Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Sean Dietrich 
I have a story about bad things. The story is about an old man. He lived during in the Great Depression. He was a very poor farmer. His home was a ramshackle shotgun house. He drove a rusted truck that predated the Punic Wars.
Two railway track maintainers stood at a distance watching her. Their neon vests, reflecting in the early morning light. Their hard hats pushed upward on their heads. They weren’t sure what to do with the bird.
I’ve been a Superman fan since I was old enough to fill up a diaper. I used to attend school wearing Superman pajamas beneath my civilian clothes, posing as a mild-mannered first-grader. My mother made me stop this in college.
The little dog beside me is curled into a ball, huddled against me. We are smooshed as closely as we can be without being one person.
We were sitting on a plane. Awaiting takeoff. I am convinced that if you live wrongly, if you treat your fellow man poorly, if you are selfish, if you are not a good person, you will die and wake up in Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.
“Dear Sean, your column yesterday about embracing my inner child and childhood was inaccurate. I’m 67 with more life experience than you… And my childhood wasn’t idyllic like yours obviously was…
Dive deep into your brain and locate your mental elementary-school yearbook. Flip through the pages. Find that cute black-and-white photo of yourself with that gap-toothed smile and enormous ears.
“Dear Sean, yesterday’s column disappointed me. You cannot be a true believer and believe in ghosts at the same time. God simply doesn’t work that way.
Gettysburg is a place of ghosts. That’s what they say. This town is known to historians and ghost hunters as the promised land for paranormal activity. There’s the phantom regiment, sometimes heard marching through the streets. There’s the specter of a little girl at the Tillie Pierce House, often heard playing in the other room, …
Bobby and I played music before a theater of people at the Vista Retirement Community in Wyckoff, New Jersey. The Vista is a giant cruise ship on land, minus the lifeboats, slot machines, and go-go dancers.
We arrived in New Jersey at 5:18 p.m. The first actual New Jerseyan I met was the lady gas-station cashier.
“Will this be oh-WALL?” she asked, ringing up my coffee.
“Ma’am?” I said.
Interstate 59 shot past our windows like a streak of pigeon excrement on a commercial airline windshield. We crossed into Tennessee, heading northward to New Jersey. The radio played Jerry Reed. And I was busy counting barns.
Late morning. Bobby and I packed the car for the Great American Road Trip. I tossed my fiddle into the backseat. Bobby placed his banjo in the trunk. I ate my third Larabar.
Humanoid robots. Automated cars. Augmented reality smart-glasses. Smart dishwashers. Robotic surgeons. And what about the weird AI images all over my newsfeed? Where are these freaky AI pictures coming from?
I was a fat baby. People were concerned about me as a newborn. “Have you seen Sue’s baby?” people would say. Then they would inflate their cheeks and do an imitation of the Pillsbury spokesperson.
She was 9. And obsessed with animals. How could she not be? She was the daughter of a farmer, animals were life. She especially loved the baby animals. They were so fuzzy, so adorable, she simply could not put them down. She was always rolling in the dirt with various baby pigs, or tiny goats, …
She shall remain anonymous. Because that’s how she wants it. She doesn’t want attention. She waits tables for a living. She’s on her feet for long hours. And when she’s finished, she goes home and takes care of three kids.
I miss the newspaper. Before the internet. I’m talking physical newspapers. The kind you unfold. I miss the morning routine of it all. Walk to the end of the driveway, barefoot, pre-sunrise. Messy hair. Morning breath. Unsheath the newsprint from its plastic. Soy-based ink on your fingers. That low-grade, wood-pulpy newsprint smell. Also, I miss …
The email came yesterday.
“Dear Sean, I am an atheist, I do not believe in God… Your God cannot be omnipotent and concomitantly allow evil, you can’t have it both ways… Remember the recent floods in Texas, where was your God then?
Yavapai County, Arizona, is a lot of dirt, rocks, and heat. I spent a few weeks outside Prescott once. The heat index was 140. It was so hot the Prescott Daily Courier reported that local chickens were laying omelettes.