It was going to be quite a year. Mama bought me new shoes and new jeans. After one week of school, I was a beloved comedian.

I’d sit in the corner of the lunchroom, telling well-prepared jokes with devastating punchlines. I got invited to a pool party. The girl who invited me called me adorable. Adorable.

It was a decidedly good year.

Until he died.

When they broke the news of Daddy’s death, I wanted to run so hard my legs might fracture. I tried. But they wouldn’t let me out the door.

The funeral home called a few days later. I answered the phone and eavesdropped while Mama talked to the man.

“Courtesy call,” the voice said. “He’s been cremated. Come and get him when you’re ready.”

Come and get him.

The strongest human I’d ever known; the man who taught me to walk upright, to throw baseballs, to tackle low, was ready for curbside pickup.

I didn’t eat supper for weeks. I laid in bed and looked at the

ceiling. I held one of Daddy’s dirty shirts against my face.

For the first few nights, I cried myself to sleep until my eyes went numb. After that, all I did was sleep. In fact, once I slept sixteen hours.

What a year.

I’m an adult now. I have mediocre insurance, and a dog who eats better than I do. I don’t sleep nearly as well as I used to. But I’m happy—more or less.

Then, I met him.

He’s young. He shook my hand like a kid twice his age. A sixth-grader with dark hair, long legs, and hunting boots. And even though he didn’t say it, I’ll bet he likes fishing.

His father died last…

I watched the sunrise over Brewton, Alabama. I was the only vehicle on the road when the sun started to peek above the the trees.

The sunlight hit Brewton just right. It looked golden. It was quite a sight.

Sometimes I get to feeling low. Brewton makes me high. Always has. I have good thoughts here. This is where I got a second crack at life.

Right after I was married, I visited Catawba Springs Baptist church with my wife’s family. I had much younger skin then, and a supple lower back.

The preacher mentioned us from his pulpit. Folks I’d never met clapped for us. Strangers hugged my neck. Old women kissed my cheeks. Three different men invited me hunting.

If I've ever felt more loved, I don't remember it.

We ate a big Sunday meal. My wife's father roasted a Boston Butt. He made squash casserole, butter beans, and creamed corn with too much black pepper.

I love creamed corn with too much black pepper.

“Tell me

about your daddy,” said my father-in-law. “Tell me all about your family.”

My family. There wasn’t much to tell. We were sad and poor. And I had no daddy—he ended his life with a hunting rifle. It wasn’t exactly uplifting dinner conversation.

Her father’s blue eyes turned pink when I finished talking.

“That does it,” he said. “I’m adopting you, right here and now. Understand me? This means WE are your kin. And THIS is your home.”

It was ridiculous. And it seemed like an idle promise.

I’d heard people say things like that before. They were only words. Lots of folks enjoy saying charitable things, even when they don’t mean them.

Not him. This man was different. And so was…

Enterprise, Alabama—they’re laying Addy Kate to rest today. It’s a small service. Her father will say a few words before folks give final goodbyes.

Only a year ago, Enterprise High School's math teacher and JV volleyball coach, Callie White, bought a pregnancy test on her way to school.

“I texted my husband the news,” says Callie. “We were so excited.”

Callie White’s pregnancy was your all-American birth. Baby showers, swollen feet, strange food cravings. She delivered a magnificent seven-pound-eleven-ounce Addy Kate.

Life couldn’t get any better. The young family was all smiles.

But smiles didn't last. Doctors found a tumor in Addy’s brain. The disease was moving fast.

The young family traded in its baby toys for oncologists. The diagnosis was worse than bad. It was terminal.

The tumor had already spread through her brain. Doctors said there was nothing they could do.

“Last thing any mother wants to hear,” says Callie. “Is that there’s NOTHING she can do.”

Nothing.

The Whites did their best to keep living,

but it was nearly impossible. Addy’s condition was behind every thought, word, and sentence.

On Easter Sunday, the Whites organized a family supper. There were Easter baskets, colored eggs. It was supposed to be a good day, but something was wrong with Addy.

They rushed her to the emergency room. Doctors did tests and found her tumor was growing. They said it wouldn’t be long before she passed.

What an Easter.

One of the first things the Whites did was hire a photographer.

“We wanted photos,” says Callie. “We didn’t have pictures of the three of us yet.”

A photographer snapped the first and only family photos the Whites have together. And while they posed, the family enjoyed…

For a funeral, it was a nice one. And it had all the food that goes with it.

Before lunchtime, church ladies warmed the fellowship hall with casserole dishes on card tables. I counted twenty-seven thousand devilled eggs. And there was, of course, fried chicken.

“He was my brother,” said one man with red eyes. “Still remember watching Saturday cartoons with him, seems like yesterday.”

The man didn’t even fill his plate.

The white-haired woman across from me wore a houndstooth skirt suit. She spoke with an accent so thick, I could hardly understand her.

“I know where MY son is,” she said. “And I’m looking forward to joining him one day, ‘cause I know where I’m goin’ when I die.”

She smiled at her own remark.

Would that I were as fearless as my elders.

The widow of the deceased is middle-aged. She is pretty. Stone-faced. She has not shed a single tear.

“We think Mom’s still in shock,” whispered the daughter. “When the hospital called and gave

her the news, Mom never even cried.”

Different strokes.

The fellowship hall was alive with small-town people. Children were noisy from too much sweet tea, running in circles.

The memorial service ran long. The preacher went over by fifteen minutes.

People filed out doors and crawled into cars. A string of vehicles rolled along a two-lane highway with headlights on.

Oncoming cars pulled over for the procession. One driver hopped out of his truck and bowed his head.

I hope this tradition never dies.

There was graveside scripture. The Twenty-Third Psalm. No matter how old I get, when I hear those verses I'm twelve, listening to Daddy's eulogy.

“...I will fear no evil,” said the…

The live oaks on Highway 90 are covered in moss. When heading east, you’ll see them. They are enough to make you dizzy.

This is the Panhandle.

In my short life, I’ve seen Trustee’s Garden in Savannah, I’ve eaten fifty-dollar shrimp in Charleston, I've touched the Cadillac Hank Williams died in.

But Highway 90 is as Old South as it comes.

These mossy trees carry chiggers that will eat a man alive. But they are magnificent—the trees, not the chiggers.

Off 90, there’s an uneven road that leads to a dirt arena. The Circle D Rodeo Arena sits in the middle of the sticks.

Once, I saw a rodeo here. The place was crawling with Wranglers, Ariats, and Skoal rings.

I watched a kid take a fall that should’ve broken his legs. He shook it off and pranced away like Mary Lou Retton.

Later that night, I saw him limping so bad he could hardly walk. Two men held him upright.

Downtown Marianna is a treat. They have stores,

old churches, a stunning post office. A Winn Dixie.

There are mansions with columns. The historic houses aren't flashy—just inviting. Folks on porches watch traffic.

One little girl is walking a Labrador on the sidewalk. She doesn’t have an adult with her.

You don't see that in big cities.

A century ago, a Civil War battle was fought on these streets she walks on.

“Battle of Marianna lasted thirty minutes,” an old man tells me. “An attack on our hometown, Yankees killed and wounded a quarter of our men.”

Confederate Park has a white monument that stands tall. It’s not here to honor war. It’s here to remember farmers, shopkeepers, and anyone who died defending their home.

[READ MORE...]

Jim is wearing a cowboy hat, suspenders. Sometimes he sells tomatoes on the side of an old two-lane highway.

He’s sitting in a folding chair. His brim is pushed upward. Jim is smoker-skinny, and his belt looks too big.

He is my friend’s uncle, and his tomatoes look suspicious.

“Are these HOME-grown?” I ask.

“Yessir.”

The tomatoes are pink and blemish-free. They look like industrial candle wax.

“Did YOU grow them?” I ask.

He winks. “Friend of mine.”

But of course.

We talk. He’s been wanting to talk. He heard I'm a writer. He tells me he is a writer.

Since the third grade, he’s written over seven hundred poems. Maybe more.

His poems are mostly for his own reflection. Though he’s written poetry for local papers—a few funerals and birthdays.

He recites one. It’s about rows of peanuts, blue skies, and a dying mother. My kind of poetry.

But he never got a chance to pursue a career in writing. When the Vietnam draft enacted, he

joined. Instead of poetry, he learned how to jump out of airplanes.

“Killing changes you,” he says, “You’re trained to think of your enemy as nothing but a target, not human. Just how it is.”

All I can do is nod.

“But then,” he goes on. “You’re back home, you get to thinking about their mothers and such. And it messes with you.”

When he arrived stateside, he wasn’t the same. The guilt was crippling. Not for killing, but for surviving. His best friends met their ends before his eyes.

His first week home, he slept outdoors. Sleeping inside made him nervous.

And he had no interest in writing—it was hard enough just…

She is slightly overdressed for this place. They walk into the cheap Mexican restaurant and stick out.

She’s wearing a blue blouse, blue flats. He’s wearing khakis. They have matching white hair.

He has a nasty cough.

This place is busy, the hostess leads them to the bar while they wait for a table.

The walk is a short one. They make it arm in arm. She orders wine. Him: beer.

They don’t say much. They’re both watching the television above bar. Soccer is on.

“I don’t understand this sport,” he tells me, and he talks like a jar of Karo syrup.

I say something to him. He courtesy-laughs, which leads to a coughing fit. He holds a hanky over his mouth.

“We ONLY watch football,” his wife says, leaning forward while he coughs.

The conversational ice is broken. We talk.

Well—rather, she talks. I listen and say things like: “hmm,” and, “oh, how wonderful,” and “yes ma’am, I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

She’s a flower. In our brief time together, I learn they have three kids, they are Presbyterians, he is an Auburn fan, she is

not. She is as friendly as a politician.

“You live here?” she asks.

“No ma'am, just here for the night.”

“Us too, we're on our way to Birmingham.”

He’s still coughing. Hard. He stands and leaves for the restroom.

When he’s gone, she tells me, “He’s having surgery in two days.” She points to her chest when she says it.

“It’s his second one,” she goes on. “Say a prayer for him. We’re taking all the prayers we can get.”

I yes-ma’am her.

She’s a cheery little thing.

The hostess calls them, I tell her it was lovely meeting her.

The old man offers her an elbow, they hook arms like it’s nineteen fifty-one. He slides out her chair for her. She sits erect, then places a napkin in her…

I left town early, headed home. I pulled off to watch the sunrise over a peanut field. I almost ran into a ditch, parking on the shoulder.

This small highway is old. And like most old roads in these small parts, it has no true shoulder.

Only a ditch.

I'm eating a breakfast sandwich from Hardee’s. It's not good, but it’s warm.

The higher the sun gets, the louder the birds talk. They’re just waking up. So am I. And it's humid. Warm April mornings like this can make you sweat buckets.

I love to sweat.

I’ve been out West a few times. I hiked the Grand Canyon and didn't sweat a drop all week. It was too dry. The rocks were pretty, but I missed sweating.

As soon as my airplane touched down in Bay County, my underarms and drawers were already damp.

Once, I accompanied a Little League team on an out-of-town trip to Mobile. The van’s air conditioner quit working. The vehicle smelled like little-boy sweat and stinky feet.

The boys opened the windows

and sang, “Joshua Fought the Battle of Jericho,” and “Father Abraham Had Many Sons,” and “Zacchaeus Was a Wee Little Man.”

The harder they sang, the more they stunk. Sweating and singing go together.

Take, for instance, the Freedom Hill Gospel quartet. I saw them sing in Marianna, Florida a few days ago. The high-tenor was from Two Egg. He wore a John Deere cap, and testified to folks in lawn chairs who applauded when he hit the high notes.

He was sweating. So were members of the quartet. And could those jokers ever sing. Southern Gospel quartets can't sing like that unless their high-tenor is sweating through his shirt.

Anyway, take out a map. Place your finger anywhere in the bottom right-hand corner of the United States. That’s where you’ll find the kinds of small places I'm talking about.

Places with…

Columbiana, Alabama—a place with front porches bearing American flags. There are hanging ferns, historic homes, dog-walkers who wave.

The welcome-to-town sign reads: “Home of Governor Robert Bentley.”

“Hot aw-mighty,” remarks one old woman. “Hope folks don't judge us by what’s on TV. It’s too bad about that mess with Governor Bentley.”

It sure is.

Because this place is more than a two-word byline in a shocking news story. This is heaven.

Reason number one: Davis Drug Company.

In the back of Davis' there’s a flat-top grill. They serve cheeseburgers and tea that's sweet enough to cause temporary blindness.

Bernard P. Fife sits at the counter.

Vinyl stools. Milkshakes. Pimento cheese. Coke in green-tinted bell glasses.

This place.

We’re eating lunch with Rachel. She teaches tenth-grade English. She has the personality of a cherub.

“Wouldn’t live anywhere else,” she says. “This is our bubble from the rest of the world.”

A bubble. Kids mind their manners in Columbiana. High-schoolers drive trucks, wear boots, and listen to Alan Jackson. Teenagers still know who Loretta Lynn is. There is low crime.

It's a place where schoolteachers are like mothers. Principals are

like chaplains. Where the librarian deserves his own book in the Bible.

Rachel says, “Always knew I wanted to teach at THIS school.”

I ask why.

“My tenth-grade teacher, Mrs. Owens, she was the best. I wanted to be like her.”

Mrs. Owens. During my short time in town, I’ve heard more about Mrs. Owens than I have about the aforementioned ex-politician.

I motion to include Mrs. Owens’ name on the town sign. Because she is local values, country wisdom, and good people.

“Mrs. Owens, was my favorite,” says Rachel.

I also meet Rachel’s husband Joe—from New Jersey. He's a long way from home.

“I’m the only Yankee around for miles,” he says. “But this is home.”

He’s lived here for many years now. Joe has even picked up the hint of…

I’m not a religious man, particularly, but I have a thing for churches. Old ones, like this one. Small-built. Modest steeples. Concrete steps.

I was married in this room. I haven’t been here in years.

The sanctuary is dark. They don’t use it for regular services anymore, it often sits vacant.

It’s hard to be here and not think about Cokesbury Hymnals, old ladies with beehive hairdos, or reciting the Pledge of Allegiance on Tuesday nights in a Boy-Scout uniform.

Or church retreats.

Church-folk love retreats. Like father-son weekends on the lake. Once, I accompanied Billy and his daddy on such a retreat—since I had no father.

There was a football game. Fathers against sons. I played corner while Billy sat on the sidelines.

Before the game, I overheard Billy’s father whisper to him, “You’re sitting out this game, son. Sean don’t have no daddy, it’s his turn.”

I never felt more pitiful.

That night, I left my bunk to make water in the woods. I saw a few kids and fathers, sitting on picnic tables. They saw me.

Men stomped out cigarettes. Everyone headed

for their cabins.

Alone again. So, I talked to Daddy in the woods—I did that a lot back then. I had this idea he was floating in the sky, just like in the song: “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder.”

I love that song.

As a young man, Miss Lydia Devenson paid me fifty dollars to sing that very hymn for her husband’s funeral. It was the first time I'd ever performed such a role. And it didn’t seem right—like I said, I’m not a religious man.

Before the ceremony, my hands and knees trembled so bad I could hardly stand upright, let alone hold a guitar. I nearly vomited behind the church.

My friend’s aunt, a foot-washing Baptist, found me. She said a prayer:

“Dear Lord, he ain’t got nothing in this world…