The Tomato Picker and the Nice Guy
Once, there were two men. They were very different guys. They looked different. Had dissimilar backgrounds. They even smelled different.
Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Once, there were two men. They were very different guys. They looked different. Had dissimilar backgrounds. They even smelled different.
The TV was showing footage of the latest mass shooting. This shooting happened in a Michigan church. Of all places. An LDS church. Four dead. Eight injured.
She was 94. She came through the meet-and-greet line after my one-man shipwreck. She waited her turn patiently, while I ran my mouth, signed books, and kissed babies.
Our little white van rolls into the Walmart Supercenter in Raleigh, North Carolina. My wife and I step out and stretch our muscles in the parking lot.
“Sandwiches?” my wife says.
“Yep,” I reply.
The rest of the world has gone techno. Even country music has succumbed to the wiles of the “scrolling generation.” But in Bristol, it’s still the 1920s.
It was only an experiment. I wanted to see if I could change America in only one day by being the nicest person on earth for 24 hours.
We did not choose Otis. We let our oldest dog, Thelma Lou pick him out. She was just a puppy. We felt strongly that Thelma deserved to choose her own brother since, after all, she would be the one stuck sniffing his butt for the next 12 years.
Dan Lovette became an usher at the Baptist church on Easter Sunday, March 26th, 1961. He stood at the door shaking hands, passing out bulletins. Nobody knew Dan.
I woke up looking for God. I always look for Him in the mornings. Sometimes, however, He’s hard to find. Sometimes He hides.
When you drink your coffee this morning, DRINK your coffee. Pay attention to EVERY SIP. Really taste it. The Norman Rockwell book that’s been on your coffee table since the Punic Wars so that it’s almost invisible to you. LOOK at it.
There was, suddenly, the beginning of all things. It started with light. And the light was good. And the stars and the planets and the galaxies and the solar systems fell into place and started spinning. And they were good, too.
This story was told to me. And now I am telling it to you. The young man was boarding a plane. He was pierced with all manner of shiny rings, covered in a quiltwork of tattoos. His hair was long. He wore black leather. Lots of zippers. He looked like an outsider. And he went to a lot of trouble to look that way.
I joined social media in my thirties. Back then, social media was still a new, exciting frontier. Sort of like outer space except no zero-gravity toilets.
“The Lord is my shepherd…” It’s hard for Americans to imagine shepherds. We don’t HAVE shepherds in our culture. We have Walmarts and Chipotles.
READER: I want to propose to my girlfriend, but I can’t seem to find the words, I am not a writer. Do you have any advice for me?
SEAN: ChatGPT.
Mister William was old when I interviewed him years ago. Ancient, actually. Mid-nineties. Bent and pale. “It was World War II,” William began. “I was in Italy…”
“Hi, Sean…” the email began. “…I just read your article in the newspaper about angels! No offense, but I laughed the whole way through. I cannot believe, in the 21st Century, humans still believe in angels. I am still laughing at you!”
You died by suicide 30 years ago. You hated yourself. You hated this life. You hated where the world was heading. So you left. You’d probably hate it even more today. For one thing, they sell water in bottles now.
She was a cleaning woman. Two kids. One cat. She was going under, fast. She could not afford this month’s rent. The landlord was already preparing to kick her out. She was working from can to can’t…