Tonight, I am in a band. I am only a guest musician. But the guys on stage are my friends.

It’s a great night. Bright lights are shining in my face. There are happy people in the audience. And I can’t think of many things I love more than playing music with my friends. I am playing piano.

There’s an old saying about bands. The quickest way to get the band to sound good is to shoot the piano player.

Old joke. One I’ve heard many times. But then, I’ve heard them all throughout the years.

Q: What do you call a piano player without a girlfriend?

A: Homeless.

Q: What do you throw to a drowning piano player?

A: His piano stool.

I’ve been playing piano since age 9. The way I started playing piano was, my father bought an old spinet from the classified section.

One December afternoon, Daddy and three of his fellow ironworkers hauled the piano into our home and put the instrument into our dank basement, just beside the water heater, beneath

the framed embroidery which read:

“Watch ye therefore: ye know not when the master of the house cometh.”

My father bribed his friends to help him move this piano by paying them with beer. His friends were feeling no pain. As a result, by the time the piano got to the basement, the thing looked as though it had fallen down three flights of stairs. Because, of course, it had.

But it sounded great. I was over the moon to have MY VERY OWN PIANO.

Mama asked Daddy whether he was going to buy me piano lessons. He replied, “If the boy wants to play bad enough, he’ll play.”

Because that was the old-school way. It was an “if you build it they will come” sort of mentality. Daddy supplied the piano, it was up to me to do the rest.

So…

Don’t shoot the messenger. But in America, one third of children have never handwritten a letter.

And it’s not just kids. Nearly 40 percent of adult Americans haven’t written a letter in the last five years, while 43 percent of Millenials have never sent one in their lifetime. Whereas recent studies show that Generation Z can’t read cursive and has no idea what the heck Grandma’s letters say.

The New York Times says that “The age of proper correspondence writing has ended…”

“Letter writing is an endangered art,” The Atlantic said.

“The death knell of written correspondence has been sounding for years,” said the Chicago Tribune.

This is not new information, of course, unless you’ve been living underneath a slab of granite. Letters have been replaced by emails and texts.

But texts and emails are not letters. An email has no charm. A text message does not not feel private. You cannot smell the paper. You cannot feel the weight of stationary in your

hands. An email is temporary. An email will only last as long as your device is charged.

Fact: Around 92 percent of working Americans feel anxiety when they see an unread email in their inbox.

But a letter. A letter is real. A letter exists in physical space. A letter will not disappear unless you burn it.

There are letters that still exist from 500 BC. Letters from early Romans. Letters from kings and queens. Letters from soldiers in the American Revolution.

A letter is artwork. It is culture. It is language. A letter represents years of handwriting practice in Mrs. Burns penmanship class, as she peered over her cat eye glasses at you, barbarically swatting a ruler in her open palm.

A letter is a moment of time. It is rewrites, spelling corrections, merciless editing, and the act of keeping one’s lines straight.

You can…

Red Mountain Park is cool. Especially if you’re blind. Namely because they have a sensory trail, which is an offshoot from the main trail at the park, specially designed for hikers with disabilities. Such as hearing disabilities, vision disabilities, or for those using wheelchairs.

The sensory trail terrain is compacted, but not paved. Free of roots and boulders, but still rocky enough to be considered a REAL trail and not an imitation. Meaning, you’re REALLY hiking.

The trail is lined with ropes, on both sides. So if you are blind, you can use the guideline and find your way along independently.

The trail was designed and constructed by Birmingham Eagle Scouts. And I wish these young Scouts knew how much their hard work means to a 12-year-old little girl who is blind.

And so it was, one beautiful Friday afternoon, the aforementioned 12-year-old and I came upon the sensory trail.

Becca, the 12-year-old, and I have been hiking a lot lately. Our normal system of hiking

is simple. She grasps a five-foot rope which is attached to my backpack, keeping tension on the rope so she can feel which direction I am going. She follows that direction, using her white cane as a kind of modified walking stick.

But when we came upon the sensory trail, everything changed.

“What’s a sensory trail?” she said reverently.

So I told her.

Her mouth dropped open. “You mean they HAVE things like that?”

“Apparently so,” I said.

We walked the trail, Becca held the guidelines. Her face was alight with ten thousand smiles.

“I can’t believe I’m hiking on my OWN!” she said. Her little voice reverberated throughout the woods. Birds flitted away from us. People were staring.

“Look at me!” she said. “I’m hiking by myself!” She was practically running. At times, she was singing even though we were not…

DEAR SEAN:

Hi. I am 9 years old and I have always wanted to meet you because my mom has been reading me your stories since I was little. Can we meet? Can I be in your truck and see your dogs? I’m a nice girl and smart and I have a pet turtle named Milton and I am learning to play ukulele. I am good in school, especially P.E. My hair is brown. Are you a big talker because I am. I love macaroni and cheese, what do you like? Will you write me back? I know you’re busy, but my dad died just like yours did. So we are really simular.

Thank you,
WAITING-FOR-YOUR-REPLY-IN-PHILADELPHIA

DEAR PHILADELPHIA:

I would love to meet you. You are welcome to come for a ride in my truck provided you (a) bring a parent, and (b) have had all your shots. A little about me:

I am middle aged, goofy, and not super smart. My hair is red.

I was never very good in P.E.,

which my generation did not call “P.E.” We called it “gym” because that’s the location where it took place. The gymnasium.

Our gym teacher was a part-time middle-school football coach and a part-time heavy equipment operator who often forced us to do the same activities that inmates are compelled to do in prison camps. Such as dodgeball, tight-rope walking, or climbing the 100-foot rope. Which is an archaic form of torture, especially for kids who were deemed “overweight.”

Which I was. I was a chubby child. Being chubby and having red hair at the same time is like having a bullseye tattooed on your buttocks.

So whenever I climbed the 100-foot rope—also known as the Rope of Death—I was only able to climb about three feet off the ground before I gave up and let go and fell belly-first onto the flimsy wrestling mat, which was a…

You were a friend. And I’ll miss you. You were sort of my writing partner.

Just yesterday morning, you were entwining your little body around my feet while I was working on a writing project. I was sitting on my porch, laptop balanced on my lap, and there you were. We often wrote together.

Your method of getting affection was simple. You’d slip past me, just out of reach. And it was only when I quit paying attention to you that you’d wander back casually, cautiously, and lay at my feet. You’d stay there all day as I tapped away.

Your ears were mangled. Your tail was chewed up. I could tell you were scrappy. But I always got the impression that you were gentle at heart, and you seemed to know something about the nature of reality that I didn’t.

You weren’t mine. You belonged to Mister Bud, our next-door neighbor. The old man who loved you. He lives alone, and you two were the best of friends. You were always at his side. You followed him

everywhere.

But in a way, you sort of belonged to the whole neighborhood.

The thing I remember most about you was how you were always here to greet those who came and went. You sat right in the middle of the street. That was your perpetual spot. The middle of the street. Watching cars.

I’ve seen you there at midnight, beneath the streetlamp, as the taxi dropped me off after a late flight in from New York.

“Uh, there’s a cat in your street,” said my Uber driver. “He’s blocking my way.”

“It’s only Cat,” I’d say.

That was your name. I don’t know how Mister Bud started calling you Cat, but the name stuck. We all called you that.

I got home today around lunchtime to find a police vehicle in our neighborhood, along with an animal control vehicle. All the…

I have a thing for Norman Rockwell. When I was a kid, I collected Rockwell memorabilia in the form of calendars, picture books, and posters. I clipped illustrations from books and plastered them upon my bedroom walls.

I have a few favorites.

“Shuffleton’s Barber Shop” (1950). A group of old men playing music in a barbershop. Everyone is smiling. Someone’s sawing a fiddle. Classic.

“The Runaway” (1958). A cop sits in a diner alongside a little boy carrying a hobo’s bindle. They’re on stools. You just know the cop is urging the kid to go back home.

“Saying Grace” (1951). A crowded restaurant, a big industrial city, maybe Pittsburgh. A mother and son. They sit at a table. People in the restaurant are gawking at the mother and son because Mama’s hands are folded and the boy’s head is bowed.

Every time I start thinking about this painting I feel something. I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because Norman saw the world differently than most. He found his masterworks in the commonplace.

Still, I always wondered whether Norman Rockwell’s depictions of a

benevolent America were true. Can human beings really be as kind as they are in his universe?

Early on, I decided the answer was no. When I was a kid, I did not believe people were THAT nice. Life was not THAT charming. For crying out loud, read the news. Everyone on this planet wants to either get rich or kill each other trying.

I was a young man when the Rockwell exhibit passed through Birmingham. I had never seen a Rockwell painting up close. When I heard the exhibit would be closeby, I had to go.

I called in sick for work.

“What do you mean you’re sick?” screamed my boss. “You don’t sound sick.”

“It’s a gallstone.”

“A gallstone?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Because my galls hurt.”

I packed a backpack. I fixed peanut butter…

I arrived at the UAB dorms to pick up 19-year-old Morgan for our day together. It was noon when I came cruising into the parking area, driving a 24-year-old truck that looks like a repurposed septic tank on wheels.

My truck is not a thing of beauty—in the traditional sense. There is rust on the fenders. The tires are bald. The paint job, which was at one time burgundy, is now the color of an infected blood blister.

I had spent an hour cleaning the old Ford’s interior prior to my arrival. Namely, because you cannot expect a dignified young lady to ride in a truck with canine nose-slobber marks on the windows, crumpled Frito bags on the floorboards, and scattered petrified Corn Nuts which predate the Bush Administration.

I know my truck must have made an impression on Morgan because when she stepped inside she said, “Wow.”

This is the normal reaction to my truck.

We sped through Birmingham’s gridwork of busy streets while Morgan held the safety handle tightly. Admittedly, I am

not the greatest driver. I learned to drive when I was 14 in my uncle’s ‘77 Chevette. My uncle was a famous cigar smoker who would say things like, “Don’t slow down, this is just a crosswalk!”

So as we careened through Birmingham, Morgan offered many helpful driving tips:

“Um, I don’t think you can turn left on a red light.”

“...Actually, I think this was supposed to be a one-way street.”

“Uh, did you run over a pedestrian? Never mind, you just grazed her. She’s getting up.”

For our day together, we went for a walk in the woods at Red Mountain Park. It was perfect weather. There were people hiking, riding bikes, and having picnics. Morgan, who just underwent abdominal surgery a week ago, kept a spritely pace on the trail. I was struggling to keep up.

Last week, her doctors could not believe…

Dogs know stuff. Yes, I know they’re just animals. I know their brains are only about the size of tangerines. But I’m telling you.

Take my dog Otis Campbell. I don’t often write about him, but I should. Because he’s our main dog. Our other dogs are his supporting actors.

Otis is the alpha of our family pack, ranking just below my wife. I am ranked somewhere near the rear of the pack. I eat supper last.

I wish you could see Otis right now. He is half awake, half asleep, sort of standing watch over me. That’s what he does whenever I write. He watches me, without moving.

And I’ve always wondered how dogs can remain deathly still, watching you, without falling asleep.

It reminds me of a guy my father once knew. The man could sit on the front porch without moving a muscle for days. The only way you knew he was alive was by his cigarette—it moved occasionally.

Rumor was, the man had been told by doctors to drink spirits to steady his nerves. It

worked. Sometimes he got so steady he couldn’t move.

That’s who Otis reminds me of. So that’s who we named him after.

Otis is a good dog. He has witnessed every random emotional event we’ve ever undergone in this household. He has been present for our entire lives.

It’s hard to believe it’s been nearly six years since Otis came to us from an adoption center. We found him when a local pet shelter had a meet-and-greet.

The place was a circus. You couldn’t hear what any of the volunteers were saying because of the collective noise. Each kennel had a fanciful poster with the dogs’ name emblazoned in theatrical letters. Some of the puppies were dressed in little costumes to look like lion tamers and tiny Little Bo-Peeps. The volunteers referred to these costumes as “curb appeal.”

My wife and…

It’s early. Still dark. No sane person should be up right now, and yet here I am. I am in the parking lot of the Hoover Met sports and fitness complex, which is currently filling up with cars.

Runners are outside their vehicles making wardrobe preparations for the big race. Pinning numbers to shirts. Doing aggressive calisthenics. A sound system is blasting “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.”

There must be a dress code inasmuch as many runners are wearing knee socks. Both men and women alike. I don’t know how schoolgirl-style knee socks became part of running, but apparently they are an integral part of the sport because I am the only one not wearing any.

There are impossibly fit bodies strutting around at the start line. People who, you can just tell, have never once in their lives said the words, “We’d like an order of queso, please.”

These are impressive specimens who are not Marines but civilians with bulging muscles, sleeve tattoos, and

Lululemon activewear. Sort of like Soccer Mom Goes Terminator.

And then you have guys like me. I am not exactly the image of athleticism. I am more of an IPA guy. I am the kind of guy who, when forced to choose between white or wheat, chooses extra ranch.

But never mind, because the thing I love about races is that they are all-inclusive.

You can attend any 5K or 10K and see people from all walks. Insurance salesmen, elementary school teachers, octogenarians, 12-year-olds, persons using wheelchairs.

I am not, however, doing the 5K, I am doing the marathon. The BHM 26.2.

This is not my first marathon, but it is certainly my oldest. I am somewhat long in the tooth compared to my co-runners, who are largely from the TikTok generation. But we all share something in common.

We’re insane.

I started running when I…