Pensacola. I am at Target this morning. Not far from the Winn-Dixie on Bayou Boulevard.

The parking lot is swamped with black-and-white Chevy Tahoes. Lightbars on the rooftops. Push bars mounted on the bumpers. Cop cars.

I walk into Target to find a gaggle of police officers, lingering in the foyer. Badges. Tactical boots. Duty belts. Ballistic vests.

The officers are in jocular moods, laughing and horsing around. Each cop is pushing a shopping buggy because today is the annual Pensacola Police Department Christmas shop-a-thon.

The premise is simple: Throughout the year, police officers meet a lot of kids in the line of duty. Officers meet children who are trapped in bad situations. They meet kids who live in squalor. Children of drug addicted parents. Children whose parents have been arrested. Children of suicide. Kids who have nobody.

The Pensacola officers remember these children’s names. Then, the cops secretly add these names to a mounting holiday list at the station.

“When Christmas rolls around,” says one officer, “we all come to Target and go buck

wild buying gifts.”

This isn’t an official city program, with official city funds, with an officially Marketed Name™. No, this is just a few cops who decided to play Santa.

These officers have been doing this for 15 years, just because they want to. Private donations pay for everything. A lot of cops contribute out of their own wallets.

“We don’t do this for press,” says one cop. “We do this because we actually know these kids.”

I am wandering the aisles with Officer Dave. Dave is pushing a buggy, shopping for a 5-year-old boy. Dave works patrol. His chest-mounted radio keeps squawking as he’s browsing through the stuffed-animal section.

“Kids like fuzzy bears,” says Officer Dave, throwing a stuffed animal into the cart. “Let’s get him a fuzzy bear.”

I meet an officer who is shopping for a little girl whose father killed her…

Downtown Birmingham. Christmastime. It’s raining. There is a heavy fog suspended over the world so that the city looks like the opening scenes of a Dickens novel.

There are ghosts in Birmingham tonight. I can feel them.

I pull up to the Lyric Theater a few hours before soundcheck. The rain is really coming down now. The backstage doors are slung open. The crew is waiting for the band to arrive. I am with the band.

There is a stagehand standing out back, on smokebreak. He has piercings on his face. He is dressed in crewman black.

“Welcome to the Lyric,” he says, stepping on his cigarette. “Give you a hand with your stuff?”

He helps me unload my instruments. Tonight I have three accordions that are all about the size of mid-sized Buicks. I am playing music this evening, telling jokes onstage with Three On a String.

I walk into the theater, carrying my musical tonnage, and I’ve never seen a theater so magnificent. In fact, to call this place a “theater” would

be selling it short. This is the Sistine Chapel.

The room is classic baroque. The stage is a proscenium-style stage, shaped like a giant arched window. There are opera boxes adorned in gilded fleurons and ornamentation. Multiple balconies, trimmed with gold leaf paint. Scrollwork galore.

The arch above the stage has an intricate mural. The mural was painted in the late 1910s, and looks like it belongs in the Pope’s bathroom. The painting is entitled “Allegory of Muses.” The painting depicts a bunch of naked people running around, groping each other. But they are Roman naked people, so it’s okay.

“Wow,” I say in a half whisper.

“Yeah, wow,” says the stagehand, then he adds, “you’re looking at the grandest Vaudeville stage in the Southeast.”

Jack Benny performed here. Mae West. Fred Allen. Buster Keaton. Eddie Cantor. And once upon a time, Will Rogers wore a…

The first concert I ever saw was the Oak Ridge Boys. I was 2 years old. Mama took me. I pooped my diaper while they were singing “Elvira.” My mother changed me at the foot of the stage as I was singing at the top of my voice. One of the Oak Ridge Boys gagged, mid-song.

“That’s Mama’s little musician,” said my mother, wiping my hindparts.

The next concert I ever saw was the “Grand Ole Opry.” My father moved us to Tennessee because he was building the GM plant in Spring Hill. Mama knew I loved music, so she carried me to “country music’s biggest stage.”

I remember seeing Jerry Clower. I remember a bluegrass group practically lighting their instruments on fire. I remember Minnie Pearl.

During the Opry performance, Mama stood me on the back of the pew so I could sing along. She kissed my cheeks and said, “That’s Mama’s little musician.”

Mama bought my first nice guitar. It was the first “fine” instrument I ever owned. A

Gibson. Student model, B-15. It was indestructible. You could use this guitar to tenderize meat. I still have it.

And it was Mama who bought my first piano on my 9th birthday. Mama bought a second-hand piano from the classifieds. She sent my father to pick it up. He bribed his friends to move the instrument with cases of free Busch. As a result, the piano was beat to heck.

I began playing piano in church at age 10. I was an accompanist. My mother was so proud. She always sat on the front pew at church and told innocent bystanding visitors that I was her son. “He’s our little musician.”

Throughout the years, I would go on to break my mother’s heart a million times. After my father took his own life, Mama became a single mother. She struggled to make ends meet, cleaning condos. I threw my…

He’s single father. A widower, to be exact. But that’s not the story here.

He waits tables for a living. And on his off-days, he works at another restaurant.

Sometimes, he works with his brother’s power-washing business for extra cash. He does handyman work, and installs home sound systems. He is a busy man.

He does it for his kids.

The money goes out the window as fast as it comes. And he’s away a lot.

His children are used to fending for themselves. They’re used to preparing their own suppers, watching television alone, and tucking themselves in.

But not since she started coming around.

Let me back up.

Nine months ago, he met her. She’s a receptionist at a doctor’s office. She was at his restaurant for her coworker’s birthday party.

He saw her and couldn’t stop looking at her.

By the end of the night, his friends in the kitchen knew he was smitten. They teased him. “Go talk to her,” they said, shoving him.

But, confidence doesn’t exactly grow on trees, and our Lone Ranger has been out of the saddle since high school.

He didn’t

know how to approach her. He was—according to his coworkers—a big, fat, hairy chicken. So, without his permission, one of the waitresses spoke for him.

“See that guy over there?” the waitress whispered into the receptionist’s ear. “He’s the best guy you’ll ever meet. He likes you, but he’s too scaredy-cat to talk to you.”

Ouch, Kemosabe.

But that’s how it started.

A little bout her: she was married once. The doctor told her she couldn’t have kids. It broke her heart, all she’s ever wanted were children.

She likes long walks on the beach, Mexican food, Trisha Yearwood albums, chocolate ice cream, and any book that wasn’t written by Danielle Steel.

They went on a first date. It lasted for sixteen hours. But they darkened no bedrooms, rustled no sheets.…

DEAR SEAN:

I need your help. I am a bedwetter. I am 13 and I don’t know what do to or who to go to, or why I keep doing this. I hate myself, I wish I could change.

I wish I could talk to someone about this, but I’m scared. Like maybe talk to my dad, but I don’t even know my dad ‘cause he left us when I was little, and I think he hates me because whenever I call him he doesn’t want to talk to me. He never even remembers my birthday.

...I just wanted to tell someone who could help me, I’m so embarrassed. Please don’t use my name. What should I do? Please answer my email if you have some time.

Thank you,
SLEEPLESS-IN-NASHVILLE

DEAR NASHVILLE:

This isn’t my normal column topic, but your letter struck a nerve. But before I say anything else, listen to me:

Relax. Breathe, my friend. Eat something manufactured by Little Debbie. Draw a warm bath. Watch episodes of “The Andy Griffith Show.” Or at the very least, “Monk.”

Peeing

the bed is not a huge problem. Granted, I’m no doctor, and my advice isn’t worth much. It’s probably a good idea to get checked out, just to be safe.

Still, I believe you will get through this. I swear. And do you want to know why I believe this?

Because you’re talking to a former professional bedwetter.

That’s right. I used to wet the bed. You might think you’re unique, but you’re not the only one in the world with at golfball-sized bladder.

I peed the bed for years. It got to the point where my mother wouldn’t let me drink liquids past lunchtime. “But I’m thirsty, Mama,” I would whine.

To which Mama would reply, “Swallow your own spit, I do enough dirty laundry to cover the needs of Mainland China.”

Does any of this sound…

Molino, Florida. Population 1,306. It was 1,307, but I heard Miss Carolyn’s mother went on to Glory last night.

You’re looking at hayfields, cowhouses, and a church every sixty feet. A night on the town would take four minutes.

The sky is cloudy. The foraging grass has recently been cut. It’s late autumn, a sweet fragrance hangs in the air because the papermill is in full bloom.

I once dated a girl from Molino. Her father worked at the mill in Cantonment. Every time I showed up to her house for a date, her father happened to be cleaning his Remington on the porch.

Jimmy’s meat-and-three sits off Highway 29. You can’t miss it. Jimmy’s Grill is just up the road from the feed and seed. Just look for all the trucks.

I am meeting my longtime friend and surrogate older brother, Steve, for lunch.

It is an average Friday afternoon. The parking lot is slammed with Fords and Chevys. You will not find a Tesla in Molino.

I open the door. The bell dings. There is

a wait. We are greeted by a line of guys in boots, waiting for a table. They are wearing neon safety shirts, covered in mud, and they smell like hard work.

“We love Jimmy’s,” they say. “Only place around that serves real tomato gravy.”

Soon, we are waiting alongside a gaggle of people. In line beside us is a group of women with frilly white hair. I ask what brings these women to Jimmy’s.

“We’re in a sewing circle,” the spokeswoman says. “One of us has low blood sugar, so we all piled into Rhonda’s car and came straight to Jimmy’s because Jimmy’s peanut butter pie cures low blood sugar.”

“They have great butterbeans,” adds one woman.

There is another lady in line who overhears our conversation. She is from Canton, Ohio, just passing through. “What the heck is a butterbean?” the woman…

Sunset. My driveway.

“Okay, everybody get in the truck!” I shouted, using my cheerful American dad voice.

Although, technically, I’m not a dad. In fact, I don’t even have a traditional “family.” Not unless you count our dogs who weigh more than average middle-schoolers. Thelma Lou is 101 pounds of bloodhound. Otis Campbell (alleged Labrador), 92 pounds. Marigold (blind coonhound) about the same weight as a bag of Fritos.

I whistled and dogs leapt into my dilapidated truck, butts wagging, ready for action.

My wife, however, did not get in the truck. She glared at me, clearing her throat loudly, tapping her foot, until I handed her my keys to let her drive.

In nearly 20 years of marriage she has never sat in a passenger seat. She gets motion-sick when I drive and tends to puke on my shoes.

I knew all this going into the marriage. Her matrimonial conditions were simple: she always drives; I never play the accordion indoors.

Don’t get me wrong, our marriage is fair. We’ve made

many compromises. For instance, on our wedding night I agreed to always let her operate my truck if she promised to fill our closet with 52,339 pairs of shoes she will never wear. So far so good.

But our life together has all been worth it, believe me. The woman who drives my truck could have chosen a much classier guy for herself. She could have found someone with a great job, who came from good breeding, who owned actual formalwear.

Instead, she married a dropout who went to community college for 11 years and graduated with straight Cs in his early 30s. A guy whose personal truck contains hounds that cost more than his truck did.

But we’re a happy clan, that’s what I’m getting at. And tonight we had an outing. Once we were in the truck, we drove across town to a nondescript neighborhood. The…

Hi. We don’t know each other. But Christmas is on the way, and I wanted to introduce myself. Then again, my name isn’t important. I’m nobody special. I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you. I’m even praying for you.

I know you’re going through a hard time. Someone you love died. Maybe someone you once trusted hurt you deeply. Maybe your mother is suffering. Or your children are going through a rough patch.

Your loved one died by suicide. Or maybe it was cancer. Lymphoma. Alcoholism. Heart attack. Old age. Or a car wreck.

Then again, maybe it’s you who is in distress.

Maybe the doctor gave you bad news. Maybe your life is falling apart. Maybe you’re in a godawful state. Maybe you are lying on the floor, weeping, when you accidentally picked up your phone to read this.

Please keep reading. Because you’re the person I’m writing to.

Listen, I know the whole world is happy right now. Everyone is giddy with excitement. People are getting very festive, preparing their houses for Christmas, hanging

lights, installing hordes of gaudy yard art.

It’s hard to stomach all this joyousness when you yourself are stuck in agonizing pain. It’s hard to get excited about anything when your life has turned into a big pile of chicken scat.

You are disgruntled and cynical. And you’re not wrong. This is a contradictory and hypocritical time of year.

Everyone talks of love and kindness and benevolence. And yet nobody sees the invisible hurting people. Oh, sure, some folks volunteer to help the homeless and the orphans during the Christmas seasons. But for most people, all this talk of love and munificence is basically just a load of B.S.

I’m sorry, but it’s true. And you know it.

This is the time of year when TV commercials turn into ultra sentimental saccharin. Advertisers promote charity, compassion and love. And yet,…

My dad was born in a farmhouse. He had very little growing up. At least that’s how he always told the story. His family was pretty hard up.

His most valuable possession was a transistor radio he’d bought at a department store when he was a boy. He’d listen to the radio shows in the 50s. “Abbot and Costello” reruns. “The Jack Benny Show.” He’d listen to ball games. He’d root for Mickey Mantle. Roger Maris. The “Say Hey Kid.”

Otherwise, he didn’t have squat.

Which would explain why my father headed up the Christmas tree committee every year at the fundamentalist Baptist church (motto: “Buying life insurance is a form of gambling”).

My father would gather up donations from anyone and anywhere. He would shamelessly ask for money. He would even resort to sending paralyzingly cute Little Leaguers door to door, selling cookies.

The money earned would be used to buy balsam firs. He bought truckloads of trees.

At which point people in the church would submit addresses of families who needed help

for Christmas. Whereupon my father and his army of his friends would deliver trees in early December.

Every year, I would go with Daddy on these deliveries. Each year, we would load dozens of balsams into the bed of his F-100. My father would have a clipboard of addresses. And we would drive into the hinterlands, wearing Santa hats.

One night, I remember riding into a little trailer park, way out in the sticks. I remember how dark it was in the country. I remember my father parking the truck in front of a single wide trailer.

We walked up to the mildewed porch. Daddy carried a tree over his shoulder. We rapped on the thin aluminum door. When the door opened, a young woman was staring back at us. A baby on her hip.

Daddy insisted that we sing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.”…