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…

My wife cleaned out our closet. On the top shelf, she found an old pair of cowboy chaps. Next to it: a faded quilt which I retired many years ago. Once, the quilt was dark brown and forest green. Now it's khaki and celery-colored.

I smelled it and took in a lungful of dust. I remember when Mama made it for me, and how long it took her.

As a girl, she made her own clothes. She'd walk into town, peek into the Weaver's shop window, then go home, fire up the sewing machine, and duplicate them.

During my own childhood, half my wardrobe was handmade. A lot of my closet was Western wear. She'd use discarded bolts of fabric to make costumes which would become legendary in three counties.

She produced so much child-sized cowboy finery, she learned to do it without patterns. She could close her eyes and whip up a pair of wooly chaps (snap) just like that.

But it was more than this. She did nearly

anything she thought would make me happy. Namely: biscuits. After working two back-to-back shifts, she'd get home in the wee hours, smelling like commercial disinfectant. She'd cook the biggest breakfast you ever saw and watch me eat myself sick.

Then, after doing dishes, she'd fall facefirst onto the bed and sleep straight through supper.

But her sewing. The woman has sewn everything for everybody. She's taken in tuxes, let out dresses, made denim quilts from blue jeans, and even made Barbie clothes. She's rescued wedding dresses from ruin, and sewn the split crotch of an eighty-year-old Baptist minister's trousers.

While he wore them.

Throughout my life, she's altered millions of my slacks—since God made my legs too long. When I hit college, she mended my scuffed work clothes, knitted hats to keep me warm, and even darned my socks. When I got married, she upholstered chairs, beds, sofas, pillows, and…

Obnoxious loud-talkers who sit at bars, rank right up there with dogs who lift their legs on your welcome mat.

Take, for instance, the fella at the bar beside me. He launched into a well-rehearsed speech about his world travels. First, the Alps. Then, Belgium, France, Italy, South Africa, Timbuktu.

By then, people at the bar had cleared out.

He asked me, “You done much traveling?”

I shook my head and said, "No, but I've woken up in a cattle pasture."

Loud-Talker rolled his eyes. “See?” he went on. “Now THAT'S your problem. You can't find your true-self unless you TRAVEL!”

So, I paid my tab and traveled my true-self

outside.

The truth is, I've never owned a passport, never stepped foot in Canada, and the closest I've come to self-discovery was South Texas in July, where I saw a real mirage.

I'm uninteresting on paper. I concede. But I regret nothing.

My life hasn't been bad. After all, I've known exceptional people. Like my friend who I'll call, Alan. Alan has no face. Nothing but eyes and pink flesh. This happened when he woke up in a burning mobile home. Pieces of the smoldering ceiling fell on his face…

I'm watching a boy drive a John Deere, in the distance. At least, I think it's a boy, he's too far away to tell.

I know this kid. I can't see him, but I know what kind of clothes he's wearing, I know how he talks—he uses words like, "ain't," too often. And he gets up early.

I once overheard some folks speculate on why the rural-minded start work so early. One person thought it was to avoid the heat. Another suggested that the Bible commands it.

But if you ask anyone I grew up with, they'd tell you it's because their fathers made them. And these early risers are the kind who say the word, "ain't," too often.

It might go like this:

Before the stars have disappeared, you're still half-asleep, wearing work boots, and you are not a happy customer. It's dark. And since you're too young for coffee, you get lukewarm Coca-Cola.

The barn stinks. The tractor is louder than the Second Coming. And even though you're not old enough

to have a learner's permit, you steer this Ford Model 2N, built during World War Two, until your hindparts go numb.

You watch the morning sky change from purple, to gray, to rose-colored. Then: full sunlight.

The engine makes you deaf. You couldn't hear your own ideas if you had any. You pay attention to the rows you're cutting. Whenever you veer off-line, you cuss yourself.

You look backward at your house. It never occurs to you that one day they'll sell this place. Or that the new owners will let the surrounding fields go to weed.

Then, you grow up, move away. You spend a lot of energy convincing people you aren't a dumb hick—cleaning up the way you talk. You quit saying, “ain't,” and stop slicing the cuffs of your jeans with pocketknives.

It works for a while. You convince yourself you've forgotten that life.…