The Pleasant Hill Baptist church sits out in the country. The fellowship hall is a sardine can.

It is an old room with drooping ceiling fans, paned windows, and carpet stains that predate the Vietnam War.

There is a Kimball spinet. Folding tables. An old-school kitchen with a pass-through window, á la Brady Bunch. The place is so nostalgic it hurts.

It was a big dinner. The men wore neckties. The women wore pearls. Girls wore dresses. Boys wore blazers. Hair-color-wise, the room was evenly split. Half gray hair; half bald.

Slocomb, Alabama, is a 2,082-person town. They were all here today. Plus a few more. David Peters recently inherited his imperishable mansion. This was his homegoing service.

And what a funeral it was.

“David Peters was a good man.” That’s what everyone was saying. That’s what they always say at funerals.

They said it at my father’s funeral. They said it at my grandfather’s funeral. They will be saying it a thousand years from now. And it will always be true.

When I was kid, we called

the meal before the ceremony the “reception dinner.” Other churches called it the “mercy meal.” I once attended a Jewish funeral, they call it the “shiva.” Little country churches, way out in the sticks, call it a “repast.”

The funeral food sat piled atop card tables, forming one of the most handsome nutritional displays I’ve ever seen. I don’t have space to list all the dishes. But I’ll mention the MVPs.

Fried chicken. Butter beans. Collards, swimming in grease, adorned with chunks of pork the size of mass-market paperbacks.

Creamed potatoes thick enough to pave parking lots. Creamed corn—three varieties. Cheesy noodle casserole. Sweet potato pie. Shut my mouth. Stringbeans.

Crowder peas, zipper peas, rattlesnakes, purple hulls, and turkey craws. If you don’t know what those are, you really need to get out of the subdivision once in a while.

I almost…

I am hanging out with 300 librarians in Memphis for the Tennessee Library Association annual conference. We are in a hotel lobby, seated at the bar.

Most of the librarians are drinking whiskey sours and vodka gimlets. Some are drinking light beer.

It’s a wild night in Memphis.

Everyone is happy. Everyone is laughing and toting huge bags of free library swag. Everyone has let their hair down tonight.

“Wooooo!” shouts the librarian next to me. A woman who looks to be comfortably in her mid- to late-80s.

The library association’s annual conference is like Woodstock for librarians. They come from all over. They come from every small town, backwater, and hamlet within the Volunteer State.

Some librarians come from the sticks:

“I have worked in the poorest parts of Appalachia for almost 40 years. I’ve had teenagers come to me who never learned to read. Some have been barefoot, literally.”

They come from big cities:

“We get students in Nashville from all over the world. I’ve met med students from Africa, China, and Brazil. I’ve helped single moms

study for their GED exams.”

These librarians hail from different walks of life. Different races and creeds. But they all have one thing in common.

“We just like to help people.”

I meet one librarian who is elderly. She walks with a bent spine and an aluminum cane. She is drinking a Mick Ultra. She is wearing enough Estée Lauder Youth Dew to choke a cat.

She has been a librarian for over half a century and remembers when the most advanced technology in her library was the No. 2 pencil.

“Sure, It’s hard to be a librarian these days,” she says. “Sometimes it feels like the whole country is against you. They keep banning books. Classics and new books alike. And they portray us librarians as the enemy.”

She’s right. To be a librarian in today’s world is proving to…

Memphis, Tennessee. A cafe. The kind with vinyl booth cushions, all patched up with duct tape. I’m in town to make a speech.

She is my waitress. Her name is on her nametag. She smiles at me after she asks how I want my eggs.

Her teeth are bad. Real bad. There’s probably a story here. I’d wish I knew the rest of it.

She is mid-30s. But she looks older, the way some waitresses do after earning a PhD from Hard Knox. I was raised by one such waitress.

“You want coffee?” she asks.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Boy coffee or girl coffee?”

“Ma’am?”

“It’s what my daughters call it,” she says. “Girl coffee means cream and sugar.”

“I want man coffee.”

“Sorry. We only serve that to men.”

Rimshot.

The woman stops by a table of guys in police uniforms. The officers look ragged. I’m guessing they are just finishing up a midnight shift.

I have a friend who is a cop in a major city, who used to work the midnight shift. He said it was misery. I cannot, however, imagine what a midnight shift in Memphis must

look like for law enforcement.

Recently, Memphis was ranked as the most dangerous city in the U.S. And yet, unlike other dangerous cities, Memphis is also a tourist destination.

Which means the Memphis downtown is always full of Midwesterners in Reeboks and Boy Scout troops, buzzing around attractions like the Rock ‘n’ Roll museum, the Peabody Hotel, or Graceland.

These guys work hard.

“How y’all doing today?” the waitress asks the peace officers.

Grunts from the table.

She smiles her broken smile at them. It’s the kind of warm face that brings grown men out of their shells. Although her teeth are missing, her face is cherub-like.

“Don’t grunt at me,” she says. “I asked y’all a question.”

The officers look at each other and laugh.

“We’re doing okay,” one officer…

The email came yesterday evening. The guy was from Baltimore.

“Dear Sean, you’re a [expletive] idiot. I have been so put off by your ‘spiritual’ commentary. I am an atheist, I do not believe in God…”

So I went and got another beer before continuing.

“…Your God is [another expletive] dork. God cannot be good and all-powerful at the same time. Because if he were, there would be no disease, tornadoes, starvation, mass shootings, genocides, murders, or suffering.

“He cannot be omnipotent and concomitantly allow evil, you can’t have it both ways… There was recently a mass hooting in Kentucky, where was your God then?

“...Sorry Sean, I’d like to believe in a Higher Power, but my heart and brain both say ‘Hell no.’”

Dear Friend,

I’m no theologian. I’m not even much of a church guy, either. Religious? No. Not unless it’s a pennant race. I’m more of a Pabst Blue Ribbon enthusiast.

Moreover, you’ve written to an uneducated man. I had to look up the word “concomitantly.” I’m still not sure how to use this word.

Namely, because I’m not

a smart man. My grade school teachers called me “slow.” Other adults called me “challenged.” But as it happens, I’m neither slow nor challenged, I just have slydexia.

So I am not exactly the guy you should be approaching with this kind of high-minded email. I can already tell you’re much sharper than I am. Any response I make will make me look like a complete expletive.

There is, however, one thing I do know.

I once met a woman from Illinois who was born blind and deaf. Just like Helen Keller.

I’d like to tell you about her. She was remarkable. You would have liked her.

The percentage of deaf-blind cases in America is low. You’re looking at a population of about 11,000 in the U.S.

Moreover, 90 percent of deaf-blind people also have medical, physical, or…

Birmingham. I met the old woman for coffee. She was small and slight, with a mane of white. She spoke with a thick Latin accent.

“I have a story for you,” she said.

I’m a sucker for a good story.

She worked three or four jobs. Sometimes more. She cleaned hotel rooms. She worked as a seamstress. She worked on construction crews. She was a dishwasher at a little restaurant. She was a house painter. The worst job she ever had, however, was working with a plumber. She dug ditches. Literally.

“I was not so very happy digging the ditches.”

No kidding.

Her lowest point came when her ‘83 Toyota gave out. It was the day of her son’s 12th birthday. She had been picking up extra gigs lately so she could afford a birthday present for her boy.

This meant she was working more hours. Which meant she was never home for more than 10 minutes at a time. She got used to sleeping in her car. “It was no so much fun.”

One

day, the woman was on her way to a cleaning gig. Her car sputtered and stopped on the side of the highway. It was rush hour. And her car was deader than disco. She sat in her front seat crying. This was in an age before cell phones.

The woman stepped out of her car and looked heavenward. “Don’t do this to me,” she said in Español, as cars whizzed past her by the dozen.

If you’ve ever had an automotive crisis, you know how many highway vehicles pass you by. Hundreds. Thousands even. Motorists will lock eyes with you from behind windshields, smile curtly, then fly by at 75 mph without even glancing back.

She was about to give up any prospect of help and start walking home when a truck pulled over.

Enter the mysterious stranger.

The driver was male. Bearded. Longish hair.…

Dear Aaron,

You are my best good friend. In many ways, you are the brother I never had. I’m not sure that’s a title you want to bear. I’m sort of a degenerate.

But I love you, brother. So help me, I do.

I met you while we were playing music, years ago. Which is typical for me. All my friends are musicians. Because, you see, from birth I was damned to be a hapless musician. It’s a blessing and a curse.

A blessing, because there is nothing more gratifying than producing music; the cadence of a good tune, throbbing in your brain and bones, is like a narcotic. A curse, because being a working musician sucks; a musician without a van or a girlfriend is, essentially, homeless.

My life has been lived out on plywood stages, in tobacco-fogged rooms, playing songs I hate, for drunk people who can’t dance, at 1 o’clock in the morning, as I beg for tips over the mic.

I met you in Tallassee, Alabama. You were playing the fiddle like your

face was on fire. I was playing guitar (poorly). We were in the band together, at the Mount Vernon Theater.

We hit it off. I admired the way you sawed on your Stradivarius like the Paganini of South Alabama. You liked me, heaven knows why. And that was how our friendship started.

It turned out you were from Slocomb, Alabama, making you my one and only friend from Slocomb.

The closest I’d ever come to Slocomb was when I got my picture made with the Slocomb Tomato Queen at the Peanut Festival—that was a wild night.

So anyway, I liked you, you liked me. And that’s basically how friendship works, really. You meet someone you like, then you just go around doing stuff together.

We did stuff. We’ve played a bunch of gigs together. We’ve shared many a malted beverage. We’ve been on…

Easter, 2023. I have a few things to share.

First off, today the Escambia County Jail was alight with smiles. The inmates celebrated Easter early this year. Sheriff Heath Jackson arrived at the jailhouse this afternoon in a good mood.

The lawman was dressed in civilian clothes. Blue jeans and boots. A true South Alabamian. He was on a mission along with his employees and constituents.

Namely, the sheriff was serving fried chicken to inmates.

“We started this tradition five years ago,” said the sheriff. “After taking over the facility [we wanted] to provide a good meal and prayer for those [inmates] who wanted to participate.”

Each year the sheriff and his employees don food-safe latex gloves and serve inmates saturated fat from paper boxes. The Easter short thighs come directly from Popeyes in Brewton, Alabama.

The inmates eat as much as they want. Then, they are then led in a chorus of hymn singing. Those who want prayer can receive it. Those who need someone to talk to get just that. It

can sometimes be an emotional day.

I personally have a family member in the Escambia County Jail. For me, to know that this is the kind of treatment he receives humbles me.

“Jesus loves us all,” said Sheriff Heath. “Even when we make bad decisions.”

Meantime, in Enterprise, Alabama, young Jimmy Holcomb is celebrating the life of his father, Reverend James Holcomb Junior.

You might have known the Reverend. Everyone did. Although he’s been gone five years. Five years ago today to be exact. He was a good man. Well-loved.

Exactly five years ago, Jimmy’s mother called and said, “James, your daddy just died.” The year was 2018. It was a crushing blow to Jimmy.

Life for Jimmy has taken a lot of turns since then. Since then, Jimmy has changed career paths. He’s decided to follow in the old family business. He enrolled in seminary. He…

They were calling for rain. But no rain came. Yet.

The umpires stood on the field, clad in clerical black, staring at the sky, palms facing upward. Modern-day soothsayers.

The sky was the color of a battleship. The air was damp and sticky.

“It is definitely going to rain,” I said.

“Not necessarily,” said an old man nearby. “This is Georgia. Our weather changes its mind quicker than our politicians.”

Meantime, the ballpark was slammed with fans. Young and old. Male and female. The johnny-come-latelys, and the clinically deranged zealots. We were all waiting to see whether the opening day of baseball in Atlanta would be delayed by Mother Nature.

Opening day in Truist Park is an event not unlike a typical papal installation.

Braves fans wander the park in chaos. There are team jerseys galore. Suburban dads wear T-shirts that read, “I am a Braves-A-Holic.” Suburban mothers wear shirts that said “I am married to a Braves-A-Holic.” Everyone has a beer.

“I was 20 years old when the Braves first came

to Atlanta,” said the old man. “I was in the Army.”

The old man was leaning over a guardrail, overlooking the Braves’ bullpen. He was vaping, although this is against park rules. He wore a Braves ballcap that predated the Mesozoic era.

“It was 1966,” he said. “I was living in Fulton County when they said we were getting a baseball team.”

The Milwaukee Braves made their debut in Atlanta one sunny day in mid-April. Lyndon Johnson was in the White House. There were 500,000 troops in Vietnam. The top grossing movie was “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”

The man attended opening day at Fulton County Stadium along with 50,671 other spectators. He remembers it well. The Pittsburgh Pirates were the visiting team. Not a seat was vacant. The air was pure cigar fog. It was a Tuesday.

“Tony Cloninger was pitching,” he said. “That man…

I had a dream last night. It was a vivid dream. I was in a perfect place. A realm of unspeakable beauty. It was the kind of dream where anything could happen. The kind of dream where anyone could show up.

Anyone, such as, for example, Will Rogers.

I know this will sound stupid, but Will Rogers was in my dream last night. I’ve never seen Will Rogers in person. Never met him. He died 40-odd years before I was even a glint in the milkman’s eye. And yet here he was.

He was chewing gum, hands in his pockets, he wore a Stetson Open Road, slightly pushed back. He had an easy smile. He was sun-weathered.

This couldn’t be happening, I was thinking. Nobody even remembers Will Rogers anymore. Rogers, America’s favorite vaudevillian. Rogers, who predated the Great Depression. Rogers, America’s foremost syndicated columnist. Hollywood’s highest-paid actor. A lasso twirler. A jokesmith. A comedian.
He was the man.

At least that’s what my grandfather thought.

Not that you care, but William Penn

Adair Rogers was born in 1879 in what became Oklahoma. He was a citizen of the Cherokee Nation. He got into performing because he was quick with a one-liner. He was good with a lasso. He was a comedian.

Soon, Rogers was touring the vaudeville circuit, kicking hides and taking names.

He was a guy who wrote his own epitaph when he said, “I joked about every prominent man of my time, but I never met a man I didn't like. I am so proud of that, I can hardly wait to die so it can be carved.”

My grandfather adored Will Rogers. He saw him in person twice. You know how people today make a big deal about how they once saw the Beatles, or Elvis, or Barry Manilow in concert? That’s how granddaddy was about Will Rogers.

“I saw Will Rogers perform,” Granddaddy would…

We’ll call her April. But that’s not her name. She sent me a letter which arrived in my mailbox on April 1. Hence, the pseudonym.

“I am 15 and I just had a baby…” the letter began.

I paused to get my reading glasses.

“…And my mom is angry and my dad is a preacher, they kicked me out… I’m scared and I have nowhere to go.”

Which isn’t technically true. April lives with her aunt in rural Virginia. She is still in high school, and she’s doing okay. Although she is fast losing confidence in herself.

“...I wish I could take back my mistakes, but I can’t…

“Why won’t my parents love my child? My daughter is not to blame for my sins. She is a beautiful girl. Can you offer me any words?”

Well, April, I cannot give you any poignant words because I am not smart enough. What I can say is that you are not the sinner you think you are. At least not any worse than me or, for instance, Pope Francis.

You’re a

human being. That’s what you are. This is not a sin.

I can’t really say anything intelligent here because I don’t know what you’re going through. Neither do I know what you're feeling. Nor do I know what it feels like to be a 15-year-old mother.

What I can tell you is this. I knew a girl who got pregnant at age 13.

You want to talk about a nightmare? My people were strict fundamentalists who did not believe in excess coffee consumption or mixed bathing. We were staunch Southern Baptists, which meant that we not only suffered from clinical constipation, but we actually enjoyed it.

The pregnant girl’s name was Jessica. She was not a bad kid. She was smart. She was funny. She was a straight-A student. She got caught in a bad circumstance, that was all.

She made…