I'm not supposed to tell you this story. Even so, the man who told it to me doesn't think his mother would mind.

I can't tell you his name, but I can tell you he's a silver-haired Georgia boy, with the vibrant personality of a tailgate party.

“I never knew my real parents,” he said. “I was adopted, I figured that out when I was young.”

He had a nice life—the only child of a poor woman. He grew up quick, became a roofer. He married a good lady, had three kids. He's retired now.

Something's chewed at him his whole life.

“In high school,” he said. “We did family tree

projects. So, I asked Mama about my genealogy. The only information she knowed was my birthmother's name. So, I looked her up, but was too chicken to call her.”

He's several decades older now. A few years ago, he decided to try again. It led him to his birthmother's youngest son—his half brother.

“She was still alive," he said. "Took me weeks to decide if I really wanted to see her, I was scared.”

So, he drove to Tennessee to find a ninety-something-year-old woman who could hardly walk.

“Soon…

Some fool called her, "trash." And that's when she made up her mind. She wanted to better herself, and her family. So, that's what she did.

“That GED test,” she said, while she checked my blood pressure. “That ain't no joke, now. It's tough.”

Her accent is so Alabamian it hurts. She's missing a few teeth, but it doesn't look bad on her. She's old, wiry, but strong.

Where she grew up, country folks didn't go past the eighth grade—still don't. And according to her daddy, “Once a young'un can read, it's time to work.”

Saying this made her laugh.

All six of her brothers dropped out, so did

she. She met a man who worked in a lumber mill, they had two children before she was twenty. She's still with him. She calls him Beater. I don't know why.

When she was twenty-four, Beater suggested she apply for a job at the hospital. She thought this was ridiculous. Hospitals didn't hire poor white trash.

Even so, she inquired. They told her, she needed college. So she called a college. They said she needed a high-school diploma. So she called the high-school. They said she needed a GED.

For six…

We sat on my truck hood, watching the sun go down over the Apalachicola Bay.

It was our first date. The exact same day her daddy told me, “Jamie can be as mean as a rattlesnake, but she's good people.”

Then he hollered for her like he was calling hogs for supper. "JAAAAAAMMIIEEEEE!"

She came running down the stairs, her face half made-up, the other half unpainted. “Jeezus, Daddy," she yelled. "I thought something was wrong."

He cackled until he pulled a rib.

That day, we were supposed to do something dating people do. Instead, we ended up driving. We never quit talking long enough to discuss what to do.

So, she chatted about her family, I steered. She hummed a few bars of “Watermelon Crawl." I listened. She knew all the words.

By then, we were a million miles out of town, in the middle of nowhere. I pulled over to buy a tank of gas at a dilapidated station. Of all people, I saw Bobby Donavan—who I used to frame houses with—standing at the gas pump opposite me.

He saw her in the passenger seat, winked at me, and shook his head. “Boy, oh boy,” he said, and…

Dear Lily,

You should know, I come from a long line of uncles who give bad advice. And it's my duty as your new uncle to tell you this, upfront.

When I was eight, my uncle advised me the best way to lose weight was to eat kudzu. My other uncle laughed at this and said, the secret was, in fact, smoking more cigarettes.

So, since we uncles have no good advice, I'm going to tell you what my AUNT told me instead. She cupped her hands around her ears and said, “Learn to listen. It'll make you smart."

I suppose she's right. After all, the wisest folks

listen a lot, which is why you don't see them going around munching on kudzu salads, puffing on Camels.

Anyway, maybe you'll listen better than I do. Because I run my mouth so often it's a wonder I still have a voice. Let's just say, I'm not exactly the fella you want to go see a movie with.

If you do learn to open you ears, good for you. It will change you. You'll start to realize that other people's lives have more importance than you thought.

Like the woman at Dobb's…

I was sixteen the first time I visited his farm. He came riding up the valley hillside like something out of a movie. He looked like John Wayne, only shorter, with white hair.

At the time, I was a lonely kid who wanted to learn to ride. We became friends. I shared my first adulthood beer with him. There's a difference between childhood beer and adulthood beer. You guzzle one, sip the other.

Or maybe it's the other way around.

We sat on the back of his truck. He popped the bottle-cap using his belt buckle. It was marvelous. I've attempted this trick at least a million times.

Once, I even cut my hand trying. Ten stitches later, I still can't do it.

"You know," he said, one day while overlooking the valley. "I'd rather die than live in the city.”

Me too.

And that's why I spent so much time on his farm. I helped him plant pecan trees. I cleaned stalls, cut grass, roofed his shed, painted his barn. He tried to pay me. I didn't want money. I had no father; his son was a meth-addict.

Yesterday, I drove past a place that reminded me of his.…

My friend's son, Hayden, had a rough first day of school. Some kid in his class—who looks like a sophomore linebacker—gave nine-year-old Hayden a bloody lip then busted his cellphone on the pavement. To say Hayden was sad, would've been a gross understatement.

I've seen happier faces on abandoned puppies.

Listen up, Hayden. I don't know much, but I know a few things about bullies. Though we shouldn't call them that—it's politically incorrect. Today, we refer to these aggressive individuals as miserable little pricks. And I want you to know something: these people can not beat you.

While I have your attention, I'm going to tell you the most

crucial thing any nine-year-old needs to know: buy health insurance—when you're older. And: don't ever play craps in Biloxi on a cold table. But also, what I said earlier: hateful people can't beat you.

They can't.

They might talk about you, or say horrid things. They can belittle, degrade, and when they're finished, celebrate with ice cream. They'll exclude you, call your mama ugly, visit Disney World without you, tee-tee on your tires, steal what's yours, demote you, hog the limelight, and even fire you.

They will fight you. And I…

If I had to guess, I'd say heaven will be a long buffet line. I can't think of anything more fitting for the afterlife than a Wednesday night potluck. Especially something like the one I ate at last week.

I counted the number of white-hairs in the little fellowship hall, then counted the number of plastic-covered dishes.

Same number.

These church ladies have every virtue known to mankind. They slave in the kitchen selflessly, show patience, dedication, and they do not know how to tell a lie. Maybe I'm overdoing it. But I don't think so.

Take, for instance, Verna. She's got white hair. But don't let that fool

you. She can outcook any young woman in the church something fierce.

Her fried chicken is well-known around the region. The man in line ahead of me almost made a gold brick in his pants over this chicken. But that's nothing compared to Verna's creamed corn—which is above description. And her biscuits.

Jesus help me.

Her children have tried to duplicate her biscuits. They can't do it. Her daughter tells me she once followed her mother's recipe—let the dough sour, and used real lard—but she still couldn't seem to make them…