I got an anniversary notice today. The earth has made its fourth circle around the sun since I started Georgia Bred back in the summer of 2019. There was no party. No cake. Not even a real card. Just a “bling” on my phone that pointed me to a notification from Word Press.

“Congratulations, you’ve made it 4 years. Thanks for flying with Word Press.”

This is kind of like getting a birthday card from your dentist. You don’t get it because he really cares about your birthday. You get it because his office computer is good at keeping up with patient profiles and, in particular, who’s birthday is on what day. It spits out a notice and some poor receptionist reaches down in the bottom desk drawer, gets out a generic birthday card with balloons on the front, and she signs it.

“From all of us at Dr. Buck Toothmyer’s office. HBD.”

So, there are no fireworks, but I am grateful.

One of the things I set out to do four years ago was to capture some of our family history by way of storytelling. I wanted to preserve some of the stories I heard during my growing up years. I wrote about some of the stories I remembered all on my own. I’ve tried to make my ancestors live again for the sake of my children and grandchildren.

At one time, I specifically talked about my regret of never having the chance to know my own grandfather on the Chappell side and that I wanted to write in case something should ever happen to Beth or me. That way my grandkids would have some small way to know a little bit about who we were.

Little did I know how that sentiment would come into play after Beth passed away. Next month will be two years now that she’s been gone. I was in the middle of putting together my first book when we both got sick. Two months after her funeral, I finished the book. Some of her stories are in there and my grandkids all have a copy of that book. Some of them cannot read yet, but, hey, they have the book.

So, yes, I’m grateful that four years ago I started writing.

Writing has been fun and rewarding. At times it has been demanding and nerve-racking and a huge drain on my shallow pool of creative ideas. I have written about “nothing” on several occasions. Once upon a time I wrote a thousand words about toilet paper. Let that sink in. For crying out loud, I’ve interviewed my mixed-breed dog for your entertainment. Max has more followers than I do.

My favorite thing to do is to write about other people.

I’ll never forget Doc Patton, the retired Veterinarian who quit practicing but couldn’t give up his love for animals. Or, Henry, the dog trainer that had worked for 50 years on one of the bird plantations in south Alabama. Ronnie, who swept floors at Southern States. Or Vincent, who wandered into a church fellowship meal. Or Frank, the former front office guy for the Atlanta Braves, who sat in my office and talked baseball for two hours.

You have to be careful when you’re around a writer who’s hungry for an idea to turn into a story.

Recently, I wrote about the evening I had dinner with some of my old high school friends. When the story came out a few days later, one of them texted me and said: “I knew we’d end up in one of your stories.”

Yep. People who know me just have to accept the fact that I’m always on the prowl for the next thing to write about. Good subject matter doesn’t just show up on my doorstep.

One thing that has inspired me more than I could have ever imagined has been the opportunities I’ve had to write about death and loss and the work of grief. When I wrote about Beth, at first, I hesitated to make it public. The feelings and the experiences were fresh and raw. But the response from others who had gone through the same experience was overwhelming. And, for me, it turned out to be a part of the healing process.

Since, I’ve written about a lot of people whom I’ve seen pass on from this world. Their lives had a huge impact on me, and I do my best to find a way to celebrate who they were and to tell their story. Every time I do that, you respond. You tell me about the people you’ve known. You talk about how loss and grief mix with the comfort and strength you draw from your own faith. Together, we talk about the things that matter most.

I can’t really explain why I keep writing. Most of the family stories have been told. I can’t claim that as a reason any longer. I have no real deadlines. I don’t have a publisher hounding me for another story. Yet, I keep sitting in front of this laptop and pecking away.

I do know, though. It’s you. You’re the reason I keep writing. Besides my children, a few friends and a handful of dedicated cousins, I have no idea who is reading what I write. But I know you’re out there. You encourage me to keep it up. You tell me about how it was when you lost your sister. You ask me if I’ve got cameras in your home.

Writing about life is simple, really. You sit down and tell people about what they already know. You describe scenes that they already have in their own minds. You touch things that they already feel. You create moments that they understand because they’ve been there and done that.

I’ve got this one friend who tells me all the time: “I know we didn’t grow up together, but I swear sometimes I think you lived my life.”

So, here I am four years later. Word Press tells me, as part of their very personal good wishes, that I have published 418 stories to date. I reckon that might be enough stories for a second book coming this fall.

I’ve already made a rough selection of the next 60 stories that will fill out the book. That should make it about the same length as the first one. Lord knows we don’t need a longer book. And, hey, if you want to send me a few story titles that you think just have to be included, let me know. I’ll run your suggestions by Max.

In the meantime, I have to find me an editor. I need some unsuspecting and gracious individual who actually knows what good grammar do look like so that I don’t embarrass myself in print.

The new book is titled “Have Mercy,” because I have been shown mercy in so many ways over the last couple of years. It’s also a tip of the hat to a time when my mama would say something like: “Lord, have mercy, son. What were you thinking?”

To which I would reply: “I have no idea.”

Which is still true.