Posts by Sean Dietrich

One day, as God was sitting in all of heaven’s sovereignty and sanctity and etherealness and stuff, little Randy came to visit.

Tommy stood behind her. He guided her young hands with his own. Mari had never done a thing with wood before. She found enormous pleasure seeing the spokeshave blade remove curls of white wood, like long ribbons, as though peeling a carrot.

It’s weird. Being back in America again. For one thing, they don’t call it “America” over in Europe. It’s bad form. They call it “the U.S.”

Cab drivers, I have discovered, have a lot to teach us.

“…I see it now,” Laura said to herself, “though I didn’t then—we never could have gotten through it all without Pa’s fiddle.”

I think what touches me most about this old homeplace is how similar the inhabitants were to my own people. My own relatives who grappled against the elements, against fate, against better advice, to build a life of independence and prerogative. To be fully American. Or die trying.

When our plane finally lands, all passengers stand to deboard. But we are told we must wait. The first to leave our plane will be the boy.

There is a U.S. law stipulating that whenever you’re having a good day a pharmaceutical commercial must appear.

Fear is not in your head. There are no thoughts you can think to get rid of it. Because fear is not a head problem. Fear starts in your soul.

When someone loves you it makes God seem real.

I like ducks. I watch the same two mallards visit this area of Lake Martin. Almost every morning.

Do you ever actively seek that kid out and tell them how much you like them? Do you ever tell that person how incredibly special they are? Because they are, you know. Just like all 8.3 billion of us.

I think the greatest advice my mother ever gave me was to love my kids when they deserve it the least, because that’s when they need it the most. I think that applies to all human beings.

The default mode of your face, according to research, is smiling.

“No telling what’s in those pipes,” the plumber said in a quiet, ominous voice, gazing into the treacherous blackness of the drain hole.

Don’t shoot the messenger. But in America, one third of children have never handwritten a letter.

I’d say the biggest problem facing this country is typos. Typos are cropping up everywhere. In advertisements, in emails, and even within the very words you're reading now.

It all started in third grade. My teacher read to the class from a book. A mass-market paperback. A book about angels. They were stories of impossible rescues, and unlikely redemptions. Then, she told a story of her own.

Canned music. It’s everywhere. You cannot get away from it. It is always playing in public spaces. Grocery stores, hotel lobbies, airplanes, colonoscopy exam rooms.

The young man was quiet. He was a lowly fry-cook, salting endless baskets of French fries. Flipping acres of patties.

Singing through storms. Singing through rain. Singing through hell itself. Not because mockingbirds must. But because they can.

“What scares you most?” was the question asked to members of Mrs. Devonshire’s fourth-grade class. The little hands went up.

“We are never really happy until we try to brighten the lives of others.” Maybe we ought to put that in our dictionary.

I decided to approach the marriage crisis by asking random people to give their opinions and advice on the institution of matrimony.

Football is just a game. A game of running the ball. Running the ball is key. You have to run the ball. Too bad we didn’t.

If you’re brave enough to shake hands with your fear, that fear will disappear forever. Don’t you ever forget that.

At Christmastime, John was about as cheerful as the infamous storybook character who once purloined Yuletide from Whoville. But then he met the girl.