Danny Cottrell, Brewton, AL

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.

Danny sees this need not as an opportunity for profit—"It'll never really make any money," he admits—but as a call to action. He opens a pharmacy in East Brewton, ensuring that even when the waters rage, people can access what they need most. It's just like Danny to see a problem and set about fixing it without fanfare or fuss.

But perhaps one of Danny's most heroic undertakings is his relentless effort to help seniors decipher the governmental maze affectionately known as Medicare Part D. So thirsty are the townsfolk for help and guidance that when Danny first volunteers to assist, he finds himself aiding 2,400 people in that first year alone—nearly half of Brewton's entire population. His pharmacy becomes a beacon, a place where the complex is made simple, where the overwhelming becomes manageable. He was given the “Citizen of the Year,” award by the City Counsel for those early efforts.

His generosity isn't confined to his businesses. Danny has served on the school board for twelve years, guides the Kiwanis Club in their efforts to brighten children's lives, and has a knack for making complicated things simple, for turning bureaucratic tangles into manageable paths. And he’s been known to buy hamburgers for visiting football teams now and then to make sure their all fed after their gridiron clash with the hometown favorites.

For those lucky enough to work directly for him, Danny sets aside 20 percent of their salary in a retirement account. Employees can choose to be paid this retirement windfall twice a year or every month. The money vests instantly and can be withdrawn at any time; Danny doesn’t mandate how or when it should be spent. Some take the funds each month; however, those that have diligently squirreled it away now find themselves millionaires—at least three of them—and there are several more with accounts above $500,000, Danny says.

But perhaps the story that ripples far beyond Brewton's borders is his $2 bill idea. In 2009, when the economic downturn clenches its fist around small towns like Brewton, anxiety hangs in the air as thick as the southern humidity. Danny notices his employees' worried glances, the unspoken fear of layoffs. He wants to assure them that their jobs are secure, but more than that, he wants to spark a little hope.

He devises a plan both simple and profound. He calls his employees together—a rare event that alone stirs whispers—and hands each of them a cash bonus all paid in $2 bills. There are two rules: spend it locally and give 15% to a charity or someone who needs it more than they do.

The $2 bills are a masterstroke. They stand out, make people take notice. As the bills exchange hands, they become tangible symbols of community support. Local businesses feel the influx, conversations spark, and a sense of unity blossoms in a time of uncertainty.

Word of Danny's initiative spreads beyond Brewton. Newspapers pick up the story, then radio stations, and soon national news outlets are knocking on his door. The man who never seeks the spotlight finds himself illuminated by it. Interviews pile up, his phone rings off the hook, and for a spell, Danny becomes a reluctant celebrity.

But he doesn't let it go to his head. "It was the right thing at the right time," he says, downplaying his role as is his nature. To him, the attention isn't the point. The point is that his community—the neighbors, friends, and even strangers who make up the tapestry of his life—feel a little lighter, a little more hopeful.

The $2 bills continue to circulate, little reminders of what one person's kindness can ignite. Some folks tuck them away as keepsakes, while others spend them, allowing the gesture to live on. The local bank even has to order more to keep up with the demand.

Danny's actions harken back to the spirit of the old timber barons who once shaped Brewton, men who believed in giving back to the place that had given them so much. He carries that legacy forward, not out of obligation, but because it is woven into the fabric of who he is.

In the quiet moments, if you pass by the pharmacy, you might see Danny's head bobbing behind the shelves, ever busy yet never too preoccupied to lend an ear or a helping hand. The store isn't just a place to fill prescriptions; it's a haven where problems find solutions and worries find comfort.

His impact isn't measured in dollars or headlines but in the countless lives he touches—students encouraged, patients cared for, and a town reminded of its own resilience. Danny doesn't seek accolades; he seeks to do what needs doing, believing that is simply the way a person ought to live.

Objectivity is said to be the journalist's creed, a lens through which to observe without intrusion. Yet, as I journey through these towns and meet their people, I find that mantle slipping from my shoulders. The folks I've spoken with have gathered me into their lives as surely as offering a bear hug. Some have opened their homes, giving me shelter for the night; others have shared meals—a blessed respite from eating a meal from a can. And then there are those like Danny and his wife, who have given me both home and hearth, and still wish they could offer more. These kindnesses don't cloud my judgment; rather, they sharpen it, allowing me a clearer glimpse into the hearts that beat at the core of these communities.

As the years roll on, the creeks still flood, and challenges still arise. But with people like Danny in Brewton, there is a steadfast certainty that kindness and determination will always find a way to bridge the waters.

And so, in a corner of Alabama where the pines stand tall and the community stands together, the legacy of a humble pharmacist continues to inspire—a testament to the profound difference one person can make when they lead with their heart.