The antique store was on the side of Highway 231. It looked like it had been an old filling station once.

The sign said Open. So I walked inside.

I’m a sucker for antiques. I don’t just like antiques themselves. I like the spaces where antiques have parties.

“How you today?” came the voice of the woman behind the counter. Her hair was silver. Piled atop her head. “Can’t seem to get warm in this weather. Tell you what.”

There were old heaters going. Space heaters. The kind your granny used. Heaters that leave third-degree burns on the calves of 5-year-old boys. The good kind.

I browsed their selection. I bought a book by Erma Bombeck. An old church chair.

When I went to pay, I was short on cash. “You take credit cards?” I asked.

She shrugged. “We got to call it in.”

Next, the woman brought out an old knuckle-buster credit card machine. The old machines, the ones that create an impression of your card on carbon paper. It is also an antique.

This was too good to be true.

“Bet

you haven’t seen one of these in a while,” she said.

Her name was Susan. She has owned Jinright’s Hillside Antiques & Collectibles for as long as I’ve been alive. She bought the store with her husband, Benny, right after they got married.

They didn’t have two dimes to rub together. People said the store was an unwise investment.

“But we both liked antiques, so we figured, why not?”

They somehow managed to keep the lights on. Many times they kept the place running with money out of their own pockets.

“You have to have other jobs if you’re an antique store owner, otherwise you’ll starve.”

Benny was in law enforcement. Susan taught school. She was a high-school English teacher once. Then she got her master’s from U of A, and taught gifted kids.

“It’s flat hard…

I don’t know you. I don’t know what you’re going through. I don’t know what you’re suffering from. But I know you’re going through something. Everyone is.

You’re going through something particularly painful. This is not your run-of-the-mill badness. This is nuclear badness.

Nobody knows about this situation, of course. You’re pretty quiet. You’ve kept it to yourself for a long time. But even the people you HAVE told can’t help you except to pat you on the butt and pity you.

But you don't need pity. You don’t need inspirational words. You don’t need clichés. You don’t need to be told to let go and let God. Or worse: This too shall pass.

What you need is to get through this crap. You need this to be over, once and for all. You need to get back to normal life again.

Oh, what you wouldn’t GIVE to be normal again.

Maybe it’s a medical problem. Maybe it’s emotional. Maybe your kids have been taken away from you.

Maybe you’re like the woman who emailed me yesterday, whose son is going to prison for a crime

he says he didn’t commit.

Maybe you’ve been told you’re dying. Maybe the doctors don’t give you a lot of options. Maybe you’re a pinball stuck in the Great American Medical System, bouncing from specialist to specialist, only to find out that they can’t tell you a cussed thing.

Maybe you’re the young man who messaged me last night, who said his father was murdered in a home invasion.

Maybe you’re a teenager, who emailed me this morning, whose parents are fighting all the time. There is a lot of screaming in your household. You can’t do anything but sit in your room, playing on your phone.

Maybe you’re in college and your girlfriend cheated on you. Maybe the adults in your life are telling you that time heals all wounds, and that you…

The first car drove by with headlights on. Then several more vehicles. Low beams blaring. It was sundown. My cousin and I were parked at a stoplight when the funeral procession passed.

The cops came first. Light bars flashing blue. Then, the Cadillac hearse, moving at an easy speed. All white. Ornamental S-shaped metallic bar on the rear quarter panel of the car. Windows tinted with roofing tar.

The procession behind the lead vehicle moved along lazily across the nondescript Birmingham intersection.

It was a cold day. Gray sky. Tinted with the colors of sunset. Central Alabama had just succumbed to one of its rare snows. There was black ice on the ground. Flurries in the air.

The cars passed us one by one. It was a long train. Longer than usual.

There were makes and models of all kinds. Nissan Altimas and Land Rover Autographs. Lexuses and old Chevy Impalas. Each one, with headlights on.

My cousin and I stepped out of the car and stood at attention. Because this is just

what we do.

And I was remembering what it felt like to sit in that lead car.

A lifetime ago, when I was a boy, I sat in the head car of one such procession. My mother, my sister, and I were in the foremost Lincoln. Our vehicle moved across town at a dirge-like pace, and nobody inside our vehicle was speaking.

My mother’s face was puffy and swollen. My kid sister was staring out the window, face pressed against the glass. I was in shellshock. My father was gone.

There were 50 cars behind ours, maybe more, with headlights on. This moved me. We approached a hill. At our stern, I could see the acre of vehicles following us. A chain of headlamps, backing up to the horizon.

But what touched me most were the random motorists who had pulled over to let us pass.

A…

Nobody knows when it started. But it did. The first jar of pickles to appear on Aunt Bee’s grave in Siler City, North Carolina, showed up in in 1989, the year she died. Legend states that the pickles were probably homemade. Although some claim they were store pickles.

Since that fateful day, nobody has found a good reason to stop leaving pickles. Pickles show up by the hundreds. Maybe even thousands. From all over the United States.

“I think it’s just a form of respect,” says Billy, age 73, from Bentonville, Arkansas.

Billy traveled 840 miles to Siler City in his 2007 Ford Ranger, which is more rust-colored than green, to deliver a single jar of Kosher Dill Snack’mms to the grave of Frances Bavier, the actress who played Aunt Bee on “The Andy Griffith Show.”

“She was America’s mom,” says Billy. “She was my whole childhood.”

The pickles are a salute to season two, episode 11, “The Pickle Story.” In the episode, Aunt Bee makes pickles that taste so bad they could

take the paint off navy ships. “Kerosene cucumbers” they were called in the episode.

“That’s my favorite episode,” says Billy.

“Mine, too,” says Billy’s brother, Roger, who is busy taking Billy’s picture with his phone camera. Roger is 80 this year. He is vaping. His flavor du jour is tropical cherry, and he is puffing so frequently that we are all able to enjoy this flavor with him.

“Best show ever,” says Roger between puffs. “Period.”

Billy and Roger have visited this cemetery twice before. And they say that each time they come, there are multiple pickle jars sitting on the gravemarker.

“Sometimes there are ten or twenty of’em,” says Billy. “Depending on if it’s tourist season or not.”

The Oakwood Cemetery is a nondescript burial place, nestled within the black gums and post oaks of the Old North State, with headstones stretching back toward the horizon.…

We were in an old feed store. Granddaddy and me. Wooden floors. Sacks of Purina cattle feed. Old men, sitting around, jawing.

There was actually a brass spittoon in use.

I was a child at the time. Kindergarten maybe. I had no idea what the old men were talking about. But I remember their words. And I knew the timbre of an old man’s wisdom when I heard it.

“Never ask a barber whether you need a haircut,” one man said.

“Life is easier when you plow around the stumps.”

I loved the way they spoke. It was old world. The voice of my people. People did not talk like this on the nightly news.

But then, these were real men. Farm kids who survived the Spanish Influenza of 1918. An epidemic which—as it happened—did not begin in Spain, but in Haskell County, Kansas. A fact the old men held with high honor.

These men had survived the Flood of ‘27, Depressions, Dust Bowls, and so many world wars they had to start numbering them.

And their logic kept coming:

“A bumblebee is

faster than a John Deere.”

Spit.

“Quickest way to double your money is to fold in half and put it in your pocket.”

Spit, spit.

“The only good reason to ride a bull is to get a date with a nurse.”

Clearing of nasal passages.

I don’t know why I’m remembering all this today. I suppose the memories come from my visiting a nursing home this afternoon to interview someone.

I was wandering amongst elderly people. The residents spoke of another world. Manual coffee grinders, shaving horse benches, wedding silver.

In their rooms, they had Norman Rockwell compilation books. Emily Post manuals. John Wayne collectible beer steins. Doctor Grabow pipes.

And that’s when I saw the brass spittoon, sitting in someone’s room. Instantly, I remembered the last time I’d seen an on-duty spittoon.

And in my memory,…

Atlanta, Georgia. The old man was a recluse. A hermit. He lived in an old neighborhood, in an old part of town. In a house built in 1910.

He’d been in this home since he was 16. The old man went to Vietnam, once upon a time. He jumped out of airplanes. Learned to shoot. Learned to survive. He came back, post-war.

Protestors ridiculed him in the airport. They crashed trash can lids together, like orchestra cymbals, spat at him, and called him “baby killer.” It did something to his mind.

He never married. In old age, he was the cat guy. He didn't drink. Didn’t smoke. Never touched drugs. But he had a weakness for cats.

He talked to cats. He let cats sleep in his bed. He fed the local ferals. They congregated in his front yard. And only he could tell them apart.

There were neighbors all around him, of course. Homes that had been redone, and fancified. Antique houses with modern American families inside them. Two cars.

Swingsets in the backyard. Two 30-something parents, and 2.5 children.

He never even stepped out of his house, except to crawl into his beat-up Chevy Impala and visit Walmart for frozen pizzas and cans of Campbell’s soup. Few in the neighborhood even knew his name.

His house was an eyesore, of course. Most houses owned by recluses are. He never cut the lawn. The exterior had been in need of a paint job since the Johnson administration.

Looking at him, it was hard to believe he once led a normal life. They say he used to be a plumber. Worked for a big company. Installed kitchen sinks, and outdoor spigots. Unclogged poopy toilets.

But recently, times got hard. He got a reverse mortgage on his home. It was a mistake. He got caught in a scam. There are some organizations who prey on seniors.

He fell behind on payments.…

The plane landed in Tuscaloosa at 8:37 p.m. Central Time. Coach Kalen DeBoer deboarded.

He was met with an entourage of photographers and reporters with iPhones. DeBoer’s press conference was scheduled for 1 p.m.

It was a blustery, rainy day in the Yellowhammer State.

Nick Saban retired on Wednesday. DeBoer was announced as his replacement on Friday evening. The former head coach of the University of Washington is about to be applying for Alabama auto insurance.

Kalen is a young name. I went to school with guys named Kalen. I played baseball with Kalens, Justins, Corys, and Brandons.

There was a Kalen in my seventh-grade drama class. He had epilepsy. We weren’t allowed to use strobe lights in our performance of “Cats.”

Kalen DeBoer isn’t much older than me. And so this marks the first time someone from my generation will be coaching Alabama football.

And I don’t know what to think about it. Or how to feel.

Nobody in my father’s generation was named Kalen. A guy named Kalen grew up playing Atari, watching Nolan Ryan, listening to Michael

Jackson. Or worse: The Osmonds.

A guy named Kalen owned a Walkman, rode BMXs, saw the final episode of “M*A*S*H,” and learned to “Just Say No” from Nancy Reagan.

All my life, Alabama’s head coach has been either someone from my grandfather’s generation, or my dad’s generation.

Someone old enough to remember Iwo Jima. Or Hamburger Hill. Or the Tet Offensive. Someone with enough gray in his hair to recall Benny Goodman, Nat Cole, or at the very least James Brown.

A guy named Kalen remembers Styx, the Gulf War, 9/11, the OJ Simpson trial, and he probably watched the Smurfs.

Alabama is my childhood team. I was born during the third quarter of Bear Bryant’s Liberty Bowl, in Memphis, Tennessee. I was born directly after a critical touchdown. Peter Kim made the kick. The kick was good.

And I…

The letter came this afternoon. Our mail guy was bundled up to fight the cold. I asked whether he was keeping warm.

He laughed. “Warm? Shoot. There’s been a rock rattling around in my shoe all day. Come to find out, it’s my toe.”

The first letter I opened was from Small Town, Tennessee. The author wanted to remain anonymous.

The note began, “I’m just sitting here, smoking a cigarette, writing you and trying to figure out what the [deleted] is happening in my life…”

No personal history is needed. He works at a brake shop. The kind of joint where you pop in and get your pads changed for a couple hundred, plus labor. He’s The Labor. His wife is a hair stylist.

This year his daughter started having some health problems. First, she lost her appetite. Then she started bruising easily. She was dizzy a lot. They took her to the doc.

They ran tests. Scans. Consults. Hurry up and wait. It didn’t take long to figure it out.

“There’s nothing scarier,” he wrote, “than hearing the

words: ‘Your daughter has leukemia.’”

Treatment began. Medical professionals were actually hopeful. Leukemia used to be a death sentence. But over the past decades, cure rates and survival outcomes for acute lymphoblastic leukemia have improved significantly. Nearly 90 percent diagnosed achieve a complete remission in our modern world.

“But the tests didn’t work.”

His daughter was getting sicker. They’ve tried other treatment options. Nothing worked. Last week, doctors said they are at the end of the road. She doesn’t have much time left. Months maybe.

“...And I’m just sitting here watching my daughter live out the rest of her life, and I can’t figure it out.”

Last week, when news spread around their little town, the response was overwhelming.

The first casseroles started showing up on the porch around 4 in the morning. And the food kept coming. And coming.

People…

If you’re having a good day, the last thing you should do is read the news.

“No news is good news,” my grandmother used to say. And it’s true with newspapers, network journalism, and Internet news.

Most news broadcasts begin with a perky news anchor who says good evening, then spends the next 45 minutes telling you why it’s not.

So I want to tell you about a few things the newspersons forgot to mention.

Starting with Piper-Khol Kelly, who recently turned 5. She has spina bifida.

When her parents first found out they were going to have a baby, they were ages 19 and 20. The ultrasounds said their little girl had a spinal condition which causes weakness or paralysis in the lower limbs.

“Your child will never walk,” the doctor said.

The couple traveled to Germany for an experimental treatment. It was risky. Surgeons operated on the child’s spine while she was in the womb.

Recently, 5-year-old Piper participated in a schoolwide athletic day. She played, she ran, she horsed around with her

friends. Nobody would have ever guessed the child had a spina bifida.

“When she was around two,” her mother said, “[Piper’s] physio gave her a walking frame—she doesn’t use it anymore…”

Now let’s travel to Inner Mongolia, China. The Hulunbuir grasslands are a vast, empty pasture with hundreds of rivers and lakes. You’re looking at a flat landscape, covered in blinding snow.

A local was passing by, named Mister Wang, a man who does not enjoy jokes about his name. And no, his first name is not Peter. Grow up. He was walking along the fields one evening, in a remote area, when he heard sounds of animal distress.

He found a pregnant horse, lying lifeless in the snow crust. Brown, fuzzy coat. White star on the forehead. The horse was trapped in a hole, unable to lift herself from the frozen tundra. She wasn't…

Goodbye, Nick Saban. You just announced your retirement. Twelve minutes ago, to be exact. I don’t mind telling you that I cried into my Pabst Blue Ribbon.

I can hardly see the keyboard because my eyes are so blurry.

I was on my front porch. My neighbor was doing yard work next door. My neighbor’s wife, Melissa, burst from the front door and shouted to her husband, “Nick Saban just announced his retirement!”

Her words reverberated throughout the whole neighborhood. Leaf blowers stopped. Distant lawn mowers quit running. A commercial airliner made an emergency landing at Birmingham-Shuttlesworth. A kid fell off his bike.

“You’re kidding,” we all said.

“Shut your mouth!” someone shouted through tears.

A few nearby neighbors suggested that this was fake news. There was no way Nick Saban could retire. We told the bearer of bad information that she was full of a substance common to most barnyards and hog pens.

Then I read the news article on my phone. Nick Saban. Retiring at 72 years old.

Listen, I’m just one fan,

standing amidst 50 gazillion Crimson-clad football fans. Some of whom are far more rabid than I am.

I know one fan, for example, who has gone so far as to tattoo the face of Nick Saban over his left nipple. The caption reads, “Roll Damn Tide.”

But I hope Nick Saban knows what he meant to the common football fan like me.

He came to the University of Alabama when I was 24 years old. I was just a kid. Skinny. Without much ambition. I was a devout Alabama fan, which meant that I was accustomed to losing.

At the time, our team had a lot in common with the common household mosquito. They couldn’t stop sucking.

But then Nick came along. He arrived after a long drought for Alabama’s athletics department. After our Gene Stallings years, we wandered in the desert. We had Mike…