Long ago, a friend wrote a short biography for one of my magazine articles. In the bio, my friend referred to me as a “biscuit connoisseur,” and the title stuck.
Many of us had experienced flight delays. But the kid in U.S. uniform wore a smile. A big one. When the soldier got closer to the halfway point, a woman shouted.
When I coached their Little League team, a hundred years ago, I was a young man myself. It was my friend’s son’s team. My friend was the coach. I was his assistant coach.
I knew something was wrong when we walked into our hotel room. Namely, because our toilet had blinking lights.
The Say Hey Kid’s first season in the bigs was shaping up to be an awful one. He’d gotten no hits. He was a rookie with the worst record in the league. Period. After 26 plate appearances he’d hit the ball only once.
Dan Lovette became an usher at the Baptist church on Easter Sunday, March 26th, 1961. He stood at the door shaking hands, passing out bulletins. Nobody knew Dan.
My sister and I grew up hard. It wasn’t the kind of childhood depicted in Hallmark Channel movies.
I know too many who believe this world has already landed in the outhouse. I know too many who think love is an elaborate myth. Well. I believe these people are dead wrong.
Childhood is nothing but a continual buzz. A non-stop adventure novel.
“The world sure had changed, hasn’t it, Mama?” said her daughter. The old woman patted her daughter’s hand. “The world, yes. But people are still just as beautiful as they’ve ever been, sweetheart.”
I don’t know much of anything. But I will tell you this: Find a way to help other people. For I am convinced, wholeheartedly, this is the only path to happiness. And if that doesn’t work, you can always try ice cream.
The more I learn about people, the more I like my dogs.
My nieces have enough energy to power an average suburban electrical grid. They arrived in our driveway last night after spending upwards of six hours in the car. By the time they got here, they were not unlike compressed atomic matter contained in a jar, just waiting to explode.
Someone once told me that tomorrow is a day with no mistakes in it.
Tomatoes from Geneva County, Alabama, are different from common varieties. They are superior tomatoes.
No sooner had the old couple adopted the baby than Grandma began taking classes at a local community college to learn sign language. She brought the infant carrier into class with her. She fed her daughter during school hours.
You don’t forget kindness, no matter how small. You don’t forget your friends, no matter how close you were.
You might not know this, but a few days ago was a national holiday. A day when our nation traditionally puts aside our differences. That’s right. It was National Pound Cake Day.
You’re human. Sometimes you feel like you’re losing. Sometimes you feel overlooked and alone. Sometimes you talk to the sky and hope it will answer you. Sometimes you wonder if you’re going to make it. But it's going to be alright.
I asked a handful of friends for words of wisdom from elders in their lives. The rules were simple, the wisdom giver had to (a) be over 75, and (b) they had to be—technically—still alive.
Lake Martin is flat. Mirror flat. It is a perfect evening. The sun is low. The crickets are singing in full stereo. And I’m visiting with old ghosts.
No, I don’t know how to save this country. I don’t know much about anything. But I know family dinners ain’t a bad place to start.
“Welcome to Moe’s!” the man sang to us. He was pushing a mop, wiping down tables at Moe’s Southwest Grill in Daphne, Alabama.
Mobile was pretty. The sunset was peach. The Dolly Parton Bridge at sundown will move you.
I’m glad Alabama has a new, accomplished, head coach. I’m glad he’s here. I’m glad he has lots of enthusiasm. But I miss the old guys.