We drove backroads, a cloud of dust kicking up behind us. Daddy wore his smudged-up work clothes. He looked out the windshield. Neither of us said much.

While he drove, we stared at the fields and farmland zipping past our windows. Such things have a way of making your mind run quiet. Barns. Farmland. Endless rows of fenceposts.

He turned at the large creek. The old metal bridge looked like a leftover from the heydays of the railroad. He rolled to a stop, then jammed the gearshift into park.

“See this bridge,” he said. “I used to spend a lot of time on this thing, haven't been here

in years.”

He jumped out of the truck. Then, he rapped his knuckles on the iron. A dull ringing suggested this thing was older and tougher than me.

I looked over the edge. It was a long way down.

He leapt onto the iron beam, then scaled to the top. “I used to do this as a boy," he called down. He held his hands outward and walked along like a tight-rope walker.

This was not altogether unusual for my father, he was an iron worker. He spent his days stick-welding, walking…

The nursing home has a big flat-screen television. And at ten in the morning, you can find white-haired women sitting in front of it, expressionless. TV blaring.

The woman to my left turns and asks, "Have you seen my daughter? I think she's coming today."

"Sorry, ma'am. Haven't seen her."

On TV: a fitness model explains the paramount importance of the perfect beach-body. This girl looks like she's made of plastic and Spandex.

The elderly woman has no problem talking over the noise. “HEY! That girl on television looks like my daughter. Do you know if my family's coming today?"

Fitness-girl is doing step-ups, and punching the air.

The

old woman goes on, "We didn't have time to exercise in my day. My daddy was a cotton-mill worker. We didn't know where our next meal was coming from. By the time I's fourteen, we'd moved twenty-one times around Alabama."

Now the girl on TV is demonstrating how to tone buttocks by squatting on a chair. “MY BUTT," the girl is saying, "is the most ESSENTIAL part of my being..."

The woman ignores the television. "I had a friend when I's young, she invited me and my little brother for supper.…

It sounded like a flock of dying cats. Whining, howling, singing voices, accompanied by out-of-tune guitars and laughter.

It was marvelous.

My neighbor. His family was in town for the holiday weekend. While their grill smoked, they sat on the porch working up a good beer-glow, singing.

I sat outside, my ear cocked toward them.

They sang tunes like: “Uncloudy Day,” or, “Peace in the Valley.” And when they got to “I Come To The Garden,” somebody's wife joined in and put them all

to shame. She knew every verse.

I remember my grandaddy saying once, “Record players stole common folks' voices."

As a five-year-old, all I could do was reflect on this, and answer, "Did you know butterflies can taste with their feet?"

Which is true.

He ignored me and went on, "Boy, there was a time when the only way to hear a song was to watch a man…

It was always hot. So hot, your britches were always a little on the damp side. And whenever you hugged your aunt, your wet skin slipped against hers.

And then there was the guitar. My uncle could make it sing. I don't think I've ever seen anything so mesmerizing as when he picked out, “When We All Get To Heaven.”

I made him sing that tune a hundred times.

Behind us sat the iron beast, with smoke puffing from its stack. Four men sat directly behind it. From time to time, they'd shovel smoldering hickory into its belly, frowning.

Then, they'd visit the cooler, saying, “'Nother beer?” Which was

only a formality—the speaker already had four in his hand before anyone answered.

And baseball. My cousins played catch with Daddy. They remarked on what an arm he had. They'd lob the ball at him. He catch it, spin around like he was turning a double play, then fire back.

My cousin flung his glove off and moaned, “Geez, that one hurt my hand.”

It was one of the only times Daddy felt exceptional.

Beneath the big oak were folding tables, topped with foil-covered casserole dishes. If you so much as…

DON'T SWIM IN THE GULF WATER! That's what the experts say. Also: wear enough sunscreen so that you look like a marshmallow. And since we're on the subject, don't eat sugar. Or flour. Or gluten. Or breathe too deeply while in the upright position.

Kids, don't go barefoot. Don't climb trees, or play with bee-bee guns, or eat undercooked hamburgers—which will kill you. Don't play Red Rover, you could break an arm. Don't play baseball, unless you want a concussion. Don't play tackle football. Don't fistfight, you'll go to jail. Don't eat too much birthday cake, and don't you dare ask for more ice cream.

You'll get

diabetes.

Don't watch Westerns—too violent. Don't play with cap-guns. Never use the term, "Indians," that's offensive. Say instead, Native Americans. Don't swing from the monkey bars, don't use tire swings, don't cuss. Just sit Native-American style on the floor and watch the Atlanta Braves take a whooping from the Cleveland Native Americans.

Don't pee outside, ride bikes without helmets, or walk to school. In fact, don't WALK anywhere.

Don't drink anything stronger than apple juice, don't stay up past nine. Don't laugh at dirty jokes. And for God's sake, don't memorize any. If,…