I’m on a cousin’s porch this morning. A puppy is in my lap. I am watching traffic roll by.

And this morning’s traffic—if you can call it that—is sparse. I don’t often get to count cars anymore, but when I do, I wave at people who drive them.

I like to count how many people wave back.

People don’t wave like they used to. It’s a dying art, waving. Not long ago, you’d wave at folks and get waves in return. Things have changed.

A red truck rides past. A man wearing a cowboy hat is driving. I wave. The old man waves.

You can trust old men in cowboy hats.

The first cowboy hat I ever had was not a true cattleman’s hat. It was a construction hard hat in the shape of a ten-gallon one. It was my father’s.

My father wore a hardhat every day of his professional life. And like most ironworkers of his day, his everyday hard hat was covered in stickers. I remember those stickers.

There

are some things you don’t forget.

My dog Thelma Lou is snoring while I count cars. This dog is pure adrenaline. I have only had her for six days, and I haven’t slept but a few minutes all week.

She wakes at odd hours with hellish insanity in her eyes. She chews anything within a nose’s-reach—including her own body. I love her.

I took Thel for a walk at 4:34 A.M. I haven’t been able to go back to sleep since.

Another car passes. It’s an old Chevelle, a ‘69 or ‘70. Kelly Green. Pretty. It’s full of high-schoolers. I wave at them. Nobody waves back.

Sad.

My uncle John used to drive a ‘73 Chevelle—Periwinkle blue, with Redneck Rust on the hood. I learned to drive stick in that thing.

A man is walking his Labrador…

I’ll call him Sam, but he was more than just a Sam. He was special is what he was. On his outside, he was a fella with gray hair, a drywall man, a widower.

On the inside, he was a giant.

Long ago, his wife died from cancer. He thought his life was over. He gave up day-to-day living and stayed in his bathrobe for months. He ate cartons of ice cream, he quit doing laundry, stopped shaving.

He retired from work. He moved out of his old house and bought a new home. It wasn’t a nice place, but it was in a decent neighborhood. And the house had a detached garage apartment.

That’s where it all happened.

The first person to live in the apartment was a young man he’d met at a diner. The kid was a waiter. He was covered in tattoos and piercings. They started talking.

As it happened, the kid was late on child support, behind on taxes, and homeless.

It broke Sam’s heart.

So he let the kid live in the apartment, rent free. After only a year, the kid had saved up enough money to make child support, and get onto his feet.

The second person to live in Sam’s garage apartment was a young woman with three girls. Her husband was injured in a work accident—it crushed his ribs and spine.

Sam let the woman live in the apartment while she visited her husband’s rehab every day. Sam even babysat her girls. When her husband got released, the family lived in that one-bedroom place for two years.

The third person to live in the apartment was an elderly man who was legally blind. He’d lost eighty percent of his vision and couldn’t live on his own.

Sam opened his door.

On the day the man moved in, Sam gave…

I took a puppy named Thelma Lou fishing today. It was her first fishing trip. We fished at a secluded spot that I’ve been fishing at for a long time.

I’ve never told anyone where it is. Not even my wife.

To tell you the truth, it’s not really that great of a spot. Actually, it’s terrible for catching fish. But it’s quiet, and that counts for a lot in my book.

Little Thel and I hiked to the spot around lunchtime. She followed close behind my heels until she got tired. Then, she rode in my bait bucket.

Right away, I could tell fishing with Thelma Lou was a bad idea. This is because the only skills this seven-week-old puppy currently has are:

1. walking
2. pooping

Plus, she doesn't know how to sit still for more than eight seconds.

I finally gave up fishing and ate lunch. I’d brought a Thermos of coffee, a sandwich, and a jar of peanut butter. The

coffee and sandwich were for me. The peanut butter was for Thel.

My late dog loved peanut butter. I used to buy it by the case. You’ve never seen an animal go so crazy over peanut butter. I’ve still got dozens of unopened jars in the pantry.

Last night, I discovered Thel likes peanut butter, too. She was whimpering at the table, so I dipped my finger into a jar and gave her a taste. She drew blood.

One taste turned into another taste. Then another. And another.

It was almost too much culinary delight for one puppy to bear. She got so excited that she made a Tootsie Roll on the kitchen floor.

So, back to fishing.

After lunch, Thel fell asleep in a peanut butter coma. While she snored, I fished. She only slept for twenty minutes. When she awoke, she started…

He is young. He is wearing a red shirt. A cap. He drives a Ford pickup that has seen better days. The roof is rusted, the wheel bearings are in bad shape.

The kid is on lunch break, parked in a grocery-store parking lot. He is eating bananas because fruit is cheap and he has a light wallet.

His windows are rolled down. He’s only got ten minutes before he’s expected back at a jobsite, to hang gutter on a three-story house.

It’s god-awful work. He’s not afraid of heights, but he certainly doesn’t love nine-hundred-foot ladders.

The kid finishes eating. He tosses a banana peel into his flatbed. He tries to start his truck. It makes a coughing noise. He tries again. The truck sputters. The kid cusses.

The old Ford has crossed the river.

These are the days before cellphones ruled the world, there’s no way to call the kid’s boss. His boss is already at work, probably glancing at his wristwatch.

The kid sits, wondering what happens after he gets fired. He could always join the circus and clean up after

the elephants.

Across the parking lot: a man. He’s short. Gray hair. He asks if the kid is having engine trouble. The kid hardly understands him beneath his thick Mexican accent.

The man pops the hood. He leans inward. He tells the kid, “Try it now!”

The kid turns the key.

The gray-haired man winks. “I know what is thee problem,” he says. “We can buy part in town. Come. We take my car.”

“I can’t,” the kid says. “I’m supposed to be at work.”

“Work?

The man understands this word.

They pile into the man’s Honda, which looks like it’s rusting apart. The man weaves through traffic, and drives into a nice neighborhood. He drops the kid at a three-story house.

The boss is upset.

The Mexican man offers to stay and help hang gutter.…

Thelma Lou rode in the truck. She sat in a passenger seat that once belonged to a good dog named Ellie Mae. Chew marks and all.

Thelma is only pup. Seven weeks old. She’s not even big enough to climb honest-to-goodness stairs yet. But she’s ready to give truck-riding a shot. Baby steps.

Ellie Mae lived for rides like this. To Ellie, watching traffic through vehicle windows was the best life offered. Throw in a jar of peanut butter, a few pig ears, a swim in the bay, and Ellie was in Beulah Land.

Thel is too short to see above the dashboard. But she tried. She stood with her front paws on the dash, watching the windshield.

She stared out my passenger side. She wagged her tail at stoplights. She smiled at cars. She licked the window. She chewed upholstery.

This truck’s interior is well-loved by Thelma Lou’s predecessor. The zig-zagged snot traces on the window are Ellie Mae’s—I will never wash them. The ripped chair cushion is Ellie Mae, too.

So today was a

pretty day for driving. Thelma Lou had a lot to look at. Sun, trees, birds. There was almost too much to look at.

I went to the hardware store. I took Thelma inside with me. I carried her in my arms. Three employees wanted to hold her. One wanted a photo.

Later, Thelma and I stopped at a fast-food joint. She howled in a squeaky voice while I ordered at the speaker. It wasn’t a mature howl, more like a baby yelp, but Thel gets an “A” for effort.

The girls at the drive-thru window went nuts over her. They came outside to take turns holding her. Thelma Lou licked the makeup from one woman’s face, chewed the hair off another, and ripped the name tag from some poor kid’s shirt. Baby steps.

Still, I was proud of Thelma Lou. And I can’t explain…

Molino, Florida—my wife and I drove hilly roads into the sticks of the Panhandle. Molino is a place with livestock fences, horse trailers, old barns, goats, and Mennonites who drive cars without radios.

I watched the acres roll past our windows. I rubbed a penny between my thumb and forefinger.

This penny is special.

I’ve been carrying the penny since the best dog I ever had, Ellie Mae, died. The day after she passed, I was walking Seventh Avenue in Birmingham, wiping my eyes like a blamed fool.

That dog was thirteen good years of my life, wrapped in fur.

I saw a penny on the sidewalk. I picked it up—I never pick up pennies. I inspected it. Imprinted on the face was Ellie Mae‘s birth year. Coincidence? I don’t know. But I kept it.

I suppose I wanted to believe that wherever Ellie was, my best friend was thinking of me.

Anyway, my wife and I turned into a long dirt driveway. There were muddy trucks,

horse trailers, wide porches, and bloodhound puppies everywhere.

A man could raise a family in Molino.

And I saw her. A seven-week-old puppy, running through green grass. She tripped over long ears. I lifted her into my arms. She is heavier than she looks.

Her paws are too big for her body. Her breath smells like the Seventh Circle of Heaven. She bit my nose and made it bleed. She chewed my ear lobes. She licked my eyebrows.

Earlier this morning, my day was getting off to a bad start. I awoke to an empty and dogless house. I stumbled into an empty kitchen. Empty dog bowls sat on my kitchen floor.

I rubbed a penny while I made coffee.

I’m not used to emptiness. Every morning for the last umpteen years my mornings have been un-empty.

I would wake to a…

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.

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