It was 12:21 a.m. There were no restaurants open in Fairhope at this untoward hour.

Unless, of course, you counted Sonic Drive-In. And if I wanted the joyous experience of dining in my vehicle, I could save time by dumping boiling grease into my lap.

So it was Waffle House.

I stepped into the surgically chilled air of America’s greatest eatery and found my usual seat.

Waffle House dining rooms are predominantly designed the same way. A Waffle House in Benson, North Carolina, for example, is set up just like the one in Albuquerque.

So I always choose the same seat. I always select the leftmost seat at the very end of the bar. Back of the house. Nearest the refrigerators. Against the window.

I sit here for two reasons. One, because the air conditioners at Waffle House will freeze your vital organs. Two, the air vents can’t reach you back here.

Tonight, our grill-person was named Larry. He was tall, with Rosie Greer shoulders and a perpetual smile.

I asked what he was smiling about.

“Oh, I always smile,”

he said.

I asked why.

He shrugged his granite shoulders. “Customers need to feel like they’s at home.”

Larry is a relatively young guy. At least he seems young to me.

He recently suffered a heart attack. The cardiac event was so bad that his doctors weren’t sure how much destruction had been done. They placed him in a medically induced coma to reduce damage to his brain.

Life came to a standstill. His family went into a kind of half mourning. If you’ve ever had a family member in a coma, it’s exactly like going to hell, only with more vending machine food.

Larry survived his heart attack with almost no lingering effects. One week after he left the hospital, he was back at the grill, cooking.

“Cooking is what I do,” he said, flipping eggs with a gentle…

Someone is impersonating me. This person has created a fake account using my name. They’re going around asking for money on Facebook. And worse: they’re using bad grammar.

And I just think that’s tacky.

For starters, I don’t ask for money. The last time I asked for money I was 16. I was trying to get to Miami Beach for spring break along with my friends Ed Lee and Tater Log.

We told our mothers we wanted to attend a very special Bible camp in Coconut Grove.

“Bible camp?” Tater Log’s mother remarked, doubtfully. “And does this Bible camp also have wet T-shirt contests?”

So we tried my mother next.

I asked Mama for a modest $1,200, which I thought was an honest estimate for travel expenses and gas. Mama laughed so hard she had to be calmed with buttered Saltines.

So anyway, my wife was the first to bring this Facebook scammer to my attention. She thought this person was hysterical. She located the imposter’s Facebook profile and howled with laughter.

“He isn’t even cute!” my wife

announced, cackling at the computer screen. “Look at his cheap haircut and that idiot grin.”

The impersonator, as it happens, is using my actual photo. And it’s a recent photo, too, which features my current haircut and my current grin.

Moreover, it turns out this hoaxer is trying to sweet talk innocent people into giving them personal information and account passwords.

Well, let me reassure you, publicly, I do not want your passwords. I can’t even remember my own passwords, and I have thousands. In fact, remembering all my passwords has become a full-time job.

Whenever my wife and I try to watch TV, for example, our streaming service requires us to re-enter our password each time.

And since I am the tech-guy in our house, it’s up to me to remember this password. At which point I have to don reading…

Pelham, Alabama. The year was 1927. Coolidge was president. Gas was 21 cents per gallon. Beer was illegal.

It was a pivotal year in this country. Maybe the most pivotal ever. Charles Lindberg crossed Atlantic. A guy named Philo T. Farnsworth transmitted the first electronic TV image.

Henry Ford unveiled the Model A. The first “Talkie” motion picture was released. Work began on Mount Rushmore. The Babe was setting world records up the wazooty.

And way down in Alabama, the Twenty-Second state bought 940 acres and transformed the land into a state park.

It was virginal country which included Double Oak Mountain and parts of Little Oak Ridge. The foothills of the Appalachians themselves. These were pristine mountainsides. Some of the most incorrupt acreage in the United States. One reporter called it “Zion.”

This was such magnificent country that a few years later, the National Park Service got involved with its development. The NPS acquired 8,000 acres of additional land.

The federal government was so psyched about this place, they were going to

turn it all into a national park, on par with Yellowstone and Yosemite. They were going to call the park “Little Smoky Mountain National Park.”

Dear old Uncle Sam bussed down shiploads of Civilian Conservation Corps men. Machines began hewing through stone and granite. The population of Pelham swelled with workers.

But then some guy named Hitler screwed up the world, started a war, and every able-bodied male was sent overseas.

Work ceased on the park. The national big-wigs forgot about this place.

Today, what remains is Oak Mountain State Park. The greatest state park in the country. Hands down.

I’ve been to a lot of state parks and national parks on the North American Continent. Oak Mountain is among the best.

I hike Oak Mountain a lot because it isn’t far from my back door. I like it here.

Whenever I visit, I feel my heart…

Lessons from my blind rescue dog.

—Wherever you are, find the dog-people.

—The only things in life that matter are people and food. Although not necessarily in that order.

—You learn everything you need to know about a person by the way they talk to you.

—When you are blind, friends are very important. If you hang around the wrong ones, you’ll get lost.

—Food tastes SO good.

—But not broccoli.

—If you do enough of the things that scare you, you won’t be scared of those things anymore.

—Out of all the animals on the earth, humans are the only ones who can be cruel.

—Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you will end up peeing in the house. So just remember, if you DO pee indoors, try not to walk through your own puddle.

—There is no such thing as a little triumph.

—Being afraid is okay. Everyone gets afraid. But being afraid doesn’t have to slow you down. You can be afraid and be strong at the same time. In fact, sometimes the strongest creatures are also the most

afraid.

—If you DO, however, walk through your own ginormous puddle of pee, and your feet become wet with puppy urine, whatever you do, DON’T climb onto Dad’s bed with your pee-feet and put your paws on his pillow and root around like you are searching for exotic truffles.

—There is no value in celery.

—Or spinach.

—Life is far easier if you have a bad memory.

—Follow the voice of someone who loves you and you will be okay.

—The most valuable possession you own is your trust. But trust has a shelf life. So give it to someone fast or it will spoil.

—Children are always nice to blind dogs.

—People in hotels do not like it when you sniff their butts at the communal coffee machine.

—If someone loves you, they will prove it…

I was standing in line at a gas station in rural South Carolina. I had pulled over to use the bathroom, to buy a hot cup of mud, and God willing, to purchase chili cheese Fritos.

There were two kids in baseball uniforms, standing ahead of me in line. It was October.

Little League isn’t generally played in October, I was thinking. Maybe they were attending a baseball camp. Maybe it was just a practice?

They were your quintessential American boys. White pants, stained in red clay. Jerseys untucked. Hair, bleached by the sun. They smelled like little-boy sweat.

They reminded me of a thousand feckless summers I spent shagging fly balls. I was a chubby outfielder who wore Husky jeans. But in my heart, I was Dale Murphy.

When the two boys reached the cashier, the old woman called them by name and asked how they’re families were doing. And that’s when I noticed one of the boys was missing his left arm.

The boy used several contorted movements to place his items onto the counter without dropping them.

He was buying mostly candy. Resse’s.

Crunch bar. Skittles. Starburst. Gatorade—Frost-Glacier blue. The only thing missing was the Big League Chew.

Has our culture fallen so far that young ball players no longer appreciate Big League Chew? This columnist wants to know.

The woman behind the register just smiled at him. Her voice sounded like a pack of Newports.

“How’d you play today?” she said.

He shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

“Are you in pain?”

“A little.”

He rotated his missing arm at the shoulder socket. “I’m still getting used to it.”

She nodded. “I’ll bet.”

“It’s hard.”

Another smile from the woman. “You’re doing great, sweetie. You’ll adjust. It’ll take time, but after a while it’ll be almost second nature. Look how far you’ve already come.”

She placed his candy into a small plastic bag. “You were out there trying,…

She was young. She was slender. She was waiting tables at a little joint. The kind of cafe you’ve seen a hundred times before in every small town backwater from here to forever.

They served bathwater coffee. Shingle toast. Hamburgers fatty enough to cause aortic embolisms.

The waitress wore red shoes. Ballet flats. They were scuffed and faded leather. She always wore red shoes because they were her trademark. Ever since girlhood.

Growing up poor does something to a kid. Growing up during a Great Depression rewires the human brain. Whenever this girl had extra money, she bought shoes. And they were always flagrant red.

She was not yet 16. But she was like all the children in her generation, mature years before her time. She was tall and elegant. A young Katherine Hepburn comes to mind. Maybe Bacall. Her dark hair was pulled back so that her long neck showed. She looked like a queen among mortals. When she walked, every eye followed her.

There were several workmen sitting in a booth.

They were bad customers. They made her life miserable. They complained about their orders. They sent their food back to the kitchen multiple times.

She did her best to serve them with charm and grace, but she kept making mistakes. The restaurant owner was called. He took the cost of their meals out of her pay. He gave the girl a scolding in front of everyone.

And that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the disgruntled men in the booth tipped her one penny.

One.

She cried until her makeup ran. One penny was worse than getting spit at.

But this is life. You couldn’t stop working just because you got your feelings hurt. The workday must go on. This was a Great Depression. Money didn’t grow in the backyard. There were no such things as cigarette trees or big rock candy mountains.

One of…

Vanderbilt University Medical Center. Nashville. I’m here to visit a friend. She’s in Neurosurgery ICU.

Vandy is busy today. Cars everywhere. Traffic is insane. People in scrubs linger outside monstrous buildings, playing on phones. Doctors and medical staffers wander to and fro. People stand outside the towers, having emotional conversations on cellphones.

There are folks from all walks of life here. I see a young woman using a wheelchair, heading toward the hospital entrance. She is carrying a huge stack of comic books in her lap. Superman comics.

“That’s a lot of comic books,” I say.

“Yeah, they’re for my sister. She loves Superman.”

“Not many girls like Superman.”

“Who lied to you?” she says. “All girls like Superman.”

Together, we go into the main doors of the Cancer Research Building. It’s a revolving door. I hate revolving doors.

Centuries ago, I believe the inventor of the revolving door looked at an ordinary door and said, “What if I took a normal door and added severe anxiety to it?”

Soon, the young woman and I are walking through a long

corridor toward the Critical Care Tower. The walls are earth tones. The air smells like disinfectant and plastic.

The woman in the wheelchair tells me that her sister has a very serious injury. I tell her I’m sorry. The young woman tells me she believes God is bigger than injuries.

We move past people aplenty. We see down-and-outers. We see people caught within the purgatory that is the Modern Medical Waiting Room. We wander past medical personnel, weatherworn physicians, and nurses who just look tired.

We see visitors hurriedly heading for the front door to light a cigarette. We pass a man in a clerical collar. We see families who look like they’ve been crying.

We make it to the elevators.

The young woman with the comic books says, “I’ve been basically living at this hospital for two weeks.”

I…

I went to the mailbox today and found a package. Before I opened the parcel I already knew what was inside. And it brought my whole life back in a moment.

Sometimes, my memory can be foggy. But sometimes it can be remarkably clear. On rare occasions I can remember everything.

Like the first time I went to the fair. My old man took me to ride the carnival rides with my cousin. We paid our tokens. The glorious rides only lasted a blazing 90 seconds. They were so surprisingly short that you felt cheated at the end.

Or the way I once told Eleanor Nelson I liked her, by giving her a ceramic sculpture I made in art class. A figurine of two people paddling a boat.

“What’s this?” said Eleanor.

“It’s two people in a boat.”

“Is that supposed to be me?”

“Maybe.”

“I look like I fell into a bee’s nest.”

“You mean a hive.”

“Huh?”

“Technically, bees don’t have nests, they have hives.”

“You’re a dork, you know that?”

“I do.”

I remember my first taste of corn liquor—and I’m

not making this up. My friend's father let me take a sip at a Church of God barbecue. I was only visiting. The old man’s name was Mister Travis, but everyone called him Big T.

After one tiny sip, I knew why Big T always spoke in tongues at Little League games.

My wedding ring, I remember buying it. We went to the jewelry store to pick out rings. The man behind the counter had white hair and an accent that was pure Alabama. He greeted us with:

“Well look at this pair of lovin’ younguns.”

Now there’s a little gem of a phrase.

The honeymoon my wife and I took, I’ll always remember that. It was one for the books. I had never been to Charleston before, and I certainly never thought it was possible…

Sunrise in middle Tennessee. It was four in the morning. I left my hotel early to get on the road.

I had a long way to go. There was a light dusting of frost on the Smoky Mountains. I could see my breath.

I turned on the radio and found a station playing Hank Williams’ “Alabama Waltz.”

It was a candid recording from a radio show in the 40s. Hank gave an introduction to the tune. He says, “This is a song about my home state.”

I cranked up the volume, since Hank Senior was the soundtrack of my boyhood. Every male in my life idolized Hiram King Williams. For years, as a child, I thought Hank Williams was a Bible character who played guitar.

I found the hidden backroads and headed southward toward my home in Birmingham, Alabama.

If you ask me, the modest two-lane highways that lead through the Yellowhammer State are among the most scenic corridors in the nation.

I’m not saying this because I am biased. I’m saying this because I’ve driven

backroads in 42 different American states. Alabama is up there with the best.

The scenes were arresting.

North central Alabama’s swelling Appalachian foothills were blanketed in the palettes of autumn. The whole world was golden and red. The rivers were polished chrome. It was enough to stop your pulse.

I’ve been having a love affair with this state since my youth. I grew up forty-odd miles from the state line. They called our Florida region L.A. “Lower Alabama.”

I had my first Pabst near the Coosa River. I had my first kiss in Saraland. I caught my first crappie in Houston County. I met my wife near Burnt Corn Creek.

There is something unamable about the soul of this state. Whenever I enter its borders, I feel something deep within the pit of my stomach. I can’t explain it in words. My sentences would…