DEAR SEAN:

I need your help. I am a bedwetter. I am 13 and I don’t know what do to or who to go to, or why I keep doing this. I hate myself, I wish I could change.

I wish I could talk to someone about this, but I’m scared. Like maybe talk to my dad, but I don’t even know my dad ‘cause he left us when I was little, and I think he hates me because whenever I call him he doesn’t want to talk to me. He never even remembers my birthday.

...I just wanted to tell someone who could help me, I’m so embarrassed. Please don’t use my name. What should I do? Please answer my email if you have some time.

Thank you,
SLEEPLESS-IN-NASHVILLE

DEAR NASHVILLE:

This isn’t my normal column topic, but your letter struck a nerve. But before I say anything else, listen to me:

Relax. Breathe, my friend. Eat something manufactured by Little Debbie. Draw a warm bath. Watch episodes of “The Andy Griffith Show.” Or at the very least, “Monk.”

Peeing

the bed is not a huge problem. Granted, I’m no doctor, and my advice isn’t worth much. It’s probably a good idea to get checked out, just to be safe.

Still, I believe you will get through this. I swear. And do you want to know why I believe this?

Because you’re talking to a former professional bedwetter.

That’s right. I used to wet the bed. You might think you’re unique, but you’re not the only one in the world with at golfball-sized bladder.

I peed the bed for years. It got to the point where my mother wouldn’t let me drink liquids past lunchtime. “But I’m thirsty, Mama,” I would whine.

To which Mama would reply, “Swallow your own spit, I do enough dirty laundry to cover the needs of Mainland China.”

Does any of this sound…

Molino, Florida. Population 1,306. It was 1,307, but I heard Miss Carolyn’s mother went on to Glory last night.

You’re looking at hayfields, cowhouses, and a church every sixty feet. A night on the town would take four minutes.

The sky is cloudy. The foraging grass has recently been cut. It’s late autumn, a sweet fragrance hangs in the air because the papermill is in full bloom.

I once dated a girl from Molino. Her father worked at the mill in Cantonment. Every time I showed up to her house for a date, her father happened to be cleaning his Remington on the porch.

Jimmy’s meat-and-three sits off Highway 29. You can’t miss it. Jimmy’s Grill is just up the road from the feed and seed. Just look for all the trucks.

I am meeting my longtime friend and surrogate older brother, Steve, for lunch.

It is an average Friday afternoon. The parking lot is slammed with Fords and Chevys. You will not find a Tesla in Molino.

I open the door. The bell dings. There is

a wait. We are greeted by a line of guys in boots, waiting for a table. They are wearing neon safety shirts, covered in mud, and they smell like hard work.

“We love Jimmy’s,” they say. “Only place around that serves real tomato gravy.”

Soon, we are waiting alongside a gaggle of people. In line beside us is a group of women with frilly white hair. I ask what brings these women to Jimmy’s.

“We’re in a sewing circle,” the spokeswoman says. “One of us has low blood sugar, so we all piled into Rhonda’s car and came straight to Jimmy’s because Jimmy’s peanut butter pie cures low blood sugar.”

“They have great butterbeans,” adds one woman.

There is another lady in line who overhears our conversation. She is from Canton, Ohio, just passing through. “What the heck is a butterbean?” the woman…

Sunset. My driveway.

“Okay, everybody get in the truck!” I shouted, using my cheerful American dad voice.

Although, technically, I’m not a dad. In fact, I don’t even have a traditional “family.” Not unless you count our dogs who weigh more than average middle-schoolers. Thelma Lou is 101 pounds of bloodhound. Otis Campbell (alleged Labrador), 92 pounds. Marigold (blind coonhound) about the same weight as a bag of Fritos.

I whistled and dogs leapt into my dilapidated truck, butts wagging, ready for action.

My wife, however, did not get in the truck. She glared at me, clearing her throat loudly, tapping her foot, until I handed her my keys to let her drive.

In nearly 20 years of marriage she has never sat in a passenger seat. She gets motion-sick when I drive and tends to puke on my shoes.

I knew all this going into the marriage. Her matrimonial conditions were simple: she always drives; I never play the accordion indoors.

Don’t get me wrong, our marriage is fair. We’ve made

many compromises. For instance, on our wedding night I agreed to always let her operate my truck if she promised to fill our closet with 52,339 pairs of shoes she will never wear. So far so good.

But our life together has all been worth it, believe me. The woman who drives my truck could have chosen a much classier guy for herself. She could have found someone with a great job, who came from good breeding, who owned actual formalwear.

Instead, she married a dropout who went to community college for 11 years and graduated with straight Cs in his early 30s. A guy whose personal truck contains hounds that cost more than his truck did.

But we’re a happy clan, that’s what I’m getting at. And tonight we had an outing. Once we were in the truck, we drove across town to a nondescript neighborhood. The…

Hi. We don’t know each other. But Christmas is on the way, and I wanted to introduce myself. Then again, my name isn’t important. I’m nobody special. I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you. I’m even praying for you.

I know you’re going through a hard time. Someone you love died. Maybe someone you once trusted hurt you deeply. Maybe your mother is suffering. Or your children are going through a rough patch.

Your loved one died by suicide. Or maybe it was cancer. Lymphoma. Alcoholism. Heart attack. Old age. Or a car wreck.

Then again, maybe it’s you who is in distress.

Maybe the doctor gave you bad news. Maybe your life is falling apart. Maybe you’re in a godawful state. Maybe you are lying on the floor, weeping, when you accidentally picked up your phone to read this.

Please keep reading. Because you’re the person I’m writing to.

Listen, I know the whole world is happy right now. Everyone is giddy with excitement. People are getting very festive, preparing their houses for Christmas, hanging

lights, installing hordes of gaudy yard art.

It’s hard to stomach all this joyousness when you yourself are stuck in agonizing pain. It’s hard to get excited about anything when your life has turned into a big pile of chicken scat.

You are disgruntled and cynical. And you’re not wrong. This is a contradictory and hypocritical time of year.

Everyone talks of love and kindness and benevolence. And yet nobody sees the invisible hurting people. Oh, sure, some folks volunteer to help the homeless and the orphans during the Christmas seasons. But for most people, all this talk of love and munificence is basically just a load of B.S.

I’m sorry, but it’s true. And you know it.

This is the time of year when TV commercials turn into ultra sentimental saccharin. Advertisers promote charity, compassion and love. And yet,…

My dad was born in a farmhouse. He had very little growing up. At least that’s how he always told the story. His family was pretty hard up.

His most valuable possession was a transistor radio he’d bought at a department store when he was a boy. He’d listen to the radio shows in the 50s. “Abbot and Costello” reruns. “The Jack Benny Show.” He’d listen to ball games. He’d root for Mickey Mantle. Roger Maris. The “Say Hey Kid.”

Otherwise, he didn’t have squat.

Which would explain why my father headed up the Christmas tree committee every year at the fundamentalist Baptist church (motto: “Buying life insurance is a form of gambling”).

My father would gather up donations from anyone and anywhere. He would shamelessly ask for money. He would even resort to sending paralyzingly cute Little Leaguers door to door, selling cookies.

The money earned would be used to buy balsam firs. He bought truckloads of trees.

At which point people in the church would submit addresses of families who needed help

for Christmas. Whereupon my father and his army of his friends would deliver trees in early December.

Every year, I would go with Daddy on these deliveries. Each year, we would load dozens of balsams into the bed of his F-100. My father would have a clipboard of addresses. And we would drive into the hinterlands, wearing Santa hats.

One night, I remember riding into a little trailer park, way out in the sticks. I remember how dark it was in the country. I remember my father parking the truck in front of a single wide trailer.

We walked up to the mildewed porch. Daddy carried a tree over his shoulder. We rapped on the thin aluminum door. When the door opened, a young woman was staring back at us. A baby on her hip.

Daddy insisted that we sing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.”…

Christmas Eve. Southeastern Kansas, 2009. The middle of nowhere.

Kansas is one of those places that gets a bad rap. People speak of Kansas like it’s Death Valley, or the hindparts of Mars.

People say stuff like, “Yeah, I drove through Kansas once, I was bored spitless for six hours.”

But that’s only because they aren’t seeing the Sunflower State the right way. The Thirty-Fourth State can bewitch you if you open yourself to its quiet beauty.

First you have the sunsets. Kansan sunsets are neon red and gold, vivid enough to put Claude Monet to shame. The sundowns are an ecological phenomenon, caused by red dust in the atmosphere which has traveled all the way from the Sahara to suspend itself above Bourbon and Neosho County.

Also, you have sublime flatness. Millions of Americans visit the Gulf of Mexico each year to stare at prairie-flat blueness. Kansans have a gulf of their own.

Currently, the state has 15.8 million acres of virgin prairie. You can stand at certain places in this

state and, literally, be hundreds of miles from the nearest Super Target.

In the wintertime, however, Kansas has earth-stopping blizzards. This is the geographical center of the nation. They get all the weather you didn’t want.

Tornadoes. Fatal summers. Snowstorms harsh enough to make Scandinavia look like a weekend in Honolulu.

It was during one such snowstorm, on Christmas Eve, that Marie was at home. She was a young mother, with two children. They lived in a 40-foot single wide, perched on 200 acres of family land.

The blizzard of aught-nine was apocryphal. Many evangelicals believed this was the literal end of the world and were sincerely repenting of their evil ways, committing themselves to prayer, fasting, and self flagellation. Meanwhile, the German Catholics decided to take up vodka as hobby.

To say the storm was “bad” is like saying invasive dental surgery is “kinda fun.” In some…

‘Twas a Christmas tree lot in Alabama. It was the kind of operation that does business in the parking area of a major shopping complex.

My wife is a professional horse-trader when it comes to buying trees. She loves to haggle. Dicker. Negotiate. Bargain. Quabble. Lock horns. Butt heads.

Whatever you call it, my wife loves to barter. If for no other reason than because she likes the taste of blood on a cold autumn eve.

It was dark. The lot was about to close. My wife and I pulled up. We were greeted by two Boy Scouts in uniforms. Second class. Army green pants.

The boys were sort of crumpled looking, with shirt tails untucked and tousled hair. They were maybe 15. Pimples. Dental braces. The whole shebang.

“How can we help you?” they said in perfect unison. Their voices hadn’t dropped yet.

“We’re looking for a Christmas tree,” said my wife.

“You’ve come to the right place, ma’am,” squeaked one Scout. “We carry many high quality trees.”

“Very high quality,” added his friend, who was wearing horn-rimmed glasses. In

his back pocket was a rolled up anime comic book.

They led us through throngs of balsam firs, all huddled together. Overhead were strings of hanging lights. Mariah Carey was singing about how she doesn’t want a lot for Christmas.

“How about this one?” said one kid.

“This is a high quality tree,” the other Scout pointed out. “You wouldn’t go wrong with a tree like this.”

“Very high quality.”

“Well,” said my wife. “It looks sorta puny, we have nine-foot ceilings. Do you have something taller?”

“How tall?” the boy asked.

“Something that’s at least taller than a traffic cone.”

“Right this way, ma’am. We have just the one.”

The Scouts led us through a selection of select firs. I noticed that their shoelaces were untied, and one of the Scouts had a hole in his trousers so…

SELMA, Ala.—I am covering the arrival of December today, in one of my favorite towns. 

The whole downtown is done up for Christmas. Pinery everywhere. Lights. Jingle bells. Little reindeer, tinkling in the snow.

Nobody does Christmas like small-town Alabama. The main drag is a Norman Rockwell. Saint Paul’s Episcopal church is a Monet. December looks good in Selma.

“The problem with Selma,” says one local woman, “is that the news always uses us as a scapegoat. They make us evil. If people would just visit this town, if they’d just meet us, they’d realize that we’re okay. We are not the Selma you see on TV.”

I see a few things while I am here.

When I am walking into a gas station, for example, an elderly woman trots ahead to hold the door open. I am 40 years younger than this woman, and yet she holds the door for me.

I thank her.

She says, “Okay, baby,” and she rubs my shoulder.

She has skin the color of mahogany. Blazing white hair. She wears

scrubs. And she is just getting warmed up with her goodwill.

Because when the old woman walks inside the gas station, she is immediately confronted with an elderly man standing at the counter. He is gaunt, missing his teeth, dressed in faded rags. The man is hitting up customers for money.

“Ahwan baahasuh frussa,” he mutters.

I can smell liquor on his breath. He has a hard time standing upright without toppling over.

The old lady knows exactly what he’s saying. She translates: “He’s trying to buy some gas-station chicken, but he is a dollar short. He says he’s hungry, but he just needs four quarters.”

Before I can reach into my wallet, the old woman has already taken care of the man’s bill. She digs into her purse, and pays the cashier a lot more than one dollar. She places a wad…

It was one of those big Catholic churches. The chapel was enormous. The spire was tall enough to interfere with air traffic. Nobody builds them like the Catholics.

I was meeting Father Ralph for an important appointment. He was waiting for me in the front pew.

I entered the sanctuary, took a knee and crossed myself. I was not raised Catholic. I was raised by tee-totalling Baptists, we were about as much fun as a routine colonoscopy.

Still, I wanted to show my respect.

“Hi, Sean,” said Father Ralph.

Father Ralph agreed to meet me today because he’s a nice guy, and he was willing to answer my questions. My questions today are about Santa. As in Jolly Old Saint Nicholas.

It all started a few days ago, when I wrote a column about Santa. I received a lot of email from children who asked me if Santa was actually real.

One letter from a 10-year-old read, “I don’t believe in Santa.”

And another: “Santa Claus can’t be legit, can he?”

I even received a letter from a Freewill

Baptist mother who said I was “an agent of the devil” for promoting belief in Santa Claus. She spelled “Clause” with an E.

Baptists.

But the most touching letter came from a girl named Kayla (age 9), who said she really wants to believe in Santa. Kayla has cystic fibrosis. She’s been struggling with her digestion and her breathing since her infancy. She is Catholic.

“I really want to believe in Santa,” said Kayla. “But I don’t know if one man can deliver all those presents and be everywhere in the world in one night.”

So I called Father Ralph.

The good Father weighed in: “You should tell Kayla that she’s focusing on the wrong things. Saint Nicholas is not about presents, or sleighs, or reindeer. It’s much deeper than that.”

The padre is right. If you want sleighs and Rudolph,…