“Can you believe it’s ours?” said my wife, as we stepped into the modest three-bedroom house.

Although, technically, I wouldn’t call this house “ours” yet. The house is ABOUT to be ours. There’s a difference. A few days ago we put an offer on this home and were answered with a phone call later that night. The realtor informed us that our offer had been accepted.

It was an emotional call. Afterward, my wife hung up the phone and wept like a baby. So did our tax guy.

And now here we stood. In our soon-to-be new house.

Well, actually, it’s not “new.” Far from it. The house itself is 100 years old, built slightly before Lindbergh’s flight across the Atlantic, back when Social Security numbers were still in the single digits.

The home’s floors slope like tsunamis, the doors are ancient, the antique windows are made of warped plate glass, and the porch is roughly the size of the Jefferson Memorial.

My wife was pulsating with glee.

“It’s perfect,” said she.

Our realtor, Robin, was with

us for the victory tour. My wife’s friends and cousins were there, too. In fact, I was the only male in the group.

No sooner had we entered the front door than the home was filled with an impenetrable cloud of estrogen. In mere seconds, the ladies were deeply involved in heated conversations centralizing around crucial topics such as, for example, duvet covers. Frankly, I don’t even think they knew I was there.

“You’re just here for eye candy,” said my wife.

Which only shows you how delusional all this excitement has made my wife. Because on a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being Brad Pitt, I’m the late Gabby Hayes.

Soon, the women’s design brigade was marching through the house dutifully. I headed up the rear, carrying approximately 29 handbags and pocketbooks.

Photos were taken. Notepads were consulted. Tape measures…

I have here an email from a man who shall remain anonymous. He says:

“Sean, you cannot be serious about moving to Birmingham, Alabama! I’ve lost all respect for you. Anyone who would choose to live in Alabama is a total [beep], I would NEVER move to Alabama by choice.

“I worked in Alabama for 11 years, I’m originally from Brooklyn, and it [Alabama] is the most backwards state… Those people are a bunch of small-minded [beeping beepers] and I’d never move back unless someone paid me a million bucks.”

Call my crazy, but I detect a slightly negative tone in the above letter.

Nevertheless, I won’t get into an argument with the author. Namely, because arguing on the Internet is dangerous business. One grammer mistak can destroy yor entire argumint

As it happens, I’ve visited Brooklyn. It was scary. One night in Brownsville, Brooklyn, I was approached by a man with a knife who was going to rob me. Things were about to get ugly when a local priest finally showed up at the

last moment. I didn’t stand a chance against the two of them.

So I’m not going to attempt to change the author’s mind about Alabama, or remind him that most of my family lives here. But I wonder if he realizes how vibrant and unique the Twenty-Second State is.

For starters, Alabama is home to some pivotal American figures such as, Rosa Parks, Booker T. Washington, George Washington Carver, Helen Keller, and James Spann.

Satchel Paige, Willie Mays, and Hank Aaron learned their trade here. So did Hank Williams Sr.

The nation’s first Mardi Gras celebration took place in Mobile, a whopping 15 years before New Orleans was even filling its diapers.

The Saturn V rocket that put Neil and Buzz on moon was designed in Huntsville.

But alas, it has become trendy to trash-talk Alabama. You see a lot of famous people doing it…

So I guess we’re moving. My wife, Jamie, has been looking at houses for several months now, ever since her mother passed away. And it’s getting serious.

This all started one morning when my wife announced that she wanted to leave Florida and move to Birmingham, Alabama, to make a fresh start in life.

My immediate reaction was to kiss her forehead. I told her I was going to miss her dearly.

“You’re coming with me,” she said.

“Me?” I said with a laugh. “Leave Florida?”

Truthfully, I did not think she would follow through. I never thought I’d leave the Alligator State. I’ve never had the desire to leave. During boyhood, when all my friends traipsed off to college to begin their lives far away from home, I was voted most likely to die of mosquito-borne illness.

I grew up in a magical place where 127 square miles of brackish bay water meet the sky. The Choctawhatchee Bay was never less than a mile from my front porch, neither was the Gulf of Mexico. And

living within my backyard, according to the Guinness World Record Book, was the world’s largest brown recluse spider. We named him Phil.

But my wife is not someone who makes idle statements. When she declares that she’s going to do something, it’s already half done. So if this woman says we’re moving, it’s time to call Mayflower®.

Lately, this woman has been constantly obsessing over houses for sale, daydreaming about them, drawing pictures of three-bedroom-two-baths on legal pads, using pocketknives to carve the initials of her favorite realtors into our kitchen table.

She frequently uses my computer printer to print explicit photographs of arts-and-crafts-style bungalows, then hangs these photos up in our bathroom like pinups.

My wife frequently drives thousands of miles to attend open houses, wherein she walks thoughtfully through the homes of complete strangers for the sole purpose of criticizing their décor.

“People are [beeping] awesome,” the young man’s email began. “People are really, [beeping] awesome.”

The author’s name is Denny. He’s an 18-year-old a single dad in Charlotte, North Carolina. He works triple overtime just to pay for babysitting and food. He lives in a one-bedroom apartment. He earns squat for a living.

Times have been tight for Denny, his checking account is on E. And ever since his wife died, Denny has been struggling.

For dinner that night, he was going to make a frozen chicken pot pie for himself, and a feed his daughter a PBJ with pureed spinach. Gag me.

When Denny got to the checkout-line conveyor belt, he met a teenager cashier. The cashier asked Denny if he would allow her to pay for his groceries. Denny refused, but the cashier kept insisting.

Finally, Denny relented and let the young woman pay so he wouldn’t attract any more unwanted attention. When the transaction was finished, the girl told Denny flatly, “My father gives me this money and tells me to help anyone who needs

help.”

Denny thanked the young woman and said, “Your dad sounds like a great guy.”

The cashier winked. “He thinks the same about you, sir.”

On the way out to the car, Denny’s vocal 2-year-old asked him why he was crying.

“Daddy’s just really happy, sweetie,” he said.

Meantime, 413 miles north, in the sleepy hamlet of Canal Winchester, Ohio, we have Jenni. Allow me to introduce you.

Jenni is early 50s, born in Ethiopia, but immigrated to the U.S. when she was in her 30s. The first thing you should know about Jenni is that she is a bit of an underachiever.

After earning numerous college degrees, raising kids, and carving out a rewarding career with a major technology company, Jenni took a side-gig—why not?—driving for Uber on weekends.

“The reason I drive Uber,” she told WSYX ABC Channel 6, “is to…

It was below 20 degrees in Illinois. And it was snowing. The library was closing for the night. The last of the runny-nosed schoolchildren had left the building, and all the hardbound books were fast asleep.

Elderly Martha was about to lock up when she found the cardboard Frito-Lay box beside the front door. The box was making noise. Whimpering noises.

The old woman edged in closer for a better look. She opened the flaps.

There were seven puppies inside. One of the pups was cotton white, the rest were copper red. Their tiny bodies were cold, and she wasn’t sure they were all alive. The creatures were huddled together so tightly she could barely wedge her hand between them.

Martha lifted the box into her arms, carried it inside, and she yelled for Juan, the custodian.

Enter Juan. Juan is 68 years old, with silver hair, a wizened face, and a five-foot frame. His English is weak, but his heart is extra-large. His name tag says “Jonathan,” but nobody knows why

it says that.

The truth is, nobody knows much about Juan inasmuch as he only has a five-word vocabulary. Rarely does he say anything but the word “yes.”

“Help me, Juan,” said Martha. “I need your help.”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

The old man rushed to the basement and retrieved space heaters from storage. He brought several clean towels and a few pillows. Soon, Martha and Juan were tucked in the corner of the library, poised before a semicircle of heaters.

They wrapped the animals in swaddling rags, and massaged the puppies to keep them warm.

The solitary white puppy was not moving. So Juan held this one against his chest and kissed its little head. The old man closed his eyes and offered prayerful words to the ceiling.

Martha wanted to tell the old man that this would do no good, she was certain the animal was dead.…

The man was ordering a beer from the bartender when I noticed him staring in my direction.

“You’re that writer, ain’t you?” he said.

That depends.

“On what?”

On whether you’re with the IRS.

“Brother, have I got an angel story for you. It’s divine providence that I’m running into you like this. I’ve been wanting to tell this story to you, but ain’t had the courage to email.”

Does that pickup line work on all the other girls?

“Tell me something, Mister Writer. When you was a little bitty kid, what was the scariest thing you could think of?”

That’s easy. My fifth-grade teacher.

“No, I mean something much, much scarier than that.”

My fifth-grade teacher holding a King James Bible.

“Losing your home, man. That’s the scariest thing that can happen to a boy. Home is everything, man. That’s where your life is. You ain’t got no home, ain’t got no life. And, well, that’s what happened to my family. I was ten years old when we were evicted.”

Wow, that must’ve been hard.

“More than hard. Was like watching life fall apart. I mean, think

about it. In normal life you wake up, you eat your Cornflakes, take a shower, get dressed, right? None of these things can be done when you’re living in your car. And that’s where my family was living, in our car.”

You’re kidding.

“Wish I was. After my dad lost his job, me and my two sisters and my mom and my dad were living in our ‘77 Ford for one whole year.

“Dad drove from place to place, slept in whatever parking lots we could. My mom had leg problems from polio, and couldn’t work regular jobs, so it was up to my dad. Poor man couldn’t find a job to save his life.”

So what happened to your family?

“What happened is my dad took gigs doing crapola work for…

Hank got home from work late. His 1969 Buick Riviera—metallic blue—rolled into the carport of a nondescript one-story-one-bath in Suburbia, USA. He stepped out of his car. He stretched his back.

It was nighttime. The moon was out.

He was tall, lean, with salt-and-pepper hair. More salt than pepper. He wore a tan suit and a striped necktie because this was the uniform of the American desk jockey.

In his den, Hank found his son and daughter sitting cross-legged before a glowing television screen, their two noses practically smooshed against the tele-tube glass.

Hank’s wife was perched on the edge of their sofa, smoking Camels, her eyes focused on the RCA console.

“Hi,” said Hank.

“Ssshhh,” his wife said.

She didn’t say “Hello.” Neither did she say, “Hi, honey, how was work?” It was just “Sssshhh.”

“Sorry I’m home late,” he said. “Traffic was just—”

“Sssshhh,” everyone said in unison.

He left the den and entered the vinyl kitchen. He placed his briefcase onto the enamel kitchen table. He retrieved an Old Milwaukee from the Kelvinator refrigerator.

In the oven

was his Swanson TV dinner, baking on low heat, still boiling in its volcanic-lava gravy. He took one bite of his unevenly heated turkey-and-mashed-potatoes and the roof of his mouth was ruined forevermore.

This food reminded him of the MRE field rations he ate when he was in Italy, fighting Hitler. Except, the field rations tasted better than this flash-frozen slop.

He returned to the den to find his family still rapt before the screen.

He said, “What are you all watchin—”

“SSSHHH!!!”

The voice on the TV sounded like it was coming from a walkie-talkie. The voice said: “This is Houston, Roger. We copy. And we're standing by...”

His family was lost within the black spell of the boob tube. He didn’t understand these people. How had they let technology invade their lives like this? Look at them. They…

I am backstage, about to tell stories onstage. A man with a name tag and a clipboard announces, “Ten minutes to showtime.”

I am tuning my guitar, hoping I won’t stink tonight.

This is what all performers think about before they go onstage. They say silent prayers that all go, more or less, the same way.

“Dear God, don’t let me suck.”

It’s easy to stink at storytelling because there is no school for such things, so you don’t know if you’re getting it right. Which leads me to ask: “What am I doing with my life?”

I am still unclear on how I started telling stories for a living. The only education I have in storytelling came from elderly men who wore Velcro shoes and wore their slacks up to their armpits.

I have always had a soft spot for old men. From childhood, I believed that I was an old man trapped inside a kid’s body. I never fit in with peers, and I never wanted to. This was only made worse

by the fact that I was raised as a tee-totalling fundamentalist who was forbidden from touching NyQuil.

As a young man, I would find myself in a crowd of teenagers who were smoking cigarettes, sipping longnecks, far from parental eyes, and for some reason, nobody ever offered me any real chances at sinning.

I would have appreciated the opportunity, but they viewed me as different. It was as though I were elderly.

Once, as a joke, my friend Jordan handed me a lit cigarette in front of everybody. I didn’t want anyone to think I was a wimp, so I took the biggest drag I could. I almost died from a coughing fit. My friends howled until they peed.

Thus, I was blacklisted from social situations. I was the old man of the group. During social scenarios, I would generally hang in the corner, drinking prune…

The letter came from a 19-year-old student named Margaret.

“Dear Sean,” she began, “I want to attend [Blank] University, but I am forced to attend [Blank] Community College where I am receiving very little advice on how to actually BE a professional writer… All my podunk professors seem to do is grade papers and get excited over college football. Should I change schools?”

I’m going to stop you right there, Margaret.

First off, I seriously doubt that the only thing your professors get excited about is college football. There is also college baseball.

Secondly, you probably don’t mean to belittle your teachers by calling them “podunk,” but it isn’t fair to discredit your community-college professors simply because they don’t teach at a prestigious State U.

There is only one difference between community-college professors and big-boy-university professors, and it can be summed up in one simple word: Medical benefits, baby.

As we can see, math is not my strong suit. But then, there is a valid reason for this. I went to

community college. This means that during all my math-class exams, most of my adult classmates were busy changing their babies’ poopy diapers directly on their desks. So I was distracted.

Still, I am a proud juco grad. It took me 11 arduous years to get through county college, and I appreciated each golden hour spent at my alma mater.

During my time at school, my college went through a series of name changes. The institution began in 1963 as Okaloosa-Walton Junior College. Years later it changed to Okaloosa-Walton Community College. Then the school renamed itself Okaloosa-Walton College, before it finally morphed into Northwest Florida State College. Meaning, I currently hold degrees from four institutions.

The fact is, when I was your age, Margaret, I would have given my left kidney to attend a major university. I wanted this more than anything. But now that I’m older, I realize that…

I prayed for you tonight. Before bed. I’m serious.

I don’t get down on my knees or do anything crazy like that. I don’t kneel. Namely, because if I knelt I wouldn’t be getting up again without the assistance of EMTs.

So you might be wondering what I prayed for. Well, that’s easy. I prayed for you to laugh. That’s how I start every prayer for you.

I can’t know what you’re going through right now, nor how badly you hurt. But I know one thing: there is no better feeling than laughter.

I prayed this for Robert and his wife, Cynthia, who have practically been living at the oncologist’s office recently. I pray this for my cousin Cosby, and for my cousin Bentley, to laugh so hard they spill their beers.

I prayed for Sherry, and her husband, Lyle, my surrogate parents—they know why. Please help them to laugh, God.

I prayed for the family of the guy down the street—the ambulance was at their house today, and everyone was in the yard weeping as a

covered gurney was wheeled away.

Also, I pray tomorrow will be better than today.

I don’t care if today was a decent day, I pray tomorrow is off the chain. I pray that you have a brief moment of awareness tomorrow, as you eat your PBJ, or your Swiss Cake rolls, wherein you say to yourself, “Man, this is a pretty good day.”

I pray this for my friend Loe, who just lost her nephew. And for Regina, whose grandson has been fighting for his life. I pray this for Mark, whose dad is now on hospice care. For Laney (6 years old) whose dog died. And for Jon (15) who has his very first date with his very first female on Friday.

And normalcy. That’s a big one. I also pray for you to have some normalcy.

There is no sensation more…