Help, My Family is Stressing Me Out
I have here a letter from 19-year-old Erin, who lives in Bristol, Virginia.
“Dear Sean,” she begins, “I want to be happy, but I’m not…
“My family is stressing me out, big-time. Especially my mom.
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!”
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.
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.
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.
A Day at the Aquarium
You never know how truly short life is until a 19-year-old girl, who is preceptive and sweet, and of exceptional intellect, a girl who made the university president’s list, stares at you sincerely, with warmth in her eyes, and with all her heart, calls you an “old person.”
The Dirty Word
Suicide is a dirty word. Try using it in mixed company. Try using “suicide” at a dinner party. You wouldn’t. Because suicide is not something people talk about.
An Open Letter to Three Soldiers
To the three servicemen who died in a midair collision on Wednesday in Washington DC. I’m sorry.
American Airlines Flight 5432
Sixty passengers. Four crewmembers. Sixty-four people. That’s all I heard the reporter say.
A Nineteen-Year-Old Miracle
She’s 19. Beautiful. Violent red hair. And smart. Morgan is one of those rare humans who honestly thinks math was not invented by Satan. The girl climbs into my truck, buckles herself in. “Hey,” she says. Fresh-faced and happy. Slightly out of breath. The flushed cheeks of youth. I like that she feels so at …
El Camino de Crazy-O
In a couple months, my wife and I will be deposited in a French airport with nothing but backpacks and walking shoes. We will traverse 500 miles on foot, hiking the breadth of Spain, from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela.
The Helen Keller Art Show
The Helen Keller Art show was in full swing. The center is adorned in art. Tactile pieces. Colorful artwork. Sculptures.
About Morgan Love
As the 19-year-old young woman returns to college classes this week; as teenagers herd across campus like droves of cattle; as students all over the nation engage in the long-cherished tradition of not reading the syllabus; I just want to say how proud I am to know Morgan Love.
Bring on the Sunshine
Gray weather feels a lot like taking a field trip to Hell. I don’t like overcast days. Whenever the sky gets like this, I sit by a windowsill and entertain the idea of composing Russian poetry.