The Boys Without Dads Club gathered a few nights ago in Albert’s garage to watch the Braves play in the World Series.

The garage is outfitted like a makeshift living room, complete with two sofas poised before a television that is roughly the size of a rural school district.

There are bean bag chairs, cork coasters, a Georgia Bulldogs banner, an Atlanta Braves flag, and an ancient GE refrigerator stocked thick with soda and other high-octane libations.

Twelve young men watched Albert’s TV, slugging Coca-Cola and malt beverages, making various remarks at the screen, calling the umpire ugly names. A few guys played eight-ball on an old pool table.

Not a smartphone in sight.

The garage door was slung open and the cool night air was alive with crickets. It was forty-nine degrees in rural North Georgia.

“C’mon Freddie!” one young man chanted to the batter on the TV.

This was followed by a round of slow claps. The kind of rally clapping most guys do during televised games to prove they are “real” fans even though the players can’t hear them.

“Let’s do this, Braves!” shouted another.

Clap, clap.

Meantime, Albert’s wife, Lynn Ellen, scurried around her kitchen, tending to her oven, shoving pretzel sticks into cheddar balls, sprinkling paprika on anything that sat still.

Her faux-wood laminate table was littered with snack foods. Mushroom puff pastry bites, sweet-pickle deviled eggs, ham-and-olive roll-ups, and of course, Lynn Ellen’s famed Swedish meatballs.

“All men love my meatballs,” stated Lynn Ellen.

Lynn Ellen is eighty-three. Her husband clocks in at eighty-five. They have been married since “Ike” Eisenhower was a household name.

Most club members in Albert’s garage, however, were between ages seven and fifty-nine.

“This is a great club,” twenty-four-year-old Oscar told me. “Al is a stand-up guy, and he’s a mentor to so many of us.”

Still, calling it a club is a little misleading. It’s just an informal…

Remember when Walter Cronkite reported the nightly news and there was actually good stuff on TV? Remember when you watched news reports and didn’t need Tums afterwards?

No, I’m not saying the national news back then was always sunshine and Hershey’s bars, but it wasn’t all nuclear explosions, either.

Each weeknight Walter Cronkite appeared on your screen, hair slicked with axle grease, shirt pressed within an inch of its fibers, speaking in a voice that sounded like the Midwestern version of God. He’d cover topics ranging from exciting lunar launches, to Willie Nelson playing a concert at the White House.

And when the broadcast was over, Cronkite would sign-off with the same words:

“And that’s the way it is.”

Today, however, you don’t see good news on TV. Not even a little. You see talking heads chewing the same proverbial cud. The worst part is, the television people lead you to believe that goodness in this world is about as rare as a purple carrot.

Well, I recently discovered that this notion is pure bull.

It all started

yesterday when I discovered I lost my wallet. The truly frightening thing was that on this specific day, my billfold contained a lot of cash, which is a rarity for me.

I never carry cash. In fact, on any given day my wallet will contain dryer lint, faded Chinese restaurant receipts, old poker chips from Biloxi, and cryptic notes I’ve written to myself which are illegible. But I never carry cash.

Even so, this particular afternoon I had six hundred dollars tucked in my billfold. And I misplaced it.

I immediately became nauseous. I started slapping my pockets like a guy whose Levi’s were on fire.

“My wallet,” I said in the privacy of my truck, achieving the pitch of a mezzo-soprano. “I’ve lost my wallet!”

My wallet is pretty hard to miss. I’m like most males, my wallet weighs at least…

Dear kid,

I wish you could’ve been there. You are reading this letter in the far-off future, long after I am dead and scattered. But tonight, as I write these feeble words, I hope they will help you understand how we felt when it happened. Because the sports history books simply won’t do the occasion justice.

Tonight, the night it took place, I was sitting in my den, anxiously squeezing a throw pillow, watching the television. My wife was beside me, howling at the TV screen. “Hit it outta the park!” Then she crushed a few beer cans using only one hand.

That’s the kind of agony we underwent on the night the Atlanta Braves, America’s oldest continuously operating baseball team, established in 1871, won the World Series.

My God. I have waited twenty-two years to write that last line.

You’re a child. Thus, you cannot know what this monumental moment means to us middle-aged fools. I don’t know if baseball is important to the people in your future era, but we, your ancestors, love this

game something fierce.

I wish you knew how many thousands of innings we’ve faithfully watched over our lifespans. I wish you could fathom how many on-the-road games we convinced our wives to attend, traveling upwards of twenty-nine hours across the continental U.S. only to watch our team lose to the Diamondbacks.

You don’t know how much money we’ve invested in HD television equipment, live streaming packages, expensive ball caps, nosebleed tickets, tepid ballpark beers, overpriced hotdogs that tasted like fried squirrel.

You don’t know how many weddings, funerals, baby dedications, banquets, and bar mitzvahs we have excused ourselves from, faking full bladders, then rushed to the men’s room to check the score.

Yes, I freely conceded that it’s ridiculous and irresponsible to be a baseball fan. Because when you think about it, professional sports is a frivolous endeavor with all the chaos in this…

“I found old Whitey behind a gas station,” said the old man, stroking the cat who lingered beside his feet. A white cat.

We were sitting together on John’s porch at dusk on Halloween. The neighborhood was steadily being overtaken by trick-or-treaters with dangerously low blood sugar. I was returning a borrowed weed eater to John’s house when the Pabst loosened the old man’s tongue.

John has a bushy white beard, unruly eyebrows, and he usually has the whole unkempt-old-man thing going on. His hair was disheveled, his shirt was stained, and his ratty sneakers looked like they had more mileage on them than my truck.

Kids in costumes stopped by John’s porch during our conversation, dressed as officially licensed cartoon characters, half blinded my misaligned plastic masks.

John had placed a barrel of candy on his steps and told kids they were free to help themselves.

“We operate on the honor system around here,” said John between swills.

I watched one kid who was dressed as Uncle Fester Addams take an armful of candy the size

of a bowling ball and run like hailfire.

“When I met Whitey,” John went on, “the gas station people were feeding her behind the Dumpster. Only problem was, not all the store employees actually cared about cats. Usually they forgot to feed her.”

The white cat knew we were taking about her. She crawled onto John’s lap and leaned into John. Whenever John stopped moving his hand upon the feline’s slender body the cat would weave beneath his hand and force him to keep stroking.

“She loves to be pet.”

It sounded like Whitey had a small motor beneath her hood.

“Lemme tell ya,” said John. “This girl was hard to catch. Harder than most cats.”

John ought to know. He has fourteen cats including Whitey. They all have stunningly creative names like, Brownie, Blackie, Red, Gray, Yellow, and Susan.

“Why Susan?” I…

The beach is empty this morning, and devoid of tourists. The weather is forty-nine degrees. The water is what we Gulf Coast people would call, “bathwater.” The air is what we thin-blooded Florida writers refer to as, “cold enough to freeze a dog’s pee midstream.”

I am dutifully typing on a laptop, working on another novel. Working on a novel is a lot like driving across Texas. You drive for an eternity until eventually you realize that, hey, you’re still in Texas. And even if you were to turn around and drive the other way, you’re still going to be driving through Texas for a very long time.

Not far from my chair is an older couple. I’d say early seventies, late sixties. They don’t have chairs, their haunches are nestled right in the flour-white sand. They are covered in a thick plaid blanket, sipping from a steaming thermos.

It’s a good day for beach-sitting. The sun is low, making its ascent into a pink morning sky. The Gulf is spearmint green.

The man

has a mane of white; she wears the universal floppy straw hat all old ladies wear. Their arms are draped around one another, and they are watching seafoam.

I amble over and introduce myself to start the conversational ball rolling because I need a break from “driving across Texas.”

Our talk gets personal when I ask how long they’ve been married.

“Been married twenty-three years,” the man says. “We were both married previously, our spouses died.”

They both lost their significant others to brain cancer, twenty-some-odd years ago. It was the same rare kind of brain cancer, too. The odds were astounding.

“We were shocked to find that connection,” she says. “We took it as a sign from God, that we were meant to be together. What else could it have meant?”

They got married in a hurry. The day of their wedding was their three-month…

Take the interstate exit and follow the pavement to the rural route. Go past the fields of autumnal cotton, past the lopsided trailer homes sitting in fields of blond stubble, past the abandoned filling station, and soon you will find the little town.

You’ll see the hi-welcome-to-our-city-sign, covered with smatterings of tin badges for the Lion’s Club, Kiwanis, Rotary, and the all-you-can-eat catfish joint. You’ll see the feed and seed, the vacant downtown storefronts Walmart killed, and finally you’ll see the little white dog trot house.

Well, at least it used to be white. Today it’s more mildew colored.

In the overgrown yard are the remains of ancient outdoor Playskool toys that predate the Carter administration, and the bones of a rusted swing set that went to be with Jesus a long time ago.

Elderly Martha was standing on her porch waiting for me when I pulled up. Martha is not her real name, but it will have to do.

She speaks with an accent that’s thicker than pancake batter. She raised her family here.

She retired here.

“I used to work at mill,” she told me. “I was the nurse lady who bandaged people who got hurt.”

She poured two mugs of coffee. Weak coffee. The brew was the color of iced tea. It was the kind of coffee many old-timers often drink. I once asked an elderly guy why old people made their coffee so weak. The returning answer was: “So we can drink it all day long.”

Case closed.

The woman sat at her kitchen table, staring into her mug of brown water, and told the inexperienced writer across from her the story that brought him here.

Her story took place in the winter. She remembers it vividly. The tree branches were naked, the sun was setting. She was leaving the mill after a very long workday.

“My mama lived with us at the time,” she said.…

Game Three of the World Series is on television. I’m sitting outside on my porch with a cat in my lap. It’s chilly outside.

I’m watching a portable TV, rooting for the Atlanta Braves. And while I know I have been writing a lot about baseball lately, like most hapless Braves fans my age, I’ve been waiting over twenty years for this game.

Earlier, I set up the television on the porch with an extension cord so I could watch the game while grilling burgers. Old school. Because this is what the men from my childhood did.

They’d watch a ten-inch screen, outdoors, sip from longneck bottles, and grill fatty beef over charcoal briquettes.

To this day I don’t know why those men watched ballgames so intently. Baseball is essentially a kid’s game played by very rich twenty-year-olds and has no real bearing on the immediate future. But there you are.

Those old men sat on the porch to watch games and scream at the TV as though their health depended on it. Therefore, so must I.

No matter

how old I get, why is it that I always feel like I’m imitating my parents? I once heard it said that we are all just thirteen years old, just trying to make our dad proud. I believe that.

Anyway, tonight I can hear the ballgame playing from the house next door, blaring through the thin mobile-home windows. My neighbor is an old woman who has two small dogs that resemble cotton balls with eyes.

These animals are currently yapping at a pitch that’s shrill enough to affect the migratory patterns of birds. This incessant yapping drowns out the televised game and adds a special touch to tonight’s World Series. A game which, in case I didn’t mention it, I have waited upwards of twenty years for.

ANNOUNCER: There’s the wind up…

NEIGHBOR’S DOG: Yap! Yap!

ANNOUNCER: Aannnnd the pitch…

DOG:…

I am sitting on the porch, eating a bowl of Cheerios, trying to think of something to write about. Almost every morning I combat writer’s block with a bowl of Cheerios.

Cheerios are a proven cure for writer’s block. I know this because when we used to take multiple-choice tests in grade school, our teachers always told us to eat a healthy breakfast beforehand so we could focus.

And it must’ve worked. Because most of my classmates ate Cheerios and made great scores. Sadly, I ate Captain Crunch and i wuz held bak a cuple grades.

But somewhere along the way I switched to eating Cheerios during boyhood, and my grammar immediately became a lot more gooder.

The truth is, eating Cheerios is one of the few boyhood habits I still engage in on a daily basis aside from taking Flintstone vitamins and cleaning my nostrils manually.

I love Cheerios. I’m crazy about them. I don’t need fancy flavors like honey-nut, cinnamon-sprinkled, yogurt-covered, or coconut-toasted. Just give me the classical yellow box and a

jug of two-percent and I’m good to go.

I’m sure you’ve already heard, but Cheerios turned 80 this year. And while the birthday of a famous General Mills breakfast cereal might not strike you as a big deal, it is to me. And there’s a very important reason why: Because I needed a topic to write about this morning.

Think about it. How many old-world American brands are still around? How many products from the golden days of your youth are still on the store shelves?

Each year we lose another iconic institution that made our childhoods special: Chiclets, Slo Pokes, Woolworths, Oldsmobile, Plymouth, General Foods, Billy Beer, etc. Those things are gone now.

The world changes so fast that it’s impossible to keep up. Each morning you awake only to discover that a new Olive-Garden-Old-Navy shopping complex has popped up in your backyard. American nostalgia…

It’s early evening. The sun is setting over Birmingham. My wife and I are out for dinner at a nice restaurant, which is a rarity. I am wearing a sport coat.

Even bigger rarity.

It’s been a long time since we’ve gone out for dinner. Too long. This is because my wife has been my mother-in-law’s primary caregiver for the last few years. And in the months leading up to the end of her mother’s life, we didn’t get many opportunities to paint the town.

No, when you’re a caregiver you pretty much say goodbye to a personal life. You bid farewell to fancy restaurants and movie dates. Instead, you end up eating a lot of leftover meatloaf on the sofa while watching HGTV with your mother-in-law who often shouts, “This meatloaf needs salt!”

But tonight, here we are in the big city. And it’s nice. Actually, it’s better than nice. Tonight, I actually remember what it feels like to be human. Which is a sensation easily forgotten among caregivers.

We are sitting at an outside table, enjoying the

autumn weather when a Chevy Suburban pulls to the curb. A middle-aged guy with salt-and-pepper hair hops out of the driver’s seat and trots around the vehicle to open the rear hatch.

He unloads two large wheelchairs, one walker, and an oxygen canister on wheels. He parks the chairs on the sidewalk, then positions the roller-walker beside the corral of equipment. It looks like he’s about to stage a geriatric chorus line.

“Hold on, Mama,” the man shouts back to the car. “I’m coming for ya.”

Next, the man places women’s purses into each wheelchair. A large knit bag sits on one chair, a Burberry plaid handbag sits in the other chair.

My wife and I exchange looks. We’re both thinking the same thing. My mother-in-law used to have a plaid handbag.

It’s the little things.

Next, the man throws open…

Jackson, Georgia. Just off I-75. A tiny chapel sits in the middle of a truck stop parking lot. The house of worship is actually just an semi-trailer parked outside the filling-station-slash-IHOP, welcoming all sinners, seekers, and pancake aficionados.

Just look for the bright neon cross perched atop the trailer, lit up in the darkness. You can’t miss it.

Tacked to the chapel door was a sign which read: “Open.” So I stepped inside.

Sixteen chairs faced a pinewood pulpit. The walls were the same cheap wood paneling everyone’s family used to have in 1970s. The place was, more or less, your run-of-the-mill church.

As soon as I entered I was immediately greeted by a welcome table bearing the accoutrements associated with twentieth-century evangelism—donation envelopes, newsletters, brochures, donation envelopes, gospel tracts, prayer hotline numbers, donation envelopes, free crucifixes, and of course, in case you missed them, donation envelopes.

I visited this small trailer today because I am a columnist, and columnists must visit places like this. Otherwise, columnists end up writing multiple boring columns about their dogs.

Which I would never do.

In the chapel, sitting up front, were two men. Heads bowed. Eyes closed. I’m guessing they were truck drivers.

One man was large, wearing a sleeveless shirt. The other had heavily muscled arms that were painted in multi-colored tattoos, and he wore a beard that looked like it belonged on an Oakridge Boys album cover.

I quietly made my way to the back row and had a seat.

One of the men opened his eyes when he heard my footsteps and made eye contact with me. Then he closed his eyes and resumed whatever he was doing. Praying, I guess.

Truthfully, I’ve never known exactly what prayer is. Oh, I’ve heard all the definitions. But for some reason, I’ve always felt that prayer is one of those things that I gravely misunderstand.

I grew up in a fundamentalist tradition…