The road stretches out before me, through the heart of a land I've only now come to know so intimately. As the sun rises, casting aside the shadows of the night, I have a new purpose, a new mission: Home.

There was a time when the allure of the open road was an irresistible siren song—a promise of adventure, of stories waiting just beyond the next curve. But now, each mile brings me closer to home, and the pull of that distant place is stronger than any wanderlust.

The Hope & Generosity Tour has been more than a journey; it's been a pilgrimage through the soul of America. I've sat at the tables of strangers who became friends over the breaking of bread. I've listened to the whispered dreams of the hopeful and the weathered wisdom of the old. Each town, each face, each story has etched itself into the tapestry of my memory, threads woven so tightly they can never be unraveled.

Yet, as profound as these experiences have been, my thoughts now drift toward my wife. She is the fixed point in my ever-spinning world, my compass point. 

I recall the beginning of this journey, the way the horizon beckoned with promises of the unknown. Josie, my faithful yet temperamental vehicle, was packed to the brim with supplies and an eager spirit. The road was an open canvas, and I was ready to paint it with the colors of discovery. But I didn't anticipate how the threads of home would tug at me, growing tauter with each passing day until they pulled me back toward the place where my heart truly resides.

In the small town of Brewton, Alabama, where the scent of pines mingles with the whisper of old secrets and the creeks run stubborn and wild, lives a man named Danny Cottrell. He’s the kind of man that would give you the shirt off his back and then slip you a few extra dollars to buy a new one. And he is as much a part of Brewton as the red clay underfoot or the humid air that clings to every summer day.

Danny moved to Brewton when he was just a toddler, though you'd think he'd been born and bred there for generations. His wife, his high school sweetheart, remains by his side through fifty years of life's ebb and flow. Together, they’ve watched the town change, yet in many ways stay the same—a mosaic of familiar faces and unchanging landscapes.

At fifteen, Danny found himself working at the local pharmacy as a delivery boy; it would become a place that was as much his home as any other. The owner, in a twist of fate or perhaps simple desperation, needed help, and Danny was just the willing sort. By twenty-seven, he owns the place outright—a bold move for a young man who didn’t even own a credit card at the time—but Danny never was one to shy away from what needed doing.

"It’s the only place I've ever drawn a paycheck from," he says with a modest shrug, eyes crinkling with a hint of pride. Over the years, he acquires three more pharmacies and partnerships in several more, weaving himself into the very fabric of the community. His entrepreneurial spirit is nearly as vast as his heart, stretching across counties and creeks.

The town of East Brewton lies across two temperamental creeks—Murder Creek and Burnt Corn Creek—both prone to flooding their banks when the skies open angry and rain down their fury. When the waters rise, East Brewton becomes an island unto itself, cut off from the rest of the world until nature decides otherwise. Folks over there needed a pharmacy, a place to get their medicines when the bridges became impassable.

The November air in Brewton, Alabama, carries a certain weight—an earthy dampness from the recent rains mixed with the faint smoke of burning wood. It's a small town stitched together by railroad tracks and memories—the kind of place where the past lingers like a persistent ghost. I've found myself here on Thanksgiving, far from the familiar faces and worn-in comforts of home.

The streets are quiet this morning, leaves skittering across the pavement like restless thoughts. Families are tucked away inside their houses, ovens warm and tables set, the murmurs of generations mingling in cozy rooms. I pass by windows glowing with the soft light of lamps, glimpses of people embracing, laughing, and preparing for the feast. It's the fabric of intimacy from which I am distinctly separate.

I had received a few tentative invitations from kind souls met in passing—a preacher turned community spokesman and a pharmacist with a heart of gold—but they were heading out of town, drawn to larger family gatherings elsewhere. Their offers were warm but fleeting, like the pop of a spark that quickly fades in the nigh sky. 

So, I've decided to partake in the community Thanksgiving at Drexell and Honeybee’s “donation only” restaurant, where the motto is, “Feed the need.” Here anyone can eat a restaurant-style meal without worrying about the check; no one gets a check. Ever. If you’re able and can afford it, a donation box sits unobtrusively in the back of the place where you can pay as little or as much as you want for the meal. 

D&H was founded out of dreams and determination by Lisa Thomas-Macmillan and her husband, Freddie. But even before the restaurant they were involved in delivering hot meals to shut-ins. But Lisa felt like there was more she could do. She had always wanted to run a restaurant, but financially, that dream just wasn’t going to happen. That’s where Freddie stepped in. “He really is the one responsible for all this,” Lisa told me, and noted how it was Freddie’s retirement that allowed them to first set up shop.

In the quiet heart of Alabama, where the pine trees whisper tales to the wind, there lies the town of Brewton, with a population just north of 5,000. This is a place where strangers stop you in the street and talk to you like an old friend they haven’t seen in a decade. They speak with an unmistakable southern drawl here, the kind that says “please, thank you” and “can I help you?” all at the same time.

This is a place where the earth's riches have been kind to its people, and in return, the people have been kind to each other. Brewton's story is not one of opulence hoarded behind grand estate gates, but of wealth turned outward to smooth the rough edges of a small community.

The dense, ancient forests surrounding the town gave life to industry and entrepreneurial spirit and birthed the first generation of timber barons. Men like John McCowin, the Drexels, and D.W. McMillian saw more than just trees; they saw a future carved from the wood they harvested.

Reminders of their wealth and generosity are sprinkled so finely over the landscape of this town that its hard to walk more than a block in any one direction and not see something—a store, a medical facility, a school, a street, a park—carrying their name in legacy. The scent of freshly cut timber mingled with the promise of progress, and the railroads carried both wood and hope to distant places.

Profits flowed so heavy here that at one time it was the richest city per capita in the nation. In those days, Brewton might not have boasted the tallest buildings or the widest streets, but there was a richness that went beyond gold and currency. The barons, with pockets deep from the timber trade, chose to sow their wealth back into the soil of the town. They funded the construction of churches where hymns filled the Sunday air, and community centers where children learned their letters and neighbors gathered to share their lives. They have a YMCA center there that would be the envy of an Atlanta, Shreveport, or Kansas City; they spent $5 million on a girl’s softball field complex alone. 

In the heart of a small Tennessee town named Orlinda, where the sun casts long, warm shadows over rolling fields, there lives a woman whose presence is as steadfast as the land itself. At 82, Annelia English Knight moves through her days with a grace and energy that belies her years. There's a certain elegance to her—an unspoken nobility hinted at by her very name, a reflection perhaps of her background in make-up and fashion design.

The town’s humble public library stands at the heart of Orlinda, a modest building with a history etched into its walls. Once the Bank of Orlinda, built back in 1903, it now serves as a repository of stories both old and new. It was here that Annelia found another chapter of her own story unfolding. When the previous librarian fell ill, the library doors were shuttered, its future uncertain. But for Annelia, a closed door was simply an opportunity waiting to be grasped.

"It needs to be open," she said when she heard of its closure. "People are going to want to stop in the library... just coming through town and asking questions." And so she volunteered, at first just to "keep the doors open until y'all decide what you're going to do." After four months, the city manager approached her. "Do you want this job?" he asked.

As she has with most challenges in her life, she said "yes,” although readily admitting, "I've never been a librarian.”

And the library needed her, and perhaps, in some quiet way, she needed it too. The place was in disaster area—a testament to benign neglect. "It was nasty," she says. "There was a big desk... you couldn't sit up under... it was full of trash from the floor up to here... trash." Undeterred, she rolled up her sleeves. "The first thing I did was I just had to clean up." Top to bottom, side to side, she cleaned it all, by herself. The blinds, she says, took four attempts each to clean. “The dust was so thick it looked black,” she said.

In the gentle folds of northern Tennessee, where the land undulates like a whispered secret between the hills, lies the small town of Orlinda. It's a place where the morning light stretches over vast fields, touching the silos and barns with a golden hand, and where the rhythm of life beats in time with the turning seasons. Orlinda is not a town that shouts its presence to the world; instead, it hums quietly, a steady note in the grand symphony of the American heartland.

The streets of Orlinda are lined with memories. Once, they bustled with the vigor of a town on the rise. Main Street was the artery through which the lifeblood of commerce flowed—shops with brightly painted signs, a grain mill whose proud silhouette dominated the skyline, and neighbors who knew each other by name and story. The grain mill, in particular, was a titan of industry for the town, its operations so expansive that it shipped produce as far as the golden coasts of California. The mill’s ceaseless hum was a lullaby that soothed the town to sleep and a wake-up call that greeted each new day.

There was a time when Orlinda danced briefly in the spotlight of fame. The year was 1986 when the quiet town became the backdrop for "The Last Days of Frank and Jesse James," a film that brought legends Kris Kristofferson and Johnny Cash to its dusty roads. For a fleeting moment, Orlinda was transformed. The townsfolk watched as their familiar landscapes were captured on celluloid, immortalizing the rolling fields and weathered facades. The stars themselves mingled with the locals, their larger-than-life personas somehow fitting seamlessly into the tapestry of Orlinda's everyday life.

But like many small towns stitched into the vast quilt of rural America, Orlinda felt the inexorable pull of change. The grain mill's steady hum eventually faded into silence, a casualty of shifting economies and the march of progress. Shops that once brimmed with goods and gossip shuttered their windows, their interiors gathering dust and echoes. Young folks, lured by the siren song of distant cities, left in search of brighter horizons, leaving behind the whispers of their childhoods rustling in the fields.

Yet, despite the ebbing tide of prosperity, Orlinda endures. The town is a testament to resilience—a quiet defiance against the forgetfulness of time. Farmers still rise before dawn, their silhouettes etched against the morning mist as they tend to the land that has sustained generations. The local diner remains a sanctuary where the aroma of strong coffee mingles with tales of yesterday and dreams of tomorrow. In churches and schools, community ties are woven tighter, threads of kinship and tradition holding fast.

Josie has broken down, this time in a major way. Her alternator appears shot. Although the repair can be done without having to drop the engine or anything near that drastic, this is still a major repair, and I am nowhere near being in an optimum position to pull this off.

Earlier in the day I was hunting for a bona fide ghost town known as Alone, Kentucky. The weather was miserable, overcast and raining on and off, and cold. A wind blew up that only made everything seem more miserable and more cold. And though I tried and tried, I just couldn't find the town. 

It's there on the map, if you zoom in far enough, but I had no way points to guide me, no street names to plug into the GPS. And although I found the Alone Cemetery, which sits just off the main road, the town was no where to be seen. Given the terrible weather, I accepted defeat and looked for the closest Walmart to hold up for the rest of the day and into the night.

That store was in Glasgow, Kentucky. I navigated Josie there with no problem, picked out my spot on the fringe of the parking lot and shut off her engine. After a half hour or so, I decided to head to a diner where I could get some hot coffee and recharge my electronics, which were running dangerously low on electricity.

I jumped in the driver's seat and turned the key only to hear the sickening sound of a slow "bur-rur-rur-rur"; the battery was nearly dead and I couldn't turn the engine over. I did some quick tests with a voltmeter and confirmed that the battery was low. But how?

I rolled into Munfordville, Kentucky, drawn not by any particular beacon or happenstance of note, but rather by its miniscule place on the map. It’s barely a blip, this town of less than 1,000, where every face is a familiar story etched by time and toil. You could easily mistake the town for Mayberry, RFD, home of the beloved TV show of yesteryear, the Andy Griffth Show.

It was here that I chose to deviate from “the mission,” that being to seek out unsung community heroes and breathe life into their untold stories. But this is an adventure of my own doing; I owe nothing to a board or committee at large. So this day I chose to pencil whip the mission statement and make the Tour itself the beacon rather than any single person, at least for a single day. 

My plan was simple in conception but grand in spirit. I intended to walk into the local grocery store of this unassuming town, purchase every frozen turkey they had, and then give them away freely to the townsfolk. A gesture of pure goodwill, timed perfectly for the approaching Thanksgiving holiday.

The sun had just bent past the noon hour when I pulled into the small employee-owned IGA store. The facade was humble—faded paint and a hand-painted sign that had weathered many a season. Inside, the air was thick with the mingled scents of fresh bread, ground coffee, and the indefinable aroma of everyday life.

I asked for the manager and waited, my fingers tapping a silent rhythm against my leg. When she finally appeared—having left me standing there for 15 minutes cooling my jets—her gaze was sharp, tinged with a skepticism that seemed out of place in such a tranquil setting.

OK, let’s get real…

Driving down endless stretches of asphalt, I've too much time to think. This road trip sounded like a grand idea back home—a mission to dig into people's lives, to pull out their stories, and share them with the world. But every morning, I wake up with a knot in my gut. The idea of walking up to a stranger and getting them to open up feels like stepping into the arena without any armor, exposed and unsure of what happens next.

Some days, the open road becomes a copout.. I keep the wheels rolling, watching battered mailboxes blur past, just using the road as an excuse to avoid the hard stuff. It's easier to stay behind the wheel than to step into someone else's world uninvited. Maybe I'm running from the fear of rejection…

Nights are the worst. The empty passenger seat is a constant reminder of who I'm missing. My wife's back home, and every fiber of me wants to be there with her. The bed's cold, the silence is loud, and the loneliness digs in deep. Thirty-five years together, and being apart doesn't get any easier.

Funny thing is, when I do muster up the courage, I'm pretty damn good at it. I can get people talking, make them feel seen. I step into their shoes, feel their joys and pains like they're my own. It's what I set out to do, and it should come naturally. But the fear doesn't care about that.

In Dawson Springs, Kentucky—a town that barely dots the map and where everyone knows your name—Jeff Winfrey found his crucible at the epicenter of calamity, not once but twice. First came the tornado of December 2021, a monstrous beast that ripped through half the town like an unkindness of ravens. Then, as if the universe hadn't had its fill, another tornado barreled in on a late May evening earlier this year, turning what was left into kindling debris and dust.

Jeff wasn't the guy you'd peg as a community leader. A retired dentist and pastor of a small Primitive Baptist Church, he was content with the quiet rhythms of small-town life. "I'm a nobody from a nowhere place," he’ll tell you, shrugging off any notion of grandeur. But disasters have a way of drafting unlikely soldiers, and Jeff was conscripted by circumstance.

"I'm a nobody from a nowhere place," he’ll tell
you, shrugging off any notion of grandeur.

"The recovery is still ongoing," he told me in the small, neatly appointed office of his church. A church whose picture became the poster child for the horrendous tornado damage done, owing to the amount of destruction that had laid waste to its structure. A picture of the destroyed church played out on front pages of newspapers and in broadcasts across the nation. "It's still ongoing from the first one. We've still got a lot of people needing help that way." 

The first tornado had obliterated rental properties, displacing the town's most vulnerable—the elderly on fixed incomes, folks on disability scraping by on rice and beans, families who couldn't afford a mortgage even if you gift-wrapped a house for them. "People lost everything they had," Jeff explained. "That group right there has been difficult to help."

In the heart of Kentucky, nestled among low, rolling hills and ancient oaks, you’ll find the small town of Dawson Springs, all 2,452 of them. It’s a place where the past lingers in weathered buildings, boarded-up shops, and remembrances of former glory. The town proudly carries the motto "A Very Special Place," and for those who have walked its streets or felt the warmth of its community, the words ring true.

Dawson Springs began life in the late 19th century the way many small towns in the heartland have, born as a humble railroad stop, but this one had something special, indeed. The “springs” of Dawson Springs were the healing mineral waters that became a beacon for travelers and celebrities alike. The springs put the town on the map, as it were, as travelers flocked there with notions that a dip in the mineral waters would change lives. The town once boasted 23 hotels, with some that rivaled even the most upscale establishments of the big city. 

The land here is rich—not just in soil, but in spirit. The people here have always been tied to the earth, understanding its moods and seasons, drawing both sustenance and solace from it.

Life, real life, in Dawson Springs has never been about the grandeur or the spectacle. It's about the simple things: neighbors helping neighbors, children playing under the watchful eyes of generations past, and the shared understanding that everyone here is part of something larger than themselves. The town's charm is found in quiet moments—greetings exchanged on Main Street, the laughter spilling out from the local diner, the sense of belonging that wraps around you like a well-worn coat.

But even the most tranquil places must come to heel when the forces of nature rear up. In December of 2021, a cat4  tornado tore through Dawson Springs, leaving a trail of destruction that cut to through the heart of the community. Homes were flattened, lives were upended, and the familiar landscape was scarred beyond recognition. The people, stunned and grieving, gathered amidst the rubble, their faces etched with lines of sorrow and disbelief and the familiar 1,000-yard stares of those that have looked into the abyss. 

In the quiet, sprawling fields of Arkansas, where the sun casts long shadows over fertile soil and the air carries whispers of old hymns, Reverend Dale McDonald tends to the souls of his community much like a farmer nurtures his crops. The three humble churches he pastors—Allen Temple, Carter Chapel, and Mount Gillian, all of the African Methodist Episcopal denomination—are scattered across Phillips County, each a sanctuary of hope amidst the rolling landscapes and weathered towns. 

“The African Methodist Episcopal (A.M.E.) Church is a Christian denomination that proudly asserts that it is unashamedly Christian and unapologetically Black,” according to Yale Divinity School. “It was founded in 1787 when a group of Black worshipers, led by Richard Allen and Absalom Jones, exited St. George’s Methodist Episcopal Church in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, as an act of protest against segregation in the house of God.”

To Rev. McDonald, the churches he serves are more than mere buildings; they are his companions, his confidantes—the closest he has to a wife.

It was a Saturday night and I found myself hankering for some good ol’ gospel preaching, hymn singing and roof rasing. The closest A.M.E. church my personal AI assistant could find me was Allen Temple, West Helena, AR. It would be a mere four-hour-plus drive for me to make it in time for Sunday morning service. I fretted... it would mean pushing Josie about as hard as I dared to get us there on time. Moreover, I’d have to venture onto the Interstate—that vile collection of soulless ribbon concrete and turnpikes. But time is a cruel taskmaster; we had no other choice.

To Rev. McDonald, the churches he serves are more than mere buildings;
they are his companions, his confidantes—the closest he has to a wife.

In the heart of the Arkansas Delta, where the land stretches flat and fertile beneath an endless sky, lies the city of West Helena (pop. 8,689). This is a place where the Mississippi River has left its mark, carving out rich, dense soils that once promised prosperity. The Delta, a sub-region of the larger Mississippi Delta, is a landscape of paradoxes—abundant in natural wealth yet shadowed by hardship.

To view West Helena through the eyes of its Internet appearance, one would think the place is all Antebellum mansions, brisk shops, blues-infused cafes and bars, welcoming restaurants, and other southern-fried eateries. But that is a façade. Lift this thinly veiled tarp, and the promise plummets like a stone cast into the nearby Mississippi. I had stopped here in search of my next Hope & Generosity Tour profile subject. After we’d spent time together, he asked where I was off to next. I mentioned “nowhere and anywhere” and that I’d probably just hole up in a nearby WalMart parking lot for the night. 

“Oh no, you don’t wanna do that,” he warned. “Look around, you in the heart of the Delta, my friend. This is a rough place… I’d get out of here if I was you.” 

West Helena sits quietly along the river's edge, its streets lined with the echoes of better days. There was a time when cotton was king, and the fields stretched out like vast white oceans, teeming with labor and life. The cotton gins hummed with activity, and steamboats along the Mississippi carried the fruits of the land to distant markets. But those days have faded, and the prosperity that cotton brought has ebbed away like the river's retreating tide.

Today, the city bears the weight of tough economic times. Factories and businesses that once thrived now stand silent, their windows broken or boarded up, their walls marked by neglect. Unemployment casts a long shadow over the residents, many of whom struggle to find steady work in a place where opportunities are scarce. The poverty here is not the transient kind; it has settled in, taken root, and become part of the very fabric of the community.