Right now, I'm looking in my refrigerator. To the left of the beer, I see so much pimento cheese it's enough to give a man cardiac arrest. My wife made buckets of this stuff. And I should tell you: this isn't your average pimento cheese. This is Billy Graham in a Tupperware container.

And, in an unprecedented act of culinary selflessness, my wife has allowed me to share her top-secret Southern recipe.

So, without further delay, here's how she does it:

1. The very first step is to spend an entire childhood riding your bike down the sidewalks of a town about the size of

an area rug. I'm sorry, but you can't just can't make good pimento cheese if you grew up riding the public transit in East L.A. So get out there and start pedaling.

2. Buy a camouflage apron.

3. Read the entire Southern Living Cookbook collection. You'll find volumes 1 through 59,124 on my bottom bookshelf. Skip the holiday editions.

4. Own at least 1 string of pearls. It will take some time to break these puppies in. You must wear them often—this includes football games and showers.

5. Teach Sunday school.

6. Drink beer from…

I'm no psychiatrist, but that doesn't mean I can't prescribe mind-numbing medication—which I most certainly can. So, if you feel like your life has turned into cosmic kitty-litter clumps, here's a script straight from the doctor's notepad:

1. get in your car

2. head south.

Do it now—since it's summer. And do it on Sunday, because this is when small towns come alive. Don't take my word for it, listen to Joel:

“Sundays in my town were somethin' else. My dad invited folks home, after church. It was his goal to get so many people around our table that they had to stand around holding plates. His mac and

cheese was somethin' else.”

You'll note: "somethin' else," is Southern for, "pretty stinking good."

Marsha remembers Sundays from another point of view. “For my family,” she says, “the whole day was church. Mother and I arranged the flowers for two services. Afterward, we'd go home, hang up our Sunday clothes, eat lunch, then put'em back on for Sunday NIGHT.”

Sunday night service. You haven't seen anything until you've watched an out-of-town preacher slap the Bible on a Sunday night. It's somethin' else.

Now, meet Gregory and his brother, two middle-aged fellas…

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…