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...

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...

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...

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....

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...

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...

There's a profound feeling in finding a safe harbor amid the tempests of the road, especially when that refuge is offered freely by an old friend. Such was my fortune when I found myself welcomed into the home ofAl Pennington who lives just beyond the bustle of Birmingham, Alabama. His place became my sanctuary—at least for the last two nights—a respite from the weary miles stretched out behind me. The lure of a warm bed, a hot shower, and the companionship of a fellow storyteller is enough to draw any traveler off his path for a while. I was no exception. I had pushed Josie about as hard as I dared, driving her five solid hours of undulating backroads. She coughed now and then, a mechanical grumble of protest, but she held together and delivered me to Al's doorstep without any real trouble. Al and I go back to my days at MSNBC....

In the quiet hours of dawn, sitting in Josie’s cockpit, listening to the harmonies being played out between engine and wheels, I've had time to reflect on this journey. It's been a path lined with the faces and stories of ordinary people doing extraordinary things, threads woven into the rich tapestry of the American heartland. But now, as autumn leaves gather in the ditches and the chill of winter whispers in the wind, I find myself at a crossroads. I set out with a mission to shine a light on the unsung heroes of our small towns, to share their tales of generosity and kindness. The road has been both my companion and my teacher, and each stop has reminded me of my belief in the inherent goodness that binds us together. Yet, despite frugal living—meals of grilled cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and the lowly Ramen noodle—the reality is that the...

The ordeal is over. "Transplant” was a huge success. Josie is back up and running strong. The new part arrived at 10:45 via UPS next-day air. By the time the part arrived, I was nearly through the removal of the old alternator. I was right on schedule. There were no tricky situations to adjust to, just time-consuming tasks. I marched right through them and was done hours before I thought I would be. Good thing, too… it’s been cold and windy and overcast much of the day.  The pic here is of the old alternator. You can see how rusty it is inside. Metal flaking off… no bueno situation.We live to ride again!!

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...

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....

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...

Living on the road really sharpens your discipline. There is a place for everything and everything in its place. If you don’t religiously adhere to that practice, you’re doomed. Whenever I have to pull something out of my storage cabinets, it’s like playing Tetris because I have to move so many things around, not the least of these being that 5-gallon Jerry can full of gas. This picture gives you some idea of what I’m dealing with. This image show you the entirety of my “freespace” in the van (shoes for reference). It’s not exactly ballroom dancing. 

There’s just something, ah, “special” about a small town (pop. 864) “Laundry Mat.” First, the prices to wash clothes is outrageous—but since it’s the only establishment of its type for 30 miles in each direction, the owners know they have a captive customer base.  Only half the machines are in working order, the rest are in various states of workability. Signs telling the patrons to “tap on the coin box if it doesn’t start” are scattered here and there, taped to the machines.  A wizened couple sits mute, one munching on a Big Mac, the other blowing smoke from her Camel filtered cigarette out the door, but straight into the wind, which wafts it right back into the laundromat. Lucky me… The place creaks and moans like a haunted house at midnight, as if at any moment yet another machine will give up the ghost.  I just love the romance of the open road…

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...

UPDATE: new voltage regulator is in and it appears that everything is back to normal. Only took me an hour and that’s because I had to thread two screws in blind. And one of those screws took me a full half hour to line up and screw in. Ugh.  In the pictures you can see the dramatic difference between the old VR and the new. The new one has two “brushes” standing straight and tall. The old one only has one brush in good condition, while the other is 100 percent worn out!  These machines constantly amaze me. We’ll be back on the road tomorrow!

Well… we all knew it was gonna happen, just a matter of when. I was almost to my luxurious WalMart parking spot where I was going to hunker down for the night. Just three miles away, and all of a sudden she throws a big red dashboard light for the battery. When this happens there’s no debating the next move/ it’s get the hell off the road NOW, or you could be melting the engine. Reason: that red light is a prime indicator that the fan belt broke. No fan belt, no fan turningmeans no cooling means—disaster. Luckily, I was able to immediately pull into a small parking lot for a lighting company. No one was around and so I set to clearing everything out of the back end of Josie so I could get to her engine and take a look.By now it’s starting to get dark. But LED flashlight in hand I...

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...

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...

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...