Playing Cards with Little Sister
My sister and I sit cross-legged on the front porch, playing cards. I am losing. Not that this matters.
We are really into the game right now, slapping cards on the porch floor.
Sean Dietrich
The Elephant and the Ants
Once upon a time there were three little ants. The ants had an unusual home. They lived atop an elephant. Long ago the ants’ mother had reasoned that an elephant would be a wise place to lay eggs to keep them from danger.
A Guy Named Patrick
You’re 16. One day, you’re hanging out, shooting the bull with friends, when a horde of thugs comes through your village, setting fire to houses, pillaging, and doing unspeakable things to townswomen. Now what?
The Storm Saturday Night
It was a big storm. The television showed weather updates. The radar looked like red-and-yellow vomit.
“Find shelter!” the weather guy kept saying. “There’s a tornado on the ground in Calera!”
Whatever Happened to…?
Idiots complain. And I’m not a complete idiot. Idiocy is all about percentages. I’m only 40 percent idiot, the other 75 percent of me is bad at math.
Ye Olde Flip Phone
This is my fourth week with a flip phone. My “unintelligent” cellular phone is manufactured by Nokia, and the phone’s primary selling feature is that it sucks.
One Afternoon at Winn Dixie
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.
Oh My Dog
“Dear Sean,” the letter began, “there’s a dog in my neighborhood who was lost and followed me home.
I Would Walk 500 Miles
In a few weeks my wife and I will be walking 500 miles unless we die before we finish. We will be walking the Camino de Santiago, a medieval religious pathway across Spain. We will be on foot. With backpacks. And we shall not be called “hikers,” but in the ancient Spanish tongue: “Locos Americanos con mochilas.”
Letter From a Humble American
Husbands and sons. Carpenters and clergymen. Some rich, some poor. Some carrying the nicest firelocks money could buy. Some wielding nothing more than a pitchfork. I was playing my fife for them.
A Man Named Paul
Paul William Bryant was born in the late summer of 1913 in a Cleveland County, Arkansas, backwater. His hometown of Moro Bottom wasn’t even a town, technically. Only seven families lived there.
When You Wish Upon a Star
I saw a shooting star. A big one. I was exiting Walmart. Pushing my buggy. It was dusk. The sky was pink. I looked into a cloudless sky and there it was.
Attention Deficit Device
I am playing the fiddle near the swimming pool at my hotel in Dothan. I always play in the mornings. Routine. I’ve been on the road for 14 days, playing music and performing my one-man spasm in different states.
The Life and Times of Dothan Mardi Gras
Today, I am Grand Marshal of the Dothan Mardi Gras parade. Truthfully, I don’t know what a grand marshal’s official duties entail, but apparently you are required to hold beer wherever you go.
A Few Good Men—And Women, of Course
“A lot of people might think the world is falling apart,” he wrote to me. “But they’re wrong. I’ve been on the other side. There’s lots of good people out there.”
One Night in Lancaster, PA
Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The windchill is negative four and I can no longer feel my unmentionables. I’m about to play my fiddle and tell funny stories to a room of people at the community center.
The Fine Art of Flying
It’s a mess, that’s what it is. When you land in Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Third World International Airport, you’re walking into a battle zone.
El Camino de Santiago and Me
The math teacher and I went for a five-hour walk through town while wearing huge backpacks and yet we are not Marines. We are just middle-aged married people.
Me Braiding Hair
I shouldn’t be braiding hair. But there I was. Giving it my best shot. We were in a hotel lobby. The 19-year-old sat with her back facing me. Her violent red hair in my hands.