hotel is a swanky joint. The bathrobes and bath towels are so plush my suitcase won’t latch.

Last night, I told stories to a room of Alabamian farmers’ wives in the hotel ballroom. They wore their nice clothes, I wore mine. We had a big time. Linguine with cream sauce was served.

On my way to the banquet, I met an old man in the hotel elevator. He was from Louisiana, visiting town for a funeral. His name was Elvis.

“Elvis?” I said. “That's your real name?”

"Yep," he said. "Only I’m ten years younger than the other one."

I shook his hand because I have always wanted to shake hands with Elvis.

Before we parted ways I told him what a pleasure it was meeting him.

He did his best impersonation of the King and said, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

When I was a boy, I always wanted to be good-looking, but it never worked out. I was chubby, and plain, and I had a deep affection

for Moonpies. My strongest academic area was lunch.

I also wanted to be athletic, but that didn’t work out, either. Coach Watson put me at first base and I was awful. After a week, he created a new position just for me.

“You’re gonna be my right guard,” Coach explained.

“What’s a right guard do?”

“It’s a very important position, he sits on the right half of the bench and guards the water cooler.”

I wish I were kidding, but I’m not.

Back then, I just wanted to be noticed. All children do. Instead, I walked through childhood like a bowling shoe in a sea of penny loafers.

Until the annual talent show.

The talent show was when all fourth-graders were free to exercise their unique abilities. And mine was music. The only thing I could do was music.…