I awoke early and went for a walk with my dogs through Magic City. The sun wasn’t up yet, so I had to let my eyes adjust to the tar darkness.
The locals call this the greatest city in the world. Which is sort of stupid, if you ask me. Birmingham is a pretty small city, compared to your mega-cities. The greatest?
Come on.
We have nearly 1 million in the metropolitan area. And three barbecue joints on every block. The area we live in is not swanky. I tell all visitors to carry a baseball bat.
Even so, it’s a nice town. The cashiers at the supermarket know my name. The guys working the local taverns know which variety of Ovaltine I always order. It’s nice.
Once upon a time, Birmingham’s primary employer was the steel manufacturing industry. Now it’s healthcare. We have hospitals out the wazoo. In short, this city saves more helpless souls than Oral Roberts and Doctor Ruth combined.
It’s early morning. A dog barks. A distant train sounds. A cop car passes me
at slow speed.
Not long ago, newspaper carriers would have been out at this hour, throwing papers. But those days are gone. Birmingham has no physical newspaper anymore. Neither do many American cities. For the last few years, America has been losing two newspapers per day.
Readers in Birmingham now get their daily columns from hack writers on the internet.
Take, for example, this column.
I wound through old neighborhoods on foot, passing old houses which have been standing here since the Titanic was a household name.
On my walk, I passed a few joggers. They were running at breakneck paces, covered in sweat.
“Morning,” they wheezed.
“Good morning,” said I.
They looked like they were going to die.
Those poor souls. Personally, I make it a point not to engage in strenuous exercise. My most vigorous form of exercise comes from…