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About this blog

Sean Dietrich is a writer, humorist, novelist, and biscuit connoisseur, known for his commentary and stories on life in the American South.

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One Day At The National Mall

One Day At The National Mall

Washington D.C. It was the height of summer. Early July. I was in town for a book event, to make a speech. I had time to kill, so I went to the National Mall. The National Mall is “America’s Front Yard.” There are thousands of tourists, and even more screaming babies. One particular tourist, however, stands out in my memory. A young woman who was wearing a shirt that read: “I’m not proud to be an American.” I get it. Believe me, I do. Everyone is entitled to their outlook. But thi
Sean Dietrich

Sean Dietrich

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Good Old Days

The kid behind the bar asked what type of beer I wanted. It was a fancy place, so I asked what kinds they had. It was a mistake. There were nine hundred varieties—not a Budweiser in sight. The kid handed me an iPad with a menu on the screen. And before he filled my glass with fifteen-dollar suds, he said, “Sorry, we don’t carry Budweiser. This world has changed on you, bucko.” Bucko? As a matter of fact, you’re right, kid. You want to know how much it’s changed? My school bus
A Full Life

A Full Life

Obnoxious loud-talkers who sit at bars, rank right up there with dogs who lift their legs on your welcome mat. Take, for instance, the fella at the bar beside me. He launched into a well-rehearsed speech about his world travels. First, the Alps. Then, Belgium, France, Italy, South Africa, Timbuktu. By then, people at the bar had cleared out. He asked me, “You done much traveling?” I shook my head and said, “No, but I’ve woken up in a cattle pasture.” Loud-Talker rolled h
The Art Of Porch Sitting

The Art Of Porch Sitting

I come from a long line of porch sitters. This is why I am always on my porch. In my neighborhood, I am affectionately known as “that weirdo freak who’s always on his porch.” This is usually said in a positive way.  But I can’t help it. Since infanthood, the only place I ever wanted to be was a porch. There I’d be, wearing my onesie, crawling on the porch, drooling on myself, and testing the maximum capacity limits of my diaper. Whenever my mother’s friends visited, they would pick me up to
The Argument I Had In The Supermarket

The Argument I Had In The Supermarket

I got into an argument at the supermarket. This is how volatile our world is right now. It was in the checkout line. My opponent was not only clueless, but pigheaded, refusing all logic. The fact that my opponent is only 9 is no excuse. “I don’t like Superman,” the little boy said. “He’s kinda dumb.” At the time I was holding a Superman comic book, along with my other grocery items. They were selling comics in the checkout lane. The elderly lady cashier was just staring at us, arguing.
The Art You Find In A Waffle House

The Art You Find In A Waffle House

Waffle House. My waitress has a bunch of tattoos. The women customers in the booth behind mine are talking about it in voices loud enough to alter the migratory patterns of waterfowl. “Did you see ALL her tattoos? Our waitress?” “I know.” “Why do they DO that to themselves?” “I know.” I personally do not have tattoos. I come from teetotalling fundamentalists whose moms ironed our Fruit of the Looms. If I had come home with, for example, a Superman tattoo on my chest, the
 

A Woman Named Honey

“I’m dying,” the older woman says.  Her name is Honey. She is in the meet-and-greet line after one of my shows. She holds one of my books. White hair. Tiny frame. Maybe five-foot.  The theater ushers move her to the head of the line because she is using her roller walker.  “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says through wheezing breaths.  “Your name is Honey?” I say.  “Yes.”  “Why do they call you that?” She is too winded to answer my question. And she has
I Heart America

I Heart America

An old highway. Somewhere in America. Two lanes. No shoulder. Faded yellow lines. Oh, the things you see while driving old American highways will enchant you. I pass a young woman walking the side of the highway, carrying supermarket bags. She is young. Ponytail. Sunday dress. There is a little boy on a bicycle following her. This makes me smile. Because I am glad to know children still ride bikes. When I was a kid, an estimated 69 percent of American children between ages five an
Dearest Lynn

Dearest Lynn

Note - Sean and his wife Jamie are currently on a pilgrimage in Spain, walking the El Camino de Santiago. You can keep up with their travels on Sean's Facebook page and website. In the meantime, here's a post from January 2025: Dear Lynn,  It’s weird. Weird knowing that you won’t be reading this today. You always read my stuff. It’s how we met. Which only raises questions about your taste in literature.  Directly after you’d read my stuff, you’d email me. You did this nearly every
Good

Good

He was tall, lean, and young. When he approached me, he hugged me. Then, his mother hugged us both. A three-person club sandwich. He must’ve been a foot taller than I was. His voice squeaked with adolescence. His skin was freckled. He had a long neck. He recognized me. “I liked your books, sir,” he said, through a nervous stutter. Sir? No way. Such titles are reserved for men who wear penny loafers when fishing. “I read them all when I was in the hospital,” the boy went on. “
An Analog Childhood

An Analog Childhood

Wake up early. Saturday morning. Leap out of bed. Oh, the bliss.  You sprint to the television set, racing your sister. Last one’s a rotten egg.  You are still wearing Superman pajamas. Beneath your Man-of-Steel PJs, you’re wearing Batman skivvies, which is a slight conflict of interest, but you make it work.  You slap the power button on TV. The old Zenith console warms up. The television is cased in a faux wooden cabinet, with warped oak-grain veneer from a bygone Dr. Pepper som
Confessions Of A Morning Person

Confessions Of A Morning Person

I haven’t always been a morning person. God knows. When I was a young man I was anti-morning-people. Morning people were insane. My mother was a morning person.  As a boy, I’d awake to find my mother already in the living room, snuggled beneath a lamp, where she’d been reading for hours. The cat in her lap would just stare at me with moral disapproval.  “There will come a day,” Mama would say, “when you won’t sleep as good as you do now.”  My mother evidently put a curse on me. Be
You

You

To the kid with cancer of the bones. Who is up late tonight because his meds won’t let him sleep. To his mother, who is beside him, rubbing his tummy. Mothers have been rubbing tummies since the dawn of the man. To the man who raises palmettos in South Alabama, whose wife passed yesterday morning. The same man who is starting a pecan orchard because it’s what she always wanted. To the woman who is the janitor for the Baptist church. Who clocks out of her other job to push her cart
One Afternoon At Winn Dixie

One Afternoon At Winn Dixie

He was a good kid. You could just tell.  He was maybe 11. Twelve at the most. He was in the supermarket. He had his little sister balanced on his hip. You don’t often see boys carrying toddlers out in public.  The kid was filling a shopping buggy. He was reaching for a bag of tortilla chips on the top shelf. I saw one of the older ladies in our aisle reach upward and remove a bag of Tostitos for him.  They were Tostitos Scoops. The greatest invention by the chip industry, and perh
The Elegy Of The Hand Written Letter

The Elegy Of The Hand Written Letter

Don’t shoot the messenger. But in America, one third of children have never handwritten a letter.  And it’s not just kids. Nearly 40 percent of adult Americans haven’t written a letter in the last five years, while 43 percent of Millenials have never sent one in their lifetime. Whereas recent studies show that Generation Z can’t read cursive and has no idea what the heck Grandma’s letters say.  The New York Times says that “The age of proper correspondence writing has ended…” “Let
Dear Kid

Dear Kid

Dear Kid, Don’t grow up. Don’t turn into an adult. That’s my advice. Resist adulthood. Be a kid forever. Right now, a lot of adults are angry in America. To be fair, we have a lot to be angry about. But adults can behave badly when they are angry. So please forgive us. Because the truth is—and I shouldn’t be telling you this—adults can be pretty stupid.  Don’t misunderstand. I don’t mean we’re “stupid” in a negative sense. Truly, I don’t. After all, just because someone is st
A Few Things I Love About America

A Few Things I Love About America

Americans are arguing right now. And believe me, I get it. There is a lot going on. Everyone has differences of opinion.  But I wondered if we Americans couldn’t put aside our disagreements for a moment, and agree on a few things we love.  I’ll start.  I love quilting. Quilting bees, quilting circles, quilting parties. Americans didn’t invent quilting, but it’s an American artform nonetheless.  I used to watch my mother quilt with dogged persistence. Day after day. Month afte
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