When I arrived home, I could hear Marigold, stumbling up the stairs. Marigold is my blind dog.

Marigold hangs out in our basement. It’s a safe place. We have a sofa down there. She lives on it. When she knows we’re home, however, she staggers up the stairs to find us.

She is a coonhound. Black and tan. About as big as a minute. We call her “Tiny.” She has long floppy ears and a sewed-up eye. Scars all over her body from past dog fights.

Marigold was blinded by her previous owner. A man who bought her for a hunting dog. He paid a lot for a purebred. He kept her in a cage. When he found out she was gunshy, he made her pay.

I don’t know what he used to blind her. The butt of a rifle maybe. Perhaps a length of rebar. Either way, he fractured her skull. Screwed up her optic nerve.

When they found her, she was ribs and skin. And her cranium was broken. Wandering along rural highways, avoiding

cars by sound. Someone put her in the backseat of their car. And somehow, she made her way to us.

Other than her vision, she is a healthy dog. She loves our backyard and bays at local cats. If you’ve never heard a hound dog bay at a cat, you don’t know what you're missing.

“I’m home, Marigold,” I said when I enter our house.

I was answered with the tenor voice of a hound dog.

When she got to the top of the stairs, she began negotiating obstacles. Looking for me.

It’s impressive to watch her navigate. She uses her muzzle to find her way. The floorplan is in her mind. She knows where all furniture is. Knows where all walls are. Knows each obstruction. Marigold traces the perimeter, and finds her way.

I was just watching her. Tail just a wagging.

When…

Dothan, Alabama, is chilly this morning. The temperature is hovering at 20 degrees. Wind chills down to 16. It’s so cold, the maids in my hotel were salting the hallways.

The sun was rising over Circle City. The cloudless sky was the color of a Chilton County peach. Ray’s Restaurant was open for the early crowd. Ray’s has been opening up for the early crowd since Richard Milhous Nixon was in office.

Each morning, the oldsters huddle themselves over Ray’s bottomless coffees. They cuss, clear nasal passages loudly, and solve the world’s issues. Where would the federal government be without these men?

I order my eggs over medium. The cook is a borderline genius. The yolk of an over-medium egg should not run. It should merely creep. They can cook eggs in Dothan.

On my serpentine route through town, I pass the National Peanut Festival fairgrounds.

Dothan has been celebrating the Peanut Festival since 1938. The festival is like Woodstock for tractor owners. If you’ve never been, you need to go. The greased hog

chase alone is worth the price of admission.

I once attended the peanut festival when I was 18. I was dating a girl from Dothan. We went out on a few dates. She said I was the first guy she ever went out with who didn’t have a Skoal ring in his back pocket.

There are other world-famous attractions here, too.

Such as the World’s Smallest City Block. At the Intersection of Troy, Appletree, and Museum streets. This little triangle of land was given the official title by “Ripley’s Believe It or Not” in 1964.

The city block originally measured 20 feet by 20 feet. It still stands today. Bring the family.

There’s the Dothan Opera House. They’ve been running since 1915, hosting everything from vaudeville acts to Boy Scout badge ceremonies.

There is Annie Pearl’s Home Cooking Restaurant, one of my top-five favorite restaurants. The…

Cairo, Georgia. It’s not pronounced like the city in Egypt. Cairo is pronounced like the syrup. And truthfully, locals say it more like “KAY-reh.”

“The O is silent,” a waitress in the diner tells me.

This is a small town if ever there was one. In the booth across from me, an old-timer says: “Cairo’s so small we don’t have a town drunk, so we all take turns.”

Cairo actually isn’t that small. You’re looking at 10,000 residents. Which is Manhattan compared to other places I’ve performed.

You’re looking at a guy who headlined in Hartford, Alabama. Three times. I played Hartford thrice.

And once, I performed in a township in Kentucky so small I got pulled over for using my turn signal. “You don’t use turn signals in this town, son,” the officer explained. “Everyone here already knows where you’re going.”

Tonight I perform in Cairo, inside Georgia’s oldest theater. The theater sits on North Broad Street. The Zebulon. The place was built by Ethel Blanton, in 1936. She named the place after her husband, Zeb.

People don’t name

their kids Zeb anymore.

In downtown Cairo you’re one century backward on the timeline. The historic district is the old hub of the village. A place where a night on the town only takes eight minutes.

There’s the old train depot, built in 1880, which was stuccoed over and converted into the Cairo Police Station, once upon a time.

There’s the W.B. Roddenbery Building where cane syrup used to be produced. Cairo is nicknamed the “Syrup City.”

There’s the Citizens Bank (1908). The United States Post Office (1935), which looks just like it did when Roosevelt was calling the shots. The post office even has a mural depicting Roosevelt’s New Deal.

I pull into the theater parking space a few hours before showtime. The Zebulon has put my name on the marquee.

And I stare at that name for a…

The antique store was on the side of Highway 231. It looked like it had been an old filling station once.

The sign said Open. So I walked inside.

I’m a sucker for antiques. I don’t just like antiques themselves. I like the spaces where antiques have parties.

“How you today?” came the voice of the woman behind the counter. Her hair was silver. Piled atop her head. “Can’t seem to get warm in this weather. Tell you what.”

There were old heaters going. Space heaters. The kind your granny used. Heaters that leave third-degree burns on the calves of 5-year-old boys. The good kind.

I browsed their selection. I bought a book by Erma Bombeck. An old church chair.

When I went to pay, I was short on cash. “You take credit cards?” I asked.

She shrugged. “We got to call it in.”

Next, the woman brought out an old knuckle-buster credit card machine. The old machines, the ones that create an impression of your card on carbon paper. It is also an antique.

This was too good to be true.

“Bet

you haven’t seen one of these in a while,” she said.

Her name was Susan. She has owned Jinright’s Hillside Antiques & Collectibles for as long as I’ve been alive. She bought the store with her husband, Benny, right after they got married.

They didn’t have two dimes to rub together. People said the store was an unwise investment.

“But we both liked antiques, so we figured, why not?”

They somehow managed to keep the lights on. Many times they kept the place running with money out of their own pockets.

“You have to have other jobs if you’re an antique store owner, otherwise you’ll starve.”

Benny was in law enforcement. Susan taught school. She was a high-school English teacher once. Then she got her master’s from U of A, and taught gifted kids.

“It’s flat hard…

I don’t know you. I don’t know what you’re going through. I don’t know what you’re suffering from. But I know you’re going through something. Everyone is.

You’re going through something particularly painful. This is not your run-of-the-mill badness. This is nuclear badness.

Nobody knows about this situation, of course. You’re pretty quiet. You’ve kept it to yourself for a long time. But even the people you HAVE told can’t help you except to pat you on the butt and pity you.

But you don't need pity. You don’t need inspirational words. You don’t need clichés. You don’t need to be told to let go and let God. Or worse: This too shall pass.

What you need is to get through this crap. You need this to be over, once and for all. You need to get back to normal life again.

Oh, what you wouldn’t GIVE to be normal again.

Maybe it’s a medical problem. Maybe it’s emotional. Maybe your kids have been taken away from you.

Maybe you’re like the woman who emailed me yesterday, whose son is going to prison for a crime

he says he didn’t commit.

Maybe you’ve been told you’re dying. Maybe the doctors don’t give you a lot of options. Maybe you’re a pinball stuck in the Great American Medical System, bouncing from specialist to specialist, only to find out that they can’t tell you a cussed thing.

Maybe you’re the young man who messaged me last night, who said his father was murdered in a home invasion.

Maybe you’re a teenager, who emailed me this morning, whose parents are fighting all the time. There is a lot of screaming in your household. You can’t do anything but sit in your room, playing on your phone.

Maybe you’re in college and your girlfriend cheated on you. Maybe the adults in your life are telling you that time heals all wounds, and that you…

The first car drove by with headlights on. Then several more vehicles. Low beams blaring. It was sundown. My cousin and I were parked at a stoplight when the funeral procession passed.

The cops came first. Light bars flashing blue. Then, the Cadillac hearse, moving at an easy speed. All white. Ornamental S-shaped metallic bar on the rear quarter panel of the car. Windows tinted with roofing tar.

The procession behind the lead vehicle moved along lazily across the nondescript Birmingham intersection.

It was a cold day. Gray sky. Tinted with the colors of sunset. Central Alabama had just succumbed to one of its rare snows. There was black ice on the ground. Flurries in the air.

The cars passed us one by one. It was a long train. Longer than usual.

There were makes and models of all kinds. Nissan Altimas and Land Rover Autographs. Lexuses and old Chevy Impalas. Each one, with headlights on.

My cousin and I stepped out of the car and stood at attention. Because this is just

what we do.

And I was remembering what it felt like to sit in that lead car.

A lifetime ago, when I was a boy, I sat in the head car of one such procession. My mother, my sister, and I were in the foremost Lincoln. Our vehicle moved across town at a dirge-like pace, and nobody inside our vehicle was speaking.

My mother’s face was puffy and swollen. My kid sister was staring out the window, face pressed against the glass. I was in shellshock. My father was gone.

There were 50 cars behind ours, maybe more, with headlights on. This moved me. We approached a hill. At our stern, I could see the acre of vehicles following us. A chain of headlamps, backing up to the horizon.

But what touched me most were the random motorists who had pulled over to let us pass.

A…

Nobody knows when it started. But it did. The first jar of pickles to appear on Aunt Bee’s grave in Siler City, North Carolina, showed up in in 1989, the year she died. Legend states that the pickles were probably homemade. Although some claim they were store pickles.

Since that fateful day, nobody has found a good reason to stop leaving pickles. Pickles show up by the hundreds. Maybe even thousands. From all over the United States.

“I think it’s just a form of respect,” says Billy, age 73, from Bentonville, Arkansas.

Billy traveled 840 miles to Siler City in his 2007 Ford Ranger, which is more rust-colored than green, to deliver a single jar of Kosher Dill Snack’mms to the grave of Frances Bavier, the actress who played Aunt Bee on “The Andy Griffith Show.”

“She was America’s mom,” says Billy. “She was my whole childhood.”

The pickles are a salute to season two, episode 11, “The Pickle Story.” In the episode, Aunt Bee makes pickles that taste so bad they could

take the paint off navy ships. “Kerosene cucumbers” they were called in the episode.

“That’s my favorite episode,” says Billy.

“Mine, too,” says Billy’s brother, Roger, who is busy taking Billy’s picture with his phone camera. Roger is 80 this year. He is vaping. His flavor du jour is tropical cherry, and he is puffing so frequently that we are all able to enjoy this flavor with him.

“Best show ever,” says Roger between puffs. “Period.”

Billy and Roger have visited this cemetery twice before. And they say that each time they come, there are multiple pickle jars sitting on the gravemarker.

“Sometimes there are ten or twenty of’em,” says Billy. “Depending on if it’s tourist season or not.”

The Oakwood Cemetery is a nondescript burial place, nestled within the black gums and post oaks of the Old North State, with headstones stretching back toward the horizon.…

We were in an old feed store. Granddaddy and me. Wooden floors. Sacks of Purina cattle feed. Old men, sitting around, jawing.

There was actually a brass spittoon in use.

I was a child at the time. Kindergarten maybe. I had no idea what the old men were talking about. But I remember their words. And I knew the timbre of an old man’s wisdom when I heard it.

“Never ask a barber whether you need a haircut,” one man said.

“Life is easier when you plow around the stumps.”

I loved the way they spoke. It was old world. The voice of my people. People did not talk like this on the nightly news.

But then, these were real men. Farm kids who survived the Spanish Influenza of 1918. An epidemic which—as it happened—did not begin in Spain, but in Haskell County, Kansas. A fact the old men held with high honor.

These men had survived the Flood of ‘27, Depressions, Dust Bowls, and so many world wars they had to start numbering them.

And their logic kept coming:

“A bumblebee is

faster than a John Deere.”

Spit.

“Quickest way to double your money is to fold in half and put it in your pocket.”

Spit, spit.

“The only good reason to ride a bull is to get a date with a nurse.”

Clearing of nasal passages.

I don’t know why I’m remembering all this today. I suppose the memories come from my visiting a nursing home this afternoon to interview someone.

I was wandering amongst elderly people. The residents spoke of another world. Manual coffee grinders, shaving horse benches, wedding silver.

In their rooms, they had Norman Rockwell compilation books. Emily Post manuals. John Wayne collectible beer steins. Doctor Grabow pipes.

And that’s when I saw the brass spittoon, sitting in someone’s room. Instantly, I remembered the last time I’d seen an on-duty spittoon.

And in my memory,…

Atlanta, Georgia. The old man was a recluse. A hermit. He lived in an old neighborhood, in an old part of town. In a house built in 1910.

He’d been in this home since he was 16. The old man went to Vietnam, once upon a time. He jumped out of airplanes. Learned to shoot. Learned to survive. He came back, post-war.

Protestors ridiculed him in the airport. They crashed trash can lids together, like orchestra cymbals, spat at him, and called him “baby killer.” It did something to his mind.

He never married. In old age, he was the cat guy. He didn't drink. Didn’t smoke. Never touched drugs. But he had a weakness for cats.

He talked to cats. He let cats sleep in his bed. He fed the local ferals. They congregated in his front yard. And only he could tell them apart.

There were neighbors all around him, of course. Homes that had been redone, and fancified. Antique houses with modern American families inside them. Two cars.

Swingsets in the backyard. Two 30-something parents, and 2.5 children.

He never even stepped out of his house, except to crawl into his beat-up Chevy Impala and visit Walmart for frozen pizzas and cans of Campbell’s soup. Few in the neighborhood even knew his name.

His house was an eyesore, of course. Most houses owned by recluses are. He never cut the lawn. The exterior had been in need of a paint job since the Johnson administration.

Looking at him, it was hard to believe he once led a normal life. They say he used to be a plumber. Worked for a big company. Installed kitchen sinks, and outdoor spigots. Unclogged poopy toilets.

But recently, times got hard. He got a reverse mortgage on his home. It was a mistake. He got caught in a scam. There are some organizations who prey on seniors.

He fell behind on payments.…

The plane landed in Tuscaloosa at 8:37 p.m. Central Time. Coach Kalen DeBoer deboarded.

He was met with an entourage of photographers and reporters with iPhones. DeBoer’s press conference was scheduled for 1 p.m.

It was a blustery, rainy day in the Yellowhammer State.

Nick Saban retired on Wednesday. DeBoer was announced as his replacement on Friday evening. The former head coach of the University of Washington is about to be applying for Alabama auto insurance.

Kalen is a young name. I went to school with guys named Kalen. I played baseball with Kalens, Justins, Corys, and Brandons.

There was a Kalen in my seventh-grade drama class. He had epilepsy. We weren’t allowed to use strobe lights in our performance of “Cats.”

Kalen DeBoer isn’t much older than me. And so this marks the first time someone from my generation will be coaching Alabama football.

And I don’t know what to think about it. Or how to feel.

Nobody in my father’s generation was named Kalen. A guy named Kalen grew up playing Atari, watching Nolan Ryan, listening to Michael

Jackson. Or worse: The Osmonds.

A guy named Kalen owned a Walkman, rode BMXs, saw the final episode of “M*A*S*H,” and learned to “Just Say No” from Nancy Reagan.

All my life, Alabama’s head coach has been either someone from my grandfather’s generation, or my dad’s generation.

Someone old enough to remember Iwo Jima. Or Hamburger Hill. Or the Tet Offensive. Someone with enough gray in his hair to recall Benny Goodman, Nat Cole, or at the very least James Brown.

A guy named Kalen remembers Styx, the Gulf War, 9/11, the OJ Simpson trial, and he probably watched the Smurfs.

Alabama is my childhood team. I was born during the third quarter of Bear Bryant’s Liberty Bowl, in Memphis, Tennessee. I was born directly after a critical touchdown. Peter Kim made the kick. The kick was good.

And I…