“Sir,” said the flight attendant. “Your accordion is not going to fit in overhead storage.”

At the time I was actively trying to shove a carry-on case the size of a Buick Skylark into the overhead bin, while weaving a tapestry of colorful expletives such as had seldom been heard at Birmingham-Shuttlesworth Airport.

I was on my way to perform my one-man trainwreck in Virginia. I had my instruments.

Nobody else on the plane noticed me struggling with my instruments. Most passengers were busy playing on phones.

Have you ever noticed how eerie it is, watching hundreds of people stare at screens?

Fact: One of the leading causes of injuries in the world is walking into objects while staring at one’s phone. Objects such as walls.

The passenger in the seat next to mine was maybe 13. He was playing on his phone.

“What’s in the case?” he said.

“An accordion.”

“A what?”

“It’s also called a squeezebox.”

“I’ve heard of those, they’re basically big squirt guns, right?”

You have to worry about our nation’s youth.

“No,” I pointed out. “An accordion is a musical instrument.”

“Oh,” he said. “Do you play music?”

“No,

just the accordion.”

The airline attendant came by and made me check my accordion and guitar. They strapped my banjo to the wing.

“The accordion is weird,” said America’s Hope for the Future.

“Why do you say that?”

“That’s what people say.”

“Who’s ’people’?”

“I don’t know—everyone.”

“So you’ve met and spoken to all 7.9 billion people on earth?”

Shrug.

He went back to playing on his phone.

Times have changed. My grandfather played accordion. My uncles played. My father didn’t play accordion, but he played the horses.

In the 1950s, over a million accordions were manufactured and sold. You couldn’t visit an American party, reception, or bar mitzvah without someone’s nephew Sal playing “Polka! Polka! Polka!”

Sadly, by the 1970s, accordion sales dropped into the…

Blessed are the lonely. For they shall find love. I don’t know how it will happen. But I know it will.

Maybe you don’t have any family. Maybe you don’t have many friends. Maybe your loved ones have abandoned you. Just hang on. You will not be lonely for long. Your life is about to change. I know this for a fact because I had a V8 this morning.

Blessed are the librarians, for they shall change the world. They might not change YOUR world. But they will change the world for a child. I was one of those children.

Blessed are the confused, for they shall find clarity. I don’t know what you’re confused about. But you need an answer, and you need it fast.

Maybe you feel pressured into attending college. Maybe you’re confused about marrying your girlfriend/boyfriend. Maybe you have some news to share with your parents and you’re afraid they’ll disown you. I swear, this will all work itself out. Give it time.

Blessed are the English majors, for they shall not deliver pizzas

forever.

Blessed are the introverts, for they shall be seen.

Introverts are the ones who don't dance at parties, don’t speak up in class, who refuse to play office politics (which is why they don't get dates, high grades, promotions).

But an introvert is a lot like a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with world-class fried chicken. Sooner or later, Guy Fieri will visit them.

Blessed are the black sheep of the family, for they shall be comforted. Black sheep are the ones who never fit in. The people who never seem to measure up to other people’s standards. Whatever those are.

But black sheep are beautiful. And a black fleece doesn't show dirt like the white ones.

Blessed are the dog rescuers, for they shall spend 1.4 billion annual American dollars on dog food, and receive a hundredfold return on their investment.

Blessed are…

I was a young man. Four of us guys walked into an average Florida Panhandle Waffle House before sunrise. We did this every morning before heading to a construction jobsite.

Our routine never changed. First we visited the gas station to buy newspapers, scratch-off tickets, and Gatorades. Then we went to Waffle House. And we did most of this in silence because that’s just how guys are.

Guys aren’t big talkers. Especially at breakfast. They keep conversations to a minimum in the mornings.

Many women, of course, manage to discuss every biographical event since middle school. Whereas most males use two-word sentences to discuss the importance of a strong bullpen, then they clam up until their next birthday. Like I said: that’s how some guys operate.

Our waitress was young, lean, a happy person. There were traces of tattoos climbing her neck, and she had a sweet face. She couldn’t have been taller than five foot.

Four of us piled into her booth. She doled out silverware and menu-placemats. She took our beverage

orders then announced, “Four coffees, coming up.”

Old-school waitresses are a dying breed, but Waffle House never seems to be short on them. I have traveled a lot during my halfcocked career as a writer; Waffle House always has great service.

Elsewhere in the world, food service workers are not always so amiable. And believe me, I am not being critical because I once worked in food service.

I’ve worked kitchen duty, manning fryers, scrubbing flat-tops, washing stacks of filthy dishes that were roughly the same height as the Space Needle. I’ve also worked front of the house—bussing, refilling glasses, and serving customers who INSIST on having their salad dressing served “on the side” only so they can dump the whole thing on their salad three seconds after you deliver it.

I read somewhere that one one out of five food service workers develops a drug or…

Miss Mona left the Bethany Assisted Living facility to do some shopping with her daughter Linda today.

Miss Mona was born in 1929.

The first thing she did was return some items to a major retail store. It took eight minutes to cross the parking lot.

When they arrived at the return desk, two high-school employees were busy filming a TikTok dance video on their phones. They didn’t expect customers. They asked Miss Mona to hold on until they finished.

Miss Mona happily sat and waited as they danced.

“I loved dancing when I was their age,” the elderly woman said, “the dancing we did was at the USOs. I was 16 years old and we couldn’t get nylons because nylon shortages during the War. So we girls used ink pens to draw lines up our legs, that way it looked like we were wearing nylons.”

The employees gave her store credit. Miss Mona browsed the store. Her quad walking cane squeaked on the linoleum.

They passed the electronics department. Hundred-inch TV screens blaring in

full HD. Macintosh laptops, Ring security cameras, tablets, Rokus, iPhone 15 series. The world has come a long way.

“I remember when we got our first radio,” she said. “I remember our first TV, I was a senior in high school. Milton Berel was on TV. I think he’s dead now.”

They left the store and went somewhere for lunch. Miss Mona ordered a hamburger. She was surprised when her food came.

“When did hamburgers get so big?” she said with a cheery laugh.

Americans just eat more than we used to. Since the 1950s, American restaurant portions have increased by nearly 82 percent.

“Well, good for us,” said Mother Time, picking at her fries with brown flecked hands.

“When I was a girl we didn’t never have enough to eat. Mama said I was so skinny I could dodge raindrops.”

Miss Mona saw a…

I receive a lot of questions in the form of emails, private messages, subpoenas, etc. Sometimes these messages are kindhearted. Other times, the messages are not. I have saved such messages in a special folder which I will address.

ROBERT, Indianapolis: Just a little constructive feedback, Sean: Why are you always calling it a column? They are blogs. You’re posting these on Facebook. Come on, this is not a column. Quit calling yourself a columnist and admit you’re just a Facebooker.

COMMENT: Thanks for the constructive feedback. As you read these words, other readers are consuming these words via their local newspapers.

I speak of faithful readers, such as Rita (72), who reads my work in the Charleston City Paper and writes: “I dislike your irreverent humor.”

And John (59), who reads my words in San Diego’s The Paper: “I am canceling my subscription.”

The truth is, I call this a “column” because Merriam-Webster defines a column as “waste matter discharged from the rearmost orifice of male bovine.”

No. Sorry. That’s the definition for “constructive feedback.”

ELSIE,

Clearwater, Fla.: You once wrote that Detroit is a “city with all the charm of a nuclear holocaust.” I’m a fifth-generation Detroit native. I live in Florida now, but my kids still live in Bloomfield Township and I’m offended. We love Detroit.

COMMENT: Very few retire and move to Detroit.

GARY, Jonesboro, Ga.: I’m a Pentecostal preacher. You tell a lot of Baptist and Methodist jokes, but you always leave us Pentecostals out.

COMMENT: The Pentecostal pastor tore his clothes and prayed loudly one Sunday, with these words: “Oh Lord, without you we are but dust.” He paused for dramatic effect. And a child’s voice said, “Mama, what is butt dust?”

DONALD, Aiken, S.C.: I like your work sometimes. Other times, you completely miss the mark. I’ve made a decision not to read you anymore because I just can’t deal with the irregularity.

“I am a little old woman who lives in an assisted living facility…” her email began.

Her following message was about the length of “War and Peace.” She is a woman who is as sweet as Karo syrup. But—and I mean this respectfully—brevity is not her strong suit. Reading her email took me three or four presidential administrations.

“I had a baby when I was fourteen…” she wrote.

The 14-year-old gave birth in the singlewide trailer that belonged to an aunt. The delivery was in secret. Nobody knew her son existed. Least of all her immediate family.

Finally, the aunt put the child up for adoption. It was impractical for a girl of 14 to raise a child. This was a different era.

The goodbye between mother and son was almost too much to bear. The 14-year-old held her infant in her arms when officials came to take him away.

Over time, the girl grew into a woman. The woman grew into a wife. The wife had three kids. The wife’s husband made decent money.

She

moved into a nice house. Her children did pretty good in school. Her offspring grew up to be successful and handsome and beautiful and well-off and happy. Fill in the blank.

But the woman had a void in her heart.

“A child is a piece of you, physically. Like an organ. People who’ve never had kids can’t understand.”

She dreamed about her son. Every night. Without fail. In her dreams, she could see him. She watched him grow. She saw saw his smile. She heard him speak. Once again, she cannot explain what she means. But she tries.

“It’s like a radar,” she explains. “My soul was sending out a radar signal, and I think God was sending me radar signals back.”

I took a break from reading the email. I still had 78,000,000 words left to read before finishing her story.

So I’ll…

Birmingham is sunny. The weather is chilly, but not unpleasant. I am in a tiny church, sitting beside my cousin, his wife, and his three kids. His two girls wear white dresses.

Times have changed. Once upon a time, I remember when all girls wore Sunday dresses. Today, I don’t see more than four or five in the congregation.

Also, I don’t see any penny loafers on the little boys. As a boy, my mother never let me attend church without wearing a pair of medieval loafers.

There are forty-two people in this room. Elderly couples, young families, a few high-schoolers, some children. It’s a trip back in time. A reminder of the days when Sunday school teachers taught us to say grace by rhyming:

“God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food…”

The congregation sings from hardback hymnals. Then, a sermon from a man with white hair, who pronounces “Lord” as “Lowered.”

I just read an article that said more Americans are working on Sundays than ever before in history. “Sundays are

a thing of the past,” the article claimed.

Say it ain’t so.

The pastor tells the congregation that he and his wife have been married for fifty-two years. The church applauds. Fifty-two years is a rarity.

When the pastor and his wife moved into their first parsonage, his wife placed a large cardboard box beneath her bed, she warned the pastor never to touch it.

“This box is private,” she explained. “Promise me you’ll never open it.”

He crossed his heart and hoped to die. For fifty-two years, the Baptist man honored his word.

Until a week ago. He opened the box and it surprised him. Inside, he found it full of cash and four eggs.

He confessed to his wife what he’d done, then asked her about the box.

“Well,” she explained, “when we married, my mama said, ‘Darling, a preacher’s…

I was driving. I was hungry. I had to pull over because I was about to eat my own steering wheel. The Tennessee weather was in full swing. I had a long way left to go.

I found a meat-and-three in a strip mall. Lots of trucks in the parking area.

You can trust a place with trucks in the parking lot.

Everyone knows that if you see a throng of Fords and Chevys in a restaurant parking lot, the said establishment has exceptional fried chicken. If you see Cadillacs and Buicks, they will also have excellent congealed salad.

The server behind the sneeze guard asked what I wanted. He was tall, gaunt, wearing a hairnet. His neck and arms were painted in a gridwork of tattoos.

“Chicken of meatloaf?” he said.

“Chicken,” said I.

Fried chicken is a dying art in America. I was raised fundamentalist; fried chicken is my spiritual mascot. Fried chicken is holy food. And it is the only dish I don’t mind eating cold. Next-day chicken, straight from the fridge, is better

than Christmas.

The server selected drumsticks that were roughly the size of a James Patterson paperback.

“You want veggies with it?” he said.

“Does the pope go in the woods?” I said.

The list of side dishes was plentiful: Mac and cheese, fried green tomatoes, squash casserole, turnip greens, butterbeans, pintos, great northerns, zipper peas, cornbread salad, slaw, tater logs.

And don’t even get me started on the sweets. You had peach cobbler, lemon meringue, blueberry dump cake, caramel cake, chess pie, and complimentary syringes of insulin.

When my foam box was loaded to capacity, I filled my cup from the tea dispenser. The man who served me was on break, waiting to fill his tea.

We started talking. After a few minutes of conversation, I learned that he had just got out of prison.

“I was turned down for ten different jobs,”…

I’m 5 years old. On Mama’s stove is a steaming stock pot, filling the world with the essence of chicken and dumplings.

I’m watching her use her fists to mercilessly beat a lump of flour that will become dumplings. She punches the dough, making loud grunts, striking terror into the heart of childhood.

“What’re you making?” I ask her.

“Hush now,” she says.

For many years I sincerely believed that chicken and dumplings were called Hush Now. We ate a lot of Hush Now in my house.

Mama then tells me to “Go outside and play.”

Such was the fate of little boys. Any time you opened your mouth to ask a question, you were sent outside to “go play.” God help the child who told Mama he was bored.

“BORED!?” she’d shout. “I’ll show you bored!”

Then Mama’s eyes would fill with holy fire and she would wave her rolling pin around, sermonizing about idle hands. Frankly, you’d be safer telling my mother you were a communist.

So I walk outside to ride my bike.

Back then we all had bikes.

Every last one of us. Bikes were everything. A kid in the saddle was limitless.

Sometimes we would be gone for hours on our Schwinns. Nobody worried about us because there wasn’t much to worry about. Our parents weren’t like today’s parents. We didn’t carpool to soccer practice in hybrid vehicles while buckled in FDA-approved car seats, staring at the opiate glow of our iPads.

Our parents drove big-bodied vehicles with names like Lincoln Continentals, Custom Cruisers, and Ford Country Squires. We had no seatbelts except Mama’s right arm. Moreover, we didn’t know what soccer was.

So there I am, riding bikes with my pals. We pull over at a friend’s house. We dismount, midair, while traveling upwards of 89 mph.

We sprint to our friend’s doorstep to ring the doorbell. We are breathless and rosy-faced from exertion.

Some fool once called her “white trash.” And that’s when she made up her mind. She wanted to better herself, and her family. So, that’s what she did.

“That GED test,” she said, while she checked my blood pressure. “That ain’t no joke, now. It’s tough.”

Her accent is so Alabamian it hurts. She’s missing a few teeth, but it doesn’t look bad on her. She’s old. Wiry. Strong.

Where she grew up, country folks didn’t go past the eighth grade—some still don’t. And according to her daddy, “Once a young’un can read, it’s time to get out and work.”

Saying this made her laugh. I’m not sure why. Maybe one’s own private memories are just humorous.

All six of her brothers dropped out, so did she. It wasn’t a big deal to drop out of school back then.

Take me. I dropped out of school in the seventh grade. Nobody said a word about it. I returned to school as an adult and got my high-school equivalency stuff. And to this day, I still have a hard time spelling “equivalency.”

She and I aren’t that different.

She met a man who worked in a lumber mill, they had two children before she was 20. She’s still with him. She calls him Beater. I don’t know why. But personally, it’s not a nickname I would want.

When she was 24, Beater suggested she apply for a job at the hospital. She thought this was ridiculous. Hospitals didn’t hire “poor white trash.” Hospitals were for learned people. People with letters behind their name. Not hillbillies.

“Which is exactly what I am,” she tells me as she checks my temperature with an ear thermometer.

Even so, she inquired with the hospital about getting a job there. The hospital told her she would need college. So she called a college. The college said she needed a high-school diploma. So she called a high…