Ninety-nine-year-old Eleanor has lily-white hair, and a drawl thick enough to wade through. And the only thing she likes more than visitors, is playing hymns on her piano.

Something else: every day at six on the nose, Eleanor drinks a Miller Lite from the can — using a bendy straw. “I don't get drunk,” she says. “'Course, I've been drinking beer since childhood, when the doctor prescribed them for my ulcers.”

It's not every day you meet a beer sipping Southern Baptist who looks like Barbara Bush. But she's more than a church lady. She's a teacher. Eleanor began teaching elementary school at nineteen, in a poor rural Alabamian community.

“Them kids," she said. "They'd come to class without shoes on, and they'd have the ground itch real bad.”

“Ground itch?”

“Ring worms, up in their feet.”

Nice.

“We had all kinds of kids," she went on. "Once, we had a child who was genius. Poor thing, he didn't talk to nobody. It was too much for him. They have a name, nowadays,

for what he had. I can't think of it."

Autism. Aspergers. Take your pick.

“Mercy,” she said. “He was smart, but he nearly drove our teachers plumb nuts, acting out. He failed every class. After being held back so many years, he was a head taller than others in his grade. That's when I decided to help.”

She took a sip of beer and winked.

“I gave him a special desk in the back of the class, it had paints, brushes, crayons, pencils, paper, and such. I told him, for each assignment he aced, he could spend the rest of the day on art. Sometimes I let him spend entire days painting. That year, I tried to let him know he was loved.”

“What happened?”

“He tore through four years of math in one school-year." She laughed. "Our classroom wall looked like a big geometric painting, without…

Sweet Jesus, help me. I'm sick. I ate too much pound cake and ice cream after supper. Now, no matter how still I lay, the world won't stop spinning. I had to unbuckle my belt just to keep from passing out.

This is all my wife, Jamie's fault. She's a feeder. And if you know "feeders," you know their God-given roles in life are to stuff you so full you need help getting your own pants off. It's in their blood.

The truth is, feeders are God's gift to humanity. They were sent to earth to baptize us in trans-fats and peppermill gravy. And they don't get thanked nearly enough for it.

They work their fingers raw. They'll stir a pot of collards in one hand, and knead dough in the other. They'll glaze ham, chop coleslaw, fry chicken, stir grits, and buy you a new pair of stretchy pants, all in the same day.

My wife descends from a long line of feeders. Her father was a

card-carrying feeder. Whenever you wandered past his kitchen, you got pimento cheese on Bunny Bread, one slice of pound cake, Coca-Cola, and some Pepto Bismol.

He was the kind of fella who'd go to the trouble of preparing a nine-plate breakfast, just because it was Tuesday. Who'd spend eight hours on a steak supper — complete with sliced tomatoes. Who kept a can of bacon grease on the counter, and used a dollop in everything from turnip greens to Raisin Bran.

Feeders are special folks.

They deserve their own magnificent kitchens in heaven. Because Lord knows, they won't stop cooking once they get there. In fact, they wouldn't know what to do with their hands if it weren't for whisks and electric mixers.

These kind souls believe all your troubles can be treated with chicken and dumplings. And if you waltz through their door wearing a sad face, they'll start flouring up…

It was the worst Easter Sunday ever. People arrived to service dressed in pastels, wearing those big soupy grins. They were happy people. No. Worse than that. They were families.After Daddy died, we were half a family.

In the woods behind the church sat a rusted Buick with busted windows. It was the perfect place for sitting. Or crying.

On Easter Sunday, I did both. While cheerful folks sat in the chapel, I hiked through the brush, plodding through the creek, toward the Buick. I climbed onto the roof. I loosened my green tie, rolled it into a tight ball, then flung it as far as I could.

I hated that thing. It was my father's. The same necktie I'd worn to his funeral only six months earlier. It still smelled like him, which made me sick to my stomach. And then I started sobbing.

I was interrupted by footsteps in the brush. It was Phillip, who was a few years older than me. He climbed up beside me. “You didn't want

to hear the sermon today?” he asked.

I didn't answer, because I didn't give a cuss about sermons. Six months after your daddy dies, the last thing you want is to hear some fella yapping about the joy of the Lord.

“You play first base, don't you?” Phillip asked. “Hell, I ain't no good at baseball.” He removed his necktie and tucked it in his pocket. “Don't you hate ties?"

Silence.

"You know," Phillip went on. "My daddy left my mom and me before I was born. Shoot, my buddy Billy, he don't even know if he HAS a daddy. And Roger Allen, his daddy died when he was just a toddler. Lots of us ain't got daddies, you know.”

I said nothing.

"I suppose," he said. "What I'm trying to say is, you're part of our club now.”

He nodded toward two boys in the distance. It…