Sean Dietrich

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. “You don’t LIKE Superman?” I said. “Everyone likes Superman.” “I don’t know ANYONE who likes Superman,” said the boy. “I literally don’t even know who Superman is,” said the boy’s 7-year-old little sister. This is an affront. When I was a boy, everyone knew who Superman was. Namely, because Superman was a vital piece of boyhood. While girls were off playing “House,” developing useful life skills such as learning how to balance checkbooks and using EZ Bake ovens, boys were running around in our backyards wearing bath towels as capes. As a kid, you’d get into these wonderfully dramatic arguments with your buddies over which superhero was best. These topical disagreements usually centered around lesser superheroes like Batman, Spiderman, or Barbara Eden. But here’s the thing: Superman always won the argument. Because—hello?—he was Superman. My boyhood mind was consumed with Superman. I had Superman pajamas which looked exactly like his costume. I often wore them to school, beneath my clothes. During bathroom breaks I would tear off my civilian clothes and return to class in my heroic get-up. Mrs. Welch would refer to me as “Mister Kent” from there on. I wore those pajamas every day until there were holes in my little Super Butt. One day the pajamas mysteriously went missing. “I don’t know where they went,” my mother said. “Maybe I misplaced them.” I never forgave her for such an irresponsible oversight. As a boy, I ate, drank, and breathed Superman. A local radio station played old Superman shows every weekday after school. On Saturday mornings, I watched reruns of “Superman” with George Reeves. George Reeves was a terrific actor, perhaps the most gifted thespian who ever lived. To give you an idea how talented he was: Even though Clark and Superman were indistinguishable in appearance, nobody ever knew Clark and Superman were the same person. I carried my love of Superman well into my teens. I was a subscriber to Action Comics, which debuted Superman in 1938. I never missed an issue. My teens were hard years. I went through some very difficult stuff during my youth. We moved a lot. I dropped out of school. We weren’t exactly well-off, fiscally speaking. And to make matters worse, I had red hair. But no matter how bad it got, I always had Superman. I knew he wasn’t real, of course. But in a way, he kind of was. And he embodied more than truth, justice, and the American way. Aside from all the other super-powers, he was actually a nice guy. And believe me, Clark Kent had nearly every superpower known to man—flight, X-ray vision, super strength, heat vision, impenetrable skin, ice breath, superhuman hearing, electricity absorption, super speed, biological longevity, tactile telekinesis, microscopic vision, time travel, and (as seen in Superman #62) super-ventriloquism. And he was STILL painfully humble. Clark could have been the king of the world. Master of the universe. Had any girl he wanted. Won every high-school football game single handedly. Had his face on Fortune 500 magazine. He could have bullied the entire universe into his will. But he chose to be nothing. He chose to be anonymous. He chose horn-rimmed glasses. Would that I might be such a man. Superman’s popularity might have faded from mainstream attention, but I wonder what that says about us. Your modern Marvel-movie heroes are nothing like Supes. In fact, I’m not sure what your Marvel heroes are even fighting for these days except likes and shares. Not to be critical, but your modern cinematic superheroes are little more than clinically depressed computer-generated underwear models who DON’T EVEN HAVE CAPES. I placed my comic book on the conveyor belt. The little boy was still unconvinced. When the elderly lady cashier rang me up, she looked at the comic book and wore an amused smile. I asked the cashier, “Who do YOU think the best superhero is?” She thought about it. “Matthew McConaughey,” she said. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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 proverbial fertilizer would have hit the proverbial oscillating fan. But I don’t dislike tattoos the way some do. No, tattoos weren’t in fashion when WE were young, but if they had been, believe me, we’d have them. I know this because during my youth members of my generation were clambering to purchase $10 polo shirts with $90 alligators embroidered on the fronts. My friend Pete and I were the only ones in the entire fifth grade who did not own Izod polo shirts. So Pete and I took matters into our own hands. Pete’s mom had an embroidery machine. We begged her to craft a dozen alligator patches to sew onto our Kmart polos and—voila!—instant cool factor. We gave Pete’s mom DETAILED instructions, then left her unsupervised. Which, looking back, was a mistake. Because Pete’s mother delivered 12 polo shirts bearing colorful patches of Snoopy, Papa Smurf, and four of the original seven dwarves. The waitress was visiting each table, warming up coffees. She visited two ladies behind me. The ladies represented my generation. Their conversation kept growing louder. “They just look so trashy. Tattoos.” “I know, I wish I could tell these kids, ‘Quit screwing up your bodies.’ It’s stupid.” The young waitress finally made it to my table. I saw her inkwork. Her arm was painted in a sleeve of faded reds and greens. Images of dragons adorned her forearms. “I like your ink,” I said. She smiled. Then she glanced at the ladies in the booth behind me, who were evidently trying to speak quietly but were still using voices that rattled most dental fillings. “Thanks,” my waitress said. That’s when I noticed a date inscribed beneath one of the dragon tats. The waitress noticed me staring. “It’s my son,” she said, giving me a better presentation of her artwork. “He used to LOVE dragons.” “What is your son’s name?” She smiled again. This smile looked like it hurt. “His name was Daniel.” Was. She moved away from my table and kept about her busywork. Meantime, the women behind me kept about theirs. “I see so many pretty girls with tattoos. I JUST don’t GET it.” “Why would anyone want to LOOK like that?” “No idea. I’d be SO embarrassed.” The waitress visited my table again. She tore off my check and placed it facedown. “Anything else?” she asked. “May I ask you a question?” I replied. She waited. “What happened to your son?” There were no tears in her eyes. But there were tears in her voice. “He was 11. His uncle was driving. It was instant.” None of us said anything. She looked at her own forearm and admired it. “My son designed this one.” The ladies behind me had quit talking. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

“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 a lot to get out, so she cuts right to the car chase. “Before I die I have always wanted to meet you. My son brought me here tonight.” Her son stands by. He is crying, too. Honey’s son’s wife is also crying. People nearby are crying. So I follow suit. If you can’t beat them, join them. I lower myself to Honey’s eye level. “You wanted to meet ME? Are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else?” “I’m sure.” “Don’t you think it’s time to raise your standards?” “No.” Then we hug. Her body is so small and frail. During our embrace I can feel her ribs in my arms. I’m thinking I might break her if I squeeze too hard. Then again, what good is a hug if the other party doesn’t squeeze? You have to squeeze during a proper hug otherwise people will mistake you for a communist who doesn’t love the Lord. So I apply gentle—almost imperceptible pressure to our embrace. Neither of us let go for a little while. Two of us holding each other for a long time. Eyes closed. Honey says into my ear, “I love you. I’ve never met you, but I love you.” Still hugging. “Love you, too,” I whisper. “What’s killing you?” “Cancer.” There are rules to hugs. If you’re going to hug for more than five seconds, if you’re going to KEEP the hug going, it’s required to start rocking back and forth. Otherwise, as I say, communist. So we just sway for a few moments. Honey and I. Two bodies. Two humans. One love. When we release, I open my eyes and the real world is still there. People are looking at us. I wipe my eyes. The old woman kisses my cheek. She touches my face. Her eyes are bright. “Be a light,” she says. “Be such a bright light.” And now I know now why they call her Honey. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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 and 14 rode bikes. Today, it’s down to nine percent. The percentage drops every year. Growing up, bicycles were our religion. A kid and his bike were invincible. Your bike carried you far from home, into new realms, introducing you to the world at large. We kids had no technology. We had no social media. No smartphones. The bike was our internet, our phone, and our Instagram. Used to, our entire neighborhood would be littered with tiny bicycles, scattered in random front yards. And if you wanted to know where your friends were, you just looked for the bikes. I pass a Baptist Church, tucked in the trees. Big gravel parking lot. Cars parked everywhere. Mostly trucks or economy cars with muddy tires. No Land Rovers. The cemetery backs up to a cattle pasture. On the church lawn, I see a couple kids in dress clothes, roughhousing in the grass. If I were a betting man, I’d say one of those kids is about to get his butt reddened. I pass a baseball park off the highway. And although it’s Sunday, the stands are full. There are players on the field. White polyester uniforms. Parents cheering. Which is unusual to me. Because it’s Sunday. When I was a kid, we were not allowed to play baseball on Sundays. For crying out loud, we weren’t even allowed to clip our toenails on Sundays. Also prohibited was Sunday fishing. Namely, because fishing was considered “work.” And you did not work on the Lord’s day. Which was sort of ironic inasmuch as all the women would toil, sweat, and labor for six hours in the kitchen, each Sunday, cooking a dinner large enough to feed the People’s Liberation Army of China. Whereupon they would spend another nine hours doing dishes. I pass a house in the woods. Nestled in a copse of pines. White clapboards. Wrap-around porch. Both screen doors open—front and kitchen. A cross breeze works its way through the home. Also, I see an old man, seated on a swing, he’s reading—wait—can it be? Yes it can! He is reading a physical newspaper. More churches. Shady Grove Baptist. Pleasant Ridge Baptist. Pleasant View Baptist. First Baptist. Peachtree Baptist. Trinity Baptist. Wallace Farm Supply. Your classic small-town feed and seed. Red-and-white checkered Purina logo on the sign. Seminole Feed products. Get your Bengal roach spray here. I’ll bet they sell real cowboy hats inside. Up ahead are Cedartown, Bremen, and it’s only nine miles to Buchanan. I wish I could keep riding the old American highway. Because this is what I love about our country. The little towns. And the people in them. But, I’m turning onto the interstate now. I’m due back home in a few hours. I’m an adult now. I have commitments. Things to do. Bills to pay. People to see. But sometimes I still miss my bike. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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 day. For many years. Your emails were updates on your life. You told me about places you visited. Foods you ate. Ideas you had. About the thousands of medical appointments you endured. About the throngs of doctors in your life. About your hospital stays. Those emails became part of my daily routine. Jamie and I both read them. Daily. We’d get a little worried whenever we didn’t hear from you for a few days. The first time you and I actually hung out, we went to see George “Goober” Lindsey’s grave. You, me, and Jamie. It was a big roadtrip. Jamie drove the van. You sat in the passenger seat, navigating. I was in the back seat, providing the helpful service of eating Chili Cheese Fritos. The next time we hung out, we went to the ACTUAL Mayberry. We visited Mount Airy, North Carolina, for an Andy Griffith Rerun Watcher’s Club reunion. We spent the weekend together, watching reruns, at the Mayberry Motor Inn, along with hundreds of fellow Andy fans from around the US, who are all—and I mean this with all sincerity—clinically insane. One time, you went to Waffle House with Jamie. The waitress thought Jamie was your date. You blushed like a schoolkid. You invited us to Thanksgiving. You were always checking up on us. You came to many of my shows. You heard my jokes over and again. I don’t know how you weren’t sick of me. I’m sick of me. You sat front and center the first time I played the Grand Ole Opry. I took the stage, and I could see you in the audience. You had just gotten out of the hospital. I remember you were walking with a cane. But you were there. And when we hugged after the show you whispered in my ear, “You done good, Ope.” After you came out of your coma last month, several people said they were getting up a caroling troop to surprise you. The troop was a full band, with singers, guitars, banjos, and one accordion. We showed up on your lawn. There must have been fifteen or twenty of us. And we caroled hard. They wheeled your wheelchair outside into the icy cold. And there we were. Caroling our butts off. And this wasn’t easy inasmuch as none of us knew the lyrics to any actual carols, and none of us were singing, technically, at the same time. And then you invited us inside for hot cocoa and cookies. Within seconds, your house was alight with all us wackos, running around your halls, laughing, and hanging out, intoxicated purely on refined white sugar and fun. Before we left, you and I embraced. And you said to me, “Man, I think this is what heaven will feel like.” Someone laughed and told you that they thought you needed to raise your expectations regarding heaven. And yesterday, you finally did. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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. “I kinda got to know you, and it was like we were friends.” His mother tells me his story. It’s a long one, and it’s not mine to repeat. But he has the determination of a saint, and he still has a long road ahead of him. He suffers more than other kids his age. And as things stand right now, he might not survive his struggle. Before he walked away, he told me something. Something that stuck with me. “You know what I do when I’m down?” he said. “I list ten things I love every day. I write’em on paper. My dad told me to do that.” He tapped his finger against his head. “Gotta keep on thinking ‘bout things I love.” I was mute. I couldn’t seem to find words. I noticed a large moon-shaped scar beneath his hairline. I tried to say something, anything, but I just smiled. He hugged me one more time. His mother took his arm, they walked away. The boy walked with a pronounced limp, holding his mother for balance. And I can’t quit thinking about him. On the off-chance that he is reading this, I’ve come up with a few things I love: 1. I love Mexican food. In fact, I have had a lifelong love affair with it. A Mexican man I used to work with with used to make a dish called “chilaquiles verdes.” Before work, he would fry corn tortillas and scrambled eggs, then crumble enough cotija cheese on top to short-circuit U.S. Congress. This heap of food would be served, covered in green sauce his wife made. 2. I love sweat. I know that sounds bizarre, but if I go too many days without breaking a sweat, I feel like I am not quite human. Yes, this creates more laundry for my wife. Yes, my wife threatens to string me up by my tongue if I change my shirt one more time. But I like sweating. Once I was in Phoenix, Arizona, on business. A land where sweat evaporates before it accumulates. I didn’t have a good sweat for two weeks. Five minutes in the sun, your skin burns. Ten minutes; you turn into Lot’s wife. I didn’t have a very good time. 3. Stray dogs. Sometimes I go to animal shelters just to visit them. There is an extra special place in my heart for dogs who live in shelters. 4. I like old movies. I don’t go for new movies. I don’t like special effects, blood, realistic explosions, or music that sounds like two chainsaws having a cussing match. I enjoy Bogart, Hepburn, John Wayne, Shirley Temple, Randolph Scott, Don Knotts, etc. 5. Cheese. 6. Hank Williams. Don Williams. Willie Nelson. 7. Old books that smell like dust. I like to hold them in my hand. 8. Love stories. I got an email yesterday from an old friend of mine. He got married to his high-school sweetheart after thirty years of beating around the bush. It was the perfect love story. 9. Old folks. Last week, I met a woman who was 100 years old. I hugged her neck. She was sipping a glass of wine with dinner. I asked her what the secret to a long life was. She answered, “Just try not to quit breathing.” Then she had a coughing fit. 10. You. You might not know this, but I think about you a lot. I know we don’t know each other, but that’s inconsequential—and may I point out, “inconsequential” is a five-syllable word. Still, we’re probably not that different. Maybe we’re even alike. Maybe sometimes you worry too much. Or sometimes you get so swallowed up with tiny things in life, you wonder if you’re going to make it. Sometimes you wish you had answers. Lord knows, I don’t have any. But here’s what I DO know: I know that a wise young man is likely reading this right now. A kid who told me he is grateful to be alive, no matter how brief his own life may be. A kid who told me that every so often, he makes a list on paper, like the one you just read. A list of good things. Simply to remind him of how much he loves breathing. I wrote this for him. If for no other reason, to tell him that his name is at the top of another very important list I have going. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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 someone once placed atop the television, even though this someone’s mother told them to NEVER set ANYTHING atop the TV, not that we’re naming names here. So anyway, you’d sit on the floor, before the old tube, criss-crossed, which we used to call sitting “Indian style.” (No hate mail!) Cartoons blared. It was undefiled rapture. Until your mom yelled from the other room, “Don’t sit so close to the TV or you’ll hurt your eyes!” But you HAD to sit close. They were playing all the greats today. Bugs, Daffy, Elmer, Porky, Marvin the Martian. Yosemite Sam growled, “Say your prayers, varmint!” Speedy Gonzales would be chirping, “Ándale, ándale!” Wile E. Coyote and the bird were hard after it. Then came Yogi and Boo Boo, “Smarter than the average bear.” George, Jane, Judy, and Elroy. Fred, Barney, Wilma, Betty, and Mister Slate. After cartoons, you’d eat a wholesome breakfast of Rice Krispies. Rice Krispies had the same dietary value of No. 4 Styrofoam packing pellets. But it was okay. Your mom increased the nutritive value by topping your cereal with liberal spoonfuls of refined white sugar. Next, it was time to go outside and play. Mainly, we played Army Man. We used imitation firearms, pump rifle BB guns, and Andy’s dad even had a real bayonet from World War I. We used these items to keep America safe from the spread of Russian communism. Sometimes, however, we played Cops and Robbers. Or, Cowboys and You-Know-Whats. (Stop typing that email!) Then we’d hop on our bikes and ride to the closest filling station where we would purchase Nehis, or Ko-Kolas and peanuts, or Moonpies and RCs. We rode bikes great distances. Unsupervised. Without helmets. Usually, we’d try to convince Mister Peavler behind the gas station counter to sell us some tobacco for (air quotes) “our father.” Usually it was Copenhagen chew, Beech-Nut, or Red Man. (Do not send that email!). Sunday mornings were even better. You’d run out to the driveway, early before church, wearing your little trousers and penny loafers. There by the mailbox was a newspaper, rolled in a tube about the size of a NASA Saturn rocket. The paper was so big it required four or five men just to lift. The paper was jam packed with coupons for Mom, box scores for the old man, and just for you: Three pages of full-color funny papers. You had Dick Tracy, Peanuts, Garfield, Family Circle, Calvin and Hobbes, Wizard of ID, Andy Capp, B.C., Blondie. God bless the Far Side. Many of those things are gone now. But you can still remember it all. The way you felt. The way you looked. The way you would read the paper all morning until it was time for the family to go to church by piling into your dad’s old Jeep Cherokee. (What the heck. Go ahead and send the email.) Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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. Because I get up early now. I didn’t CHOOSE to begin rising at 4 a.m. every morning. I have no reason to awake early. I am not a farmer. But my brain decided, years ago, that no matter what time I go to bed, I’ll be up with the chickens. At first I resisted early rising. I did NOT want to be the kind of dork who got up at 4 a.m. to water ferns and take inventory of his commemorative Dale Earnhardt stamp collection. But there you are. Thus, each morning, my wife arises at 8:30 a.m. to find me on the porch, tapping away on a laptop. The cat on my lap just stares at her. Also, I’m not sure when I started cooking, but I do that now, too. Lately, I’ve become the interim cook in our household. I’m not a great cook, mind you. My specialty dish is something my wife calls “chicken sushi.” But I’ve found myself enjoying the culinary side of life. I read cookbooks for fun. I watch cooking shows and use words like “al dente” with a straight face. Last night for supper, I made chicken and dumplings. A few nights before, scalloped potato casserole and banana cream pie. My wife—God love her—who actually KNOWS how to cook, is gracious with my gastronomical experimentation. She’ll take a bite, dab her mouth primly with a napkin, and say, “I’ve never had blackened cheese casserole before.” Something else I do now is walk. I’ve never been a huge walker. Used to, I’d see older couples power walking in the mall, and I’d think to myself, “That will never be me.” But I’ve started going on walks. I leave the house without a destination. And I just walk. As I walk, I find myself praying. Which is also weird. Because that’s DEFINITELY something I never did as a young guy. I was never big on praying. But I do it all the time now. Usually, I pray for people I love. I pray they finally figure out who the heck they are. God knows, I never did. I pray they are uncommonly strong. I pray that whatever they are facing, they win. And I pray they’ll realize that everything will work out when it’s all over. If it hasn’t worked out yet, then it ain’t over. When I arrive back home, it’s almost time to start supper, and I’m almost ready for bed even though it’s still daylight. The cat sitting on the porch steps is staring at me. The cat is trying to tell me to hurry up and get busy. Time is ticking. Life is short. And we have an early morning tomorrow. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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 up and down the halls. She cleans bathrooms, dust offices. Who doesn’t get home until eight at night, and still has time to cook her kids a full supper meal before bedtime. To the nine-year-old girl whose father abused her. Whose life will forever be painted with the badness he left. She is now thirty-three. She got married this morning. Someone emailed me photos of the ordeal. Once, that same girl said, “I didn’t trust anyone for a long time, it was a big mistake. I’ve wasted a lot of years being scared of good people.” And to the young man who fell off the roof of a construction site. He broke two ribs. The woman across the street took him to the hospital. She carried him twelve hours to Texas to be in his mother’s house while he recovered. “Sometimes,” said that neighbor woman. “A man needs his mother.” I’m writing this to the Walmart employee who was on a smoke break ten minutes ago. She sat on the sidewalk. She cried while talking on the cellphone. If I didn’t know any better, it sounded like her boyfriend was breaking up with her. And to Jason, who just discovered he’s good a basketball player. Who has felt like a failure until now. Who tells me he developed a love of Mel Tillis after a friend sent him several albums in the mail. “‘Coca-Cola Cowboy’ is, like, one of my favorites songs now,” says Jason. Mine, too, Jason. To the young man who drives a truck for a living. Who thought it would be a great line of work, but doesn’t feel that way anymore. Who finds himself far from his kids and his wife. Who spends his nights on the phone and on his computer, keeping in touch. And to you. The person who believes you aren’t quite enough. No matter what you do, the feeling is there, beneath the surface. It nags at you like the tag in a new pair of underpants. You have waited so long to see your ship come in, you’re beginning to think you’re on the wrong dock. You are sad. You can’t have a baby. Or you’re poor. Your girlfriend wouldn’t marry you—even after eleven years together. She left you and got married a year later. Then had kids. Three of them. I know this is late coming, and I know it doesn’t mean much coming from a stranger. I know it doesn’t take away the ugly parts of life. But I mean it when I say it. And I hope you know that. God bless you. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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 perhaps the finest human achievement of the last century with the possible exception of penicillin. “Thanks,” the boy said. His buggy was nearly full. He had lots of adultish items in his basket. Coffee. Vegetables. Diapers. The older lady asked where the boy’s mother was. She asked this in a concerned, parental tone. Her concern, of course, is understandable in our modern day. You don’t often see kids wandering around by themselves anymore. During my youth, however, shortly after the close of World War I, kids almost never had parental supervision. We walked to school. Our mothers sent us to the store on errands. We hung out at the mall without supervision. We rode bikes into the woods, built campfires, constructed deathtrap treehouses, and made serious attempts at discovering new ways to break our own legs. We were feral. “Where are your parents?” said the older woman. “My mom’s waiting in the car,” he said. The woman’s brow furrowed. “She let you come in here by YOURSELF?” He nodded, then readjusted Little Sister on his hip. Little Sister had a snot bubble the size of a Canadian territory. “You’re GROCERY shopping?” the woman said. Nod. The lady was aghast. She wore the patented look of disapproval. “You shouldn’t be in here without an adult.” The kid didn’t reply. “Your mother should be with you,” she said in a half-scolding voice. “It’s dangerous. You’re too young to be by yourself.” “But,” the boy explained kindly, “shopping’s not that hard.” “That’s not what I meant. Your mother could get into a lot of trouble for leaving you unsupervised. This is unacceptable. Someone should tell the manager.” Little Sister’s snot bubble reached critical mass. The kid apologized. He looked embarrassed. He left the aisle and pushed his buggy to the cashier lane, often glancing behind him. Like he now realized he was doing something wrong. I watched him load items on a conveyor belt. I saw him use a credit card to pay. Later, I saw him in the parking lot. I saw the idling Honda that contained his mother. I saw Mom sleeping in the front seat. Then, I saw the middle-aged mother crawl from the vehicle. She was a skeleton. I saw her pale skin. The bandanna over her balding head. The hospital bracelet on her wrist. The bandage on the bend of her elbow. She was trying to help her son load groceries, but she struggled to lift a single bag. When they finished, the boy gave her a hug. And they held each other for a long time. Longer than a normal hug. Because, as I say, he was a good kid. You could just tell. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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…” “Letter writing is an endangered art,” The Atlantic said. “The death knell of written correspondence has been sounding for years,” said the Chicago Tribune. This is not new information, of course, unless you’ve been living underneath a slab of granite. Letters have been replaced by emails and texts. But texts and emails are not letters. An email has no charm. A text message does not not feel private. You cannot smell the paper. You cannot feel the weight of stationary in your hands. An email is temporary. An email will only last as long as your device is charged. Fact: Around 92 percent of working Americans feel anxiety when they see an unread email in their inbox. But a letter. A letter is real. A letter exists in physical space. A letter will not disappear unless you burn it. There are letters that still exist from 500 BC. Letters from early Romans. Letters from kings and queens. Letters from soldiers in the American Revolution. A letter is artwork. It is culture. It is language. A letter represents years of handwriting practice in Mrs. Burns penmanship class, as she peered over her cat eye glasses at you, barbarically swatting a ruler in her open palm. A letter is a moment of time. It is rewrites, spelling corrections, merciless editing, and the act of keeping one’s lines straight. You can tack a letter to your refrigerator. You can place a letter into a shoebox and have it for years to come. Letters are personal. You can hear a letter’s personal voice as you read. You see ink on a personal page, intended for your personal eyes. The letter’s postage stamp has been licked with someone’s personal sputum. So how did we get here? Every single minute, 208,000 pictures are posted to Facebook and 65,000 images are posted on Instagram. TikTok sees an influx of 34 million uploaded videos each day. Each day in the world, 18.7 billion texts are sent. The average American will send 40 to 90 texts per day. Most Americans will receive one to two text messages every minute. I have received eight texts since I sat down to write this. But I bring all this up because although letter writing is not efficient; although it is time consuming; although I can think of more important things I ought to be doing, I still remember the impact handwritten letters have had on my life. The letter my mother sent me when she was out of town in Saint Louis. The love letter my wife sent when we first started dating. The letter my father sent only days before he died. I still have them all. I still read them. I still love them. Which is why I still write letters. And I hope I always will. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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 stupid doesn’t mean you can’t love them. Take dogs. Dogs can be very unsmart, but we still love them. Hallmark Channel movies can be ingloriously stupid, but they are also wonderful. Still, this doesn’t change the fact that we adult humans are, in fact, giant dipsticks. The problem is, of course, that we adults think we are brilliant. Oh, sure, our species occasionally does some brilliant things. Beer is only one example. Humankind has also, for instance, learned to manufacture smartphones with touchscreens capable of flushing our toilets from outer space. But this doesn’t make us smart. Because we still don’t know how to listen. We don’t empathize. And even though our parents taught us, we still don’t know how to share. You know what we DO know how to do? We know how to kill each other. Again, I’m not being pessimistic. This is just a fact. We are among the only mammals who kill one another. Tigers do not kill tigers. Squirrels don’t kill squirrels. When was the last time you saw cows killing each other? But look at history. The Punic Wars in (164 B.C.), 2 million killed. The Jewish-Roman Wars, (66 A.D.) another 2 million. The Crusades (1095-1229) 3 million. The Mongol Invasions, 40 million. The Conquests of Timur, 20 million. Spanish Conquest of the Aztec Empire, 2.5 million. Spanish Conquest of the Incan Empire, 8.5 million. The American Civil War, 1 million. World War I, 40 million. World War II, 85 million. Vietnam War, 4 million. I don’t mean to disturb you, I simply bring this up because I want you to know where you fit in to all this. Because you see, you’re not like us. At least not yet. You were born into this wonderful world with a clean slate. You’re a kid. You are oblivious to our adult fussing and our adult need to be right. Your entire kid philosophy is “Let’s have fun!” That’s it. That’s how you see this world. Every morning you wake up and you look for the party. For you, every day carries the possibility of magic, music, art, friends, and bladder-compromising laughter. There are no taboos in your world. No villains. You forgive easily. You love fiercely. And even the things you hate, you LOVE hating those things. You are perpetually excited, rarely disappointed, hopeful to a fault, miraculously naïve, way too trusting, and you believe in God without even trying. And someday when I grow up, I hope to be just like you. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean or to purchase his books, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com

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 after month. She used birch-wood quilting hoops, and pieced recycled fabric together. She could take seemingly unrelated scraps and make art. My mother always said, “When life gives you scraps, you make a quilt.” Also, I love jazz. American fiddle tunes. And the way New Orleans smells on a summer morning, after tourists have spent all night urinating in the streets. Stetson hats worn non-ironically. Case knives, butter yellow, dual blades. Moe Howard, Larry Fine, and Curly. Shemp is okay. The old men in cafes who still drink coffee in groups. And the young men who still idolize them. Boys who still ask Santa Claus for BB guns. And their little sisters, who steal their GI Joes because Barbie needs a viable love interest. Kids who still ride bikes. Children who play tag in their backyards, screaming and laughing, without ever once checking their phones. I love Waffle House. An American institution. Yes, I realize eggs are expensive right now, raising the cost of an ordinary omelette to about the same price as a Range Rover Autograph. But I will continue to eat Waffle House fare until my end. Namely, because I have eaten at Waffle House to benchmark the most important moments in my life. I ate at Waffle House the morning after my own wedding. After the funerals of friends and family. God willing, I will eat at Waffle House the day after my own funeral. I love baseball. Not just the game itself. I love the culture. I love how baseball terminology has crept into everyday vocabulary. “Just touching base.” “I’ll go to bat for you.” “He’s out in left field.” “You knocked it out of the park.” I miss the grungy AAA ballparks of youth. The smells of flat beer, cigar smoke, and meat-like rubber served on a hotdog bun. Back when the game was slow, and pitchers still batted. Davy Crockett. Louis Armstrong. Helen Keller. Dorothea Lange. Aretha Franklin. Andy Griffith. Groucho Marx. Lucille Ball. Laura Ingalls Wilder. Dolly Parton. Willie Hugh Nelson. And I love you. Whoever you are. In fact you’re what I like most about America. You’re a great person. No matter how different we might be. No matter how we might disagree. No matter how dissimilar our backgrounds. Maybe I am foolish enough to believe that, even though we appear differently, think differently, and believe differently, it is contrast that makes the scraps of a quilt truly beautiful. Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, podcaster, and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Southern Living, Reader's Digest, Garden and Gun, The Tallahassee Democrat, the Birmingham News, and his column is syndicated in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored fifteen books, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry. To learn more about Sean, visit his website at https://seandietrich.com