Thank you for the care package, Miss Paula. Thank you for the cute basket of homemade jams with handwritten labels. Do you know how long it’s been since I had mayhaw jelly? A long time.

But most importantly, thank you for the tomatoes.

Tomatoes are my favorite “non-vegetable” vegetable. I was recently informed by a smart person that tomatoes are—technically—a “fruit” because they are the ripened “ovary” of a flowering plant. But that’s just weird. I would never eat ovaries. Moreover, I certainly wouldn’t eat ovaries on ice cream, and everyone knows you only eat fruit on ice cream. So the tomato is a vegetable. Case closed.

Nevertheless, these weren’t just ANY tomatoes you sent. These were Slocomb, Alabama, tomatoes. From the tomato capital of our state. A town where the high-school marching band is nicknamed the “Redtops” and wears bright uniforms that look vaguely like tomatoes.

I was in a parade once with the Redtops. I was riding in a Cadillac, waving to onlookers. The band marched directly behind me, playing

“Word Up!” originally recorded by American funk band Cameo (1986).

“Word Up!” was a pretty good song in 1986, and it’s still a good song. But this was apparently the only song the Redtops knew. By the 1,498th rendition our driver was contemplating driving off a bridge.

So God bless you, Miss Paula. You cannot know what these small-town tomatoes do to me. Namely, because a tomato is not just a tomato.

For starters, a tomato contains traces of soil from the hometown where it was grown. This means that—in a way—when you eat a Slocomb tomato, you are tasting Pleasant Hill Baptist Church, the farm supply store, pep rallies, civic meetings, fifth-Sunday sings, and the Miss Tomato Queen pageant.

The tomato is also the taste of rainwater. The same rains…

The electricity went out. I don’t know why it happened. It wasn’t storming. The weather was nice. All I know is I was watching TV when the lamps suddenly flickered and died.

And that was that.

The house fell silent. The refrigerator quit vibrating. The A/C compressor was no longer humming. My dog stared at the ceiling fan slowing down. The power must have affected cell towers, too. I had no phone service.

For a few minutes I just sat in my living room, watching my dog dutifully perform an act of intimate hygiene.

Panic set in. What was I going to do? No electricity? No internet? No phone service? How would I contact a loved one in an emergency? How would I dial 911? How was I going to order cat food on Amazon?

I was becoming dangerously isolated from humanity, and fast. As an American, I am obligated by the Bill of Rights to keep current with essential news headlines at all times.

But without

vital electronic devices, I had no idea what key events were happening in the global community. I was missing out.

What if something was happening in North Korea I needed to know about? How about Quebec? What if I missed vital updates on court hearings? Or the baby monkey kidnappings in Panama? Or the videoed rescue of the runaway zebra in Murfreesboro, Tennessee?

How was I supposed to live without constant headlines about various billionaires’ sex scandals? What about my 24-hour footage of violent demonstrations in Third World countries, massive explosions, terrorist bombs, bodies lying in streets, or “Live with Kelly and Mark?”

No more TV means no more rich dudes in courtrooms talking about rappers’ prostitution rings. No more news anchors gleefully saying the words “Harvey Weinstein.” No more commercials urging me to…

I got into an argument at the supermarket. This is how volatile our world is right now. It was in the checkout line. My opponent was not only clueless, but pigheaded, refusing all logic. The fact that my opponent is only 9 is no excuse.

“I don’t like Superman,” the little boy said. “He’s kinda dumb.”

At the time I was holding a Superman comic book, along with my other grocery items. They were selling comics in the checkout lane. The elderly lady cashier was just staring at us, arguing.

“You don’t LIKE Superman?” I said. “Everyone likes Superman.”

“I don’t know ANYONE who likes Superman,” said the boy.

“I literally don’t even know who Superman is,” said the boy’s 7-year-old little sister.

This is an affront.

When I was a boy, everyone knew who Superman was. Namely, because Superman was a vital piece of boyhood. While girls were off playing “House,” developing useful life skills such as learning how to balance checkbooks and using EZ Bake ovens, boys were running

around in our backyards wearing bath towels as capes.

As a kid, you’d get into these wonderfully dramatic arguments with your buddies over which superhero was best. These topical disagreements usually centered around lesser superheroes like Batman, Spiderman, or Barbara Eden. But here’s the thing: Superman always won the argument. Because—hello?—he was Superman.

My boyhood mind was consumed with Superman. I had Superman pajamas which looked exactly like his costume. I often wore them to school, beneath my clothes. During bathroom breaks I would tear off my civilian clothes and return to class in my heroic get-up. Mrs. Welch would refer to me as “Mister Kent” from there on.

I wore those pajamas every day until there were holes in my little Super Butt. One day the pajamas…

DEAR SEAN:

When are you going to finally use your platform to comment on what is happening in this country? This country is being threatened and you stand silent like a spineless little [deleted].

I hope your God will forgive you on judgement day for keeping your mouth shut when you could affect change.

Thanks,

PISSED-OFF-IN-AMERICA.

DEAR PISSED:

Thanks for the email. You sound like a sweetheart. I imagine you’re fun at neighborhood barbecues, too.

I believe, however, I detected a somewhat negative tone to your message.

I could be wrong about this. Perhaps the term “spineless little [female canine]” is a positive term where you come from. Maybe it’s even a term of affection. Maybe when you kiss your husband goodnight you wrinkle your nose and endearingly say, “Goodnight, you spineless little...” So sweet.

As it happens, I love female canines. I happen to have two at home. Although they are not “spineless.” And, tragically, they are definitely not “little.” One of these female dogs is about

the size of a mature Shetland pony and yet sincerely believes she was designed to be a lap dog.

Also, she drools. Her drool is a highly sticky substance, much like day-old mucus, only less appetizing. Whenever she gets hungry, saliva leaks out of her jowls, forming long tendrils, reaching toward the floor. Then, she will spontaneously shake herself dry, thereby flinging massive strands of gelatinous drool globs all over bystanders’ clothes and body so that it looks like they have just finished swimming in a giant vat of human phlegm. I wish you two could meet.

Even so, I’ve been thinking about your message ever since I received it. And I got to thinking about what you said.

Then I got to thinking about how wonderfully…

Do this. Think of your favorite thing. I promise this won’t take long.

Simply close your eyes and think of your favorite thing in the whole world besides queso dip.

Okay. Got it? Now you’re going to have to open your eyes again because these paragraphs aren’t going to read themselves.

Maybe your favorite thing is a person you love. A child, a romantic interest, a grandparent, a pet, a member of Congress, etc. Or maybe it’s a place you really, REALLY like to be. The lake. The beach. The mountains. The Department of Motor Vehicles.

Now I want you to imagine this thing in perfect detail. Hold it in your brain. Just take a few seconds, if you need.

I want you to notice something.

Can you feel the love radiating from this visualized object? If it’s a person, can you feel the joy swelling in you? If it’s a place, can you feel the quiet power of contentment this picture gives you?

Okay. That’s actually love you’re feeling. You LOVE this place. You LOVE this person. And

all that love is bubbling inside you like carbonation.

Hold this thought in your mind a little longer.

Count to ten.

Do you notice how you’re sort of smiling? Granted it’s not a BIG smile you’re wearing. It’s probably a soft, almost imperceptible grin.

Good. Now I want you to let the image go, but hold onto that love feeling it gives.

Imagine now, that this love you’re feeling is a little ball of light.

Make the ball of light bigger. It’s the size of a baseball. The size of a beachball. The size of a 1979 Chevette. Keep imagining it bigger. Soon, the ball of love has grown to the size of a…

The Dothan Opera House is an old building, constructed during World War I. Everyone has performed here. Willie Nelson, the Statler Brothers, Conway Twitty, Bob Dylan.

It’s a nice building. The brick edifice is Classical Revival. The arched windows are Italianate. The city recently pumped some major cashola into this place. And it shows. The opera house is gorgeous.

I arrived early for a pre-performance soundcheck, driving our dilapidated van, “Myrtle.” Myrtle is not gorgeous.

Myrtle used to be a plumber’s van. Myrtle has been with us a long time. She looks exactly like the kind of van you’d expect to be driven by a guy who, whenever he squats to work beneath your kitchen sink, you see eight inches of exposed, bare, white gluteal cleft.

My name was on the opera house marquee. I saw this, and my eyes started to blur.

My life began here in Dothan. Of all places. About 12 years ago.

At the time, I had just graduated from community college. Before that, I had

been a dropout. I earned my high-school equivalency. Which, consequently, is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Anyone who believes GED recipients are not as smart as everyone else should take the GED exam.

Being a dropout is difficult. When you’re a dropout, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re a waste of oxygen. This feeling pervades your being. You walk into a room of ordinary folks and, no matter who they are, you rank beneath them.

After a while, the dropout begins the slow process of devaluing himself or herself. You start to believe what everyone else believes. You are trash. Lower than trash. Societal debris.

People give you weird looks when they hear that you didn’t attend high school. They look at your feet and seem surprised…

I come from a long line of porch sitters. This is why I am always on my porch. In my neighborhood, I am affectionately known as “that weirdo freak who’s always on his porch.” This is usually said in a positive way.

But I can’t help it. Since infanthood, the only place I ever wanted to be was a porch. There I’d be, wearing my onesie, crawling on the porch, drooling on myself, and testing the maximum capacity limits of my diaper. Whenever my mother’s friends visited, they would pick me up to take me inside and I would start crying. They would return me to the floorboards and say, “There’s something wrong with Sue’s baby.”

People would continue saying this for many years thereafter.

My current porch is a modest, but peaceful place. You can hear faroff trains, passing through Birmingham. Or listen to neighborhood dogs communicating via International Bark Telegraph.

We have a haint blue porch ceiling. Rocking chairs. The hanging ferns on my

porch are my favorite.

We have eight ferns in total. They are healthy and lush because my wife makes me place them in the yard, one by one, whenever it’s about to rain. This is because my wife sincerely believes rainwater is better than hosepipe water. Which is an old wives tale, of course.

Just like the wives tale that says children can’t swim for an hour after they eat lunch or they’ll drown, which is scientifically proven to be false. For decades, however, due to this misinformation, millions of young Americans missed countless carefree swimming hours, whilst their mothers caught up on the latest installment of “Days of Our Lives.”

I often begin my porch-sitting early. Before sunup. I see the whole day begin.

The birds start about 5 a.m., in preparation for sunrise—which is a pretty big deal in Bird World. The birds get…

“Dear Sean,” the email began. “I teach vacation Bible school… Last year we had three Latino children whose parents are undocumented immigrants…

“Church leadership felt it best not to allow these children to attend VBS this year. It broke my heart, the kids don’t understand, I’m really struggling with this decision. What should I do?”

Dear Anonymous, I can’t tell you what to do. And I can’t tell you what to think. What I can tell you, is a story.

Our tale begins in Philadelphia, 12 years after the Civil War. Nineteenth-century Philly was a rough place to live. “The City of Brotherly Love” had degenerated into “The City of ‘You Suck.’”

A little background. Riots had been occurring all over town. There were labor riots, anti-Irish riots, anti-Catholic riots, riots between Blacks and Whites, riots between German and Italians.

There was even a city-wide riot over which Bible translation schools should use, which resulted in a school being burned down. Churches were burned, too. Places of business were torched. People were being

killed all the time. Not pretty.

Philadelphia was a giant “melting pot,” only a few miles from the Mason-Dixon line. So after the war the population of Black Americans rose from four percent to nearly 20.

Also, Irish immigrants were arriving, literally, by shiploads; 750,000 Irish refugees entered America during this period. Philadelphia had the largest population of Irish immigrants in the country.

Pretty soon, 2 million of Philadelphia’s residents were foreign-born immigrants. During this era, the city population would double in a span of only 30 years. It was the perfect storm.

Nobody was getting along. Every day featured brawling in the pubs, fighting in the schools, deaths in the streets.

Enter Reverend Clarence Herbert Woolston.

Let’s call him “Herb.” Herb was a kindly white-haired minister who looked like everyone’s favorite grandpa. He’d been a preacher at East Baptist for almost 40 years. He was a…

Whenever I am feeling sad and blue, I visit my living room coffee table. I sit on my sofa, which is adorned with chew toys, claw marks, canine hair, exposed couch stuffing, and various upholstery springs, and petrified trails of dog drool that resemble evidence of past slug races.

There, I consult a book that sits on my coffee table. I open this book and almost always feel better.

I consult this book whenever life starts to feel heavy. Whenever people in the world seem particularly bat-excrement insane. Whenever my fellow Americans become uncharitable, arrogant, selfish, or worse, political.

That’s where this book comes in handy.

Inside this book are famous paintings. Most of these paintings were originally covers for the “Saturday Evening Post” magazine.

The first painting in this book is entitled “Before the Shot” (1958). The painting shows a little boy, in a doctor’s office. The boy is unfastening his pants, getting ready for a shot, and his little

white butt is showing. Meanwhile, the doctor is by the window, preparing the syringe. The painting makes you smile, no matter who you are. Especially if you’ve ever had a little white butt of your own at one time.

There is the series of paintings about “Willie Gillis.” From 1941 to 1946, the Post ran covers about a fictional character named Willie, a freckle-faced young man who was swept away into the madness of World War II.

Willie begins as a boy. Then he enters the military, wide-eyed and hopeful. Throughout a series of mostly lighthearted images, we see the war change Willie. When he comes back home, he’s looks less optimistic. And there’s something deeply moving about this change in him over five years of hell.

There is the artist’s depiction of “Rosie the Riveter” (1943). She embodies the post-Depression, wartime, hardworking blue-collar woman. She is proud, brawny, holding her…

Waffle House. My waitress has a bunch of tattoos. The women customers in the booth behind mine are talking about it in voices loud enough to alter the migratory patterns of waterfowl.

“Did you see ALL her tattoos? Our waitress?”

“I know.”

“Why do they DO that to themselves?”

“I know.”

I personally do not have tattoos. I come from teetotalling fundamentalists whose moms ironed our Fruit of the Looms. If I had come home with, for example, a Superman tattoo on my chest, the proverbial fertilizer would have hit the proverbial oscillating fan.

But I don’t dislike tattoos the way some do. No, tattoos weren’t in fashion when WE were young, but if they had been, believe me, we’d have them.

I know this because during my youth members of my generation were clambering to purchase $10 polo shirts with $90 alligators embroidered on the fronts.

My friend Pete and I were the only ones in the entire fifth grade who did not own Izod polo shirts. So Pete and I took matters into our own hands.

Pete’s mom had an embroidery machine. We begged her to craft a dozen alligator patches to sew onto our Kmart polos and—voila!—instant cool factor.

We gave Pete’s mom DETAILED instructions, then left her unsupervised. Which, looking back, was a mistake. Because Pete’s mother delivered 12 polo shirts bearing colorful patches of Snoopy, Papa Smurf, and four of the original seven dwarves.

The waitress was visiting each table, warming up coffees. She visited two ladies behind me. The ladies represented my generation. Their conversation kept growing louder.

“They just look so trashy. Tattoos.”

“I know, I wish I could tell these kids, ‘Quit screwing up your bodies.’ It’s stupid.”

The young waitress finally made it to my table. I saw her inkwork. Her arm was painted in a sleeve of faded reds and greens. Images of dragons adorned her forearms.

“I like your…