To the man I saw, pushing a stroller in the Piggly Wiggly. The girl in the stroller must’ve been twelve. She was well-behaved.

She greeted everyone she saw with happy moans and labored waving.

I stopped to say hello.

Her father quit pushing the stroller. He touched the girl’s face and whispered, “Can you say, ‘hello’ to the man?”

It took a lot of energy for the girl to say it. Her voice was magnificent. “H-H-H-iii,” she said.

“Hi, darling.”

To the young man on the bench outside the gas station. He held his cellphone to his ear. He kept saying into the phone: “Is she gonna be okay?”

He had a puffy red face. Nose sniffing.

“Please tell me she's gonna be okay,” he said.

The gas-station clerk sat beside him. She lit a cigarette and placed her arm around his shoulder.

To the old woman, out for a walk in her neighborhood. Her therapist was beside her. Her gait was labored.

She winced with each step.

The therapist said, “You can do it, Helen.”

Helen did it.

To the woman who wrote me. The same woman who buried her husband and son two years ago. Who feels guilty because she’s fallen in love with another man and his ten-year-old daughter.

To the old fella playing guitar in downtown Pensacola, on the street. His guitar had burn marks on it. He was grinning at passerbyers, plucking holiday music.

To the teenagers in small towns who can’t wait to get out of Dodge, and spread their wings. To adults trapped in big cities, who are sorry they ever felt that way.

To anyone homesick at Christmastime. To those missing old friends, old stomping grounds, old fishing buddies, family tables. To grandparents.

To children grieving fathers. To mothers grieving babies. To people who’ve ever grieved…

This story isn’t about how I got four hundred dollars—even though I did. Four hundred big ones. Unexpected.

Anyway, I want to say this beforehand:

I once swore that I would never write something like what you’re about to read. In fact, I can’t stand those who talk about what they do with their money.

But then, it WASN’T my money. So, why not.

I gave a hundred bucks to the cable guy. He was as country as fiddlesticks. He showed up with his wife. I saw them working in my yard, burying cable together.

“She works with me,” he explained. “She’s a good worker. We can take twice the jobs as a team, make twice the money. I love her so much.”

I shook his hand. He could feel the folded paper bill in my palm. I wished him a Merry Christmas.

The workman across the street got a hundred, too. He was repairing my neighbor’s sewage line. The brown, foul-smelling water puddled around him, saturating his jeans with stink.

I recognized him. We used to work together in a past life.

We shook hands.

I asked how he’s been.

“Got four kids, man,” he said. “A good wife, good job, great benefits. And after awhile, you get used to coming home, smelling like $#!* water.”

How about that.

I left a hundred in his toolbox.

And the old man in Pensacola, standing on Cervantes. Cardboard sign. Long beard. He smelled like whiskey and cigarettes.

I rolled down my window at the stoplight. I handed him a folded, green paper-football. I started to drive away.

“Hey, sir!” he yelled. “Think you accidentally gave me a hundred.”

“No,” I said. “Someone accidentally gave it to me.”

He shouted a God-bless-you while I drove away.

And the waitress. I ordered eggs, bacon, toast. What I got was a patty melt. I ate it, no complaints.

She realized her mistake later. She…

I am in the auditorium of my old school. The community-college band is playing Christmas music.

This is where I became the me I am today.

It's your typical community college. The brick campus used to be only a couple of buildings, a few trailers, and a tennis court. It’s bigger now, but not much.

Students hail from Crestview, Freeport, DeFuniak Springs, Red Bay, Mossy Head. Some even live in Fort Walton—God help them.

When I was a student, it was Okaloosa-Walton Community College—and people were still listening to cassette tapes. Today it’s Northwest Florida State College.

Everything is different now. Tonight, I am seated among college-age kids, and I feel like an old man. A few of the students called me “sir.”

That hurt.

The band played “Mister Grinch,” “A Child is Born,” and even sang “Jingle Bells.” They wore Santa hats and made the season bright.

I couldn’t concentrate on the music because I was swatting memories like gnats.

This place is my alma mater—sort of.

About me: I didn’t go to high school. It’s a long story. But after my father died, my mother and I worked menial jobs.

While friends attended pep rallies and football games, I didn’t.

Anyway. Big deal. The point is, I DID eventually attend school—as an adult. Right here.

And this place—humble as it may be—was the biggest thing I’d ever done in my little life. The microscopic junior college became part of me. In fact, for many years this was my second home.

Here’s how my days went:

Leave the construction site at 2 P.M. Get lunch.

2:15 P.M.—eat sandwich while steering with my knees toward class

2:30 P.M.—social studies.

4:00 P.M.—music class.

5:15 P.M.—college algebra; somebody please stab me in the throat with a slide-protractor.

6:45 P.M.—English.

8:00 P.M.—supper from the gas station. A cold, plastic-wrapped burrito, pork rinds, and a tall, ice-cold, infinitely thirst-quenching, Budweiser.

Saturday-mornings—creative writing classes. The…

She's in her car. Vehicles are parking outside the chapel. People are dressed in dark colors. Greeters stand at church doors nodding to those walking inside.

She crosses the street and makes her way in.

She is nervous. Her hands tremble. She shakes hands with the grieving family. She offers condolences. She looks at his body. She cries.

They are not tears for him.

He was no saint. In fact, he was what some folks would’ve called "no good."

He treated his first and second wife terribly. He was abusive. Unfaithful. Bad to drink. His kids were estranged. His friends were few.

He was her uncle.

As a girl, he lived with her family. She was fifteen; he forced himself upon her.

It altered her life.

After the hateful thing happened, her mother sent her to stay with cousins in Tennessee. It was only days before Christmas. It the worst period of her entire life.

It got worse when she started waking to morning sickness.

It wasn’t long before she had a daughter. The baby was magnificent, but her mother made her

put the child up for adoption.

The folks in white uniforms escorted the baby away from her. And, since good teenagers did what they were told, she let them.

But she doesn’t want your sympathy. In fact, she wants people to know that she doesn’t need it.

Years later, she met a man. He was kind. Funny. Young. He was studying to become a teacher. He encouraged her to finish her GED, go to college, to be proud of herself. He told her she was smart.

And she believed him.

She studied nursing. She studied late hours, worked clinicals. And when she earned her certificate, he was there.

They were married. It was a simple ceremony.

But on their first night as man and wife, she had a panic attack. It was a bad episode.

“Please don’t touch…

Spanish Fort, Alabama—there is frost outside this morning. It's thirty degrees. Even my bones are cold.

I’m in a hotel elevator with two big, black men. Very big. I'm talking six-nine, maybe. They must be four-feet wide, wearing size-fifteen boots. They’re carrying luggage.

It’s not every day you ride the elevator with two NFL defensive-tackle lookalikes.

I ask if they're famous.

They laugh.

They aren't famous. But, they ARE biological brothers who had never met one another until a few months ago.

“I’m from Cali,” says one man.

“I’m from Birmingham,” says the other.

Their mother gave them up for adoption thirty-eight years ago. They found each other on the internet. Then, they tracked down their birth parents.

Their biological mother lives in Atlanta. Their father is deceased. They visited his grave yesterday.

“It was emotional, man,” one brother says. “You don’t think a dude you never met will mean that much to you, but… He was my dad.”

“Yeah,” the other adds.

Yeah.

Today, they’re going on an old-fashioned road trip together. They’re heading to Georgia to meet their birth mother before Christmas. She has no idea they're coming.

One

brother says, “I’m ready to facilitate healing to my family.”

I ask if he'd be gracious enough to spell “facilitate” for me.

We say goodbye, they waltz through the lobby. Every eye is on them because they are giants.

In the breakfast room of the hotel: a family. The back of the mother’s T-shirt reads: “Autism is not a disease.”

They are eating. The oldest boy screams at his younger brother. He is pitching a fit, making a scene. Hands flail.

The room gets tense.

She snaps into action.

She says, “Oh my! Would you look at this? It’s past nine, and you haven’t fed your toy frog.”

The kid furrows his brow.

“I did too,” he says. “Fed him this morning.”

“Interesting,” she goes on. “Then WHY did…

Loxley, Alabama—it’s dark. I’ve been driving all night, listening to Nat King Cole sing about chestnuts. I pull over to use the little columnist’s room.

It’s cold. It snowed in Mobile last night—I could hardly believe it.

I’m jogging inside the gas station and I see her. She’s sitting on the curb, outside the truck stop. She’s fourteen, fifteen maybe. Woven hair, no coat.

I ask if everything’s okay. Her eyes get big. I know fear when I see it.

“I’m good,” she says.

Not buying it.

I hurry inside to Tinkle Tinkle Little Star. Then, I buy a hot cocoa and a coffee to the tune of four bucks. On my way out the door, she's still there.

“You want this hot cocoa?” I ask.

No answer.

She’s terrified of me. I can tell. And I don’t blame her, this world is full of dangerous people carrying cocoa.

She takes the cup, but she's not drinking it. She tells me what happened:

She shopped all day in Pensacola, with friends. Her seventeen-year-old pal left her here. She was only supposed to be here five minutes, waiting for her mother

to arrive.

It's been two hours. Her phone battery is dead.

I offer her mine.

“Won’t do no good,” she explains. “Don’t know any phone numbers by memory.”

I ask if she needs a ride. Bad move. More terror in her eyes. So I sit on the curb—several feet away. She’s not touching her hot chocolate.

I keep talking.

Talking is a trait inherited from my mother. She can talk the paint off a fire hydrant.

"Did you see the snow last night?" I begin.

"Yeah," she says. "It was really cool."

My mother has always been the only soul who can make me feel less afraid by talking.

Once as a boy, in a North Carolina emergency room, with a five-inch gash in my leg, I was so scared…

Brantley, Alabama—it’s the Christmas season and Main Street is decorated. Red ribbons on posts, strings of pinery, wreaths.

A few days ago, it was almost seventy outside. Today it's going to snow in Alabama.

Welcome to the South.

Muddy trucks ride through the center of town. Livestock trailers carry horses. A truck with seven thousand chicken crates on back.

I’m eating at Michael’s Southern Foods—the only eatery in town.

“Some weather,” says an old timer, sipping iced tea.

“Damn sure is,” says another.

“Yessir, saw all’em cattle was layin’ down.”

“Damn sure was.”

Things move slow in Brantley.

This restaurant is no bigger than a living room. Old floors. Old tables. Old people.

I can smell smoked pork chops and cornbread.

There is a round table filled with loud-talking, white-haired men. Fellas wearing boots, camouflage, and handlebar mustaches. They are men who pronounce the word “tire” as “tar.”

Old Timer points to the table. “We call that “The Liars Table.”

“Damn sure, do.”

This place is so charming it hurts. And it’s among the last of its kind.

A place that still serves butterbeans with more bacon than bean. Collards that

sing. Hand-patted burgers. Onion rings big enough to use as halos in a nativity scene at the Baptist church.

Through the window, I see a woman crossing the street. She’s heading for the restaurant.

Old Timer beats her to the door. He holds it open, then tips his cap to her.

You don’t see hat-tipping anymore.

But then, this place is the old world. That's because this cafe has been going since the early forties—serving almost the same menu.

“Don’t see a need to change,” says Michael, the owner. “Just want people to eat and be happy.”

And that's what he does. It’s mostly locals who eat here. Some warm a chair every day of the week.

Even during the threat of Alabamian snow.

“All I've ever done is…

They asked me to play Santa at a school for children with disabilities. And I’ll be honest, I didn’t want to do it. But the woman was adamant.

The social-studies teacher was supposed to play Saint Nick, but he came down with bronchitis.

I suspect foul play.

So, I wore the fake beard. They stuffed pillows in my shirt. I wore a red jacket that smelled like Santa’s Coat of Many Onions. I was meant to look like Kris Kringle, but I resembled an Oakridge Boy.

So this marks the beginning of old age. Once you play Santa, it’s over. You might as well start drinking prune juice and use the hydraulic lift-chair at the YMCA swimming pool.

The kids lined up.

“Be enthusiastic,” the teacher reminded me.

“HO, HO, HO,” was my enthusiastic phrase. “HAVE YOU BEEN A GOOD LITTLE BOY THIS YEAR?”

Sue me.

The first kid nearly tore my meniscus. He wore thick glasses and hearing aids. It was hard for him to speak. He made up for this with a snappy attitude.

“I KNOW you’re not Santa,” he said. “Santa is

WAY handsomer than YOU."

I ask how he'd like a nice box of red dirt under the tree this year.

The next child spoke in sign language. Her teacher translated.

“She wants a four-wheeler,” says the teacher. “And a horse.”

I'll get right on it.

Another boy sits on my lap. His mother says he has motor-skill issues which happened after an accident—they don’t say anything more about this. He has dreadlocks and two black eyes.

He asks if I like cheese.

I remind him that Santa is a lover of all things high in cholesterol. This makes him happy.

“Good,” he said. “I’d rather have spray cheese INSTEAD of cookies and milk if it were me.”

I make a joke, but he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile like the others. He’s sad, I can…

Christmas came early. It happened a few weeks ago. His family didn't know how long he had left. So, they welcomed in the holiday from a hospital room.

They made it a good one.

They decorated his walls. There were poinsettias, pinery, wrapped gifts, cheese balls, chicken salad, fudge. 

The visitors came and went. First, members from the Methodist men’s group—the same group he met with for thirty-some years. Rumor has it, they even sang through a handful of holiday tunes.

The rehab nurses sang along. He never moved a muscle.

A traumatic brain injury is what landed him here. He’d been standing in his kitchen, late night. Nobody knows how he fell. He hit his head on the counter. He went downhill fast.

But this isn’t about that.

His friends and family came from all parts. His grandkids. His old classmates. People gave gifts: a pair of buck antlers, camouflage suspenders, a T-shirt, get-well cards.

His brothers and sisters visited. His youngest brother brought a photo album. The black-and-white image of a boy with dead ducks in one

hand, a rifle in the other.

“God he was a good brother,” he said. “Always looked out for me, always.”

A woman visited. Mid-forties. When she was a girl, he would deliver gifts to her family on holidays. Deliveries started in the 70’s, when her father went to prison.

That holiday season, he’d drawn her name out of a hat in Sunday school class.

But he gave a lot more than holiday gifts. Once, he bought a car for a man who’d been down on his luck. A union steelworker who needed transportation.

He bought a bicycle for a young man on probation. Then, he arranged for the kid to get a job at the local supermarket. He invited the kid to suppers, and family events.

That kid is a grown man with a family of four today.

There’s the eighteen-year-old…