The letter came from a woman who I will call Myra. Although that is not her name, her real name is Judith.

She was not happy. And by “not happy,” I mean she compared me to the Antichrist.

She emailed a letter which began: “...I can’t believe you’re encouraging children to watch ‘SpongeBob SquarePants’ who promotes a lifestyle of blatant sexual sin… Focus on the Family and the American Family Association say SpongeBob SquarePants is dangerous to our nation’s children...”

The emailer is referring to a recent column wherein I wrote about an 8-year-old who named an injured bird after SpongeBob SquarePants. I apparently made a mistake.

So let me start by saying I am not, to my knowledge, the Antichrist. In fact, I even asked my wife about this.

“Am I the Antichrist?” I asked my wife.

She said, “Did you fold the laundry like I asked?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

I do, however, admit to liking SpongeBob. I would not go so far as to say that I “encourage” people to watch the show. Not in the

same way I would encourage people to watch, say, “Baywatch.”

But then I was raised by staunch Baptists. There were a lot of TV programs outlawed among my people.

Among them: “Three’s Company,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Love Boat,” “Fantasy Island,” “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” “The Simpsons,” “Sesame Street,” Nair commercials, paint drying, and any TV program not entitled “The Lawrence Welk Show.”

But SpongeBob was expressly forbidden. Probably because SpongeBob would always say, “tatar sauce!” Which he often uses as an expletive, instead of saying, for example, “oh, hell!”

Still, SpongeBob happens to be special to my family. I speak here of the first three seasons, which are a masterclass in the art of storytelling.

My history with SpongeBob begins in my teenage years. I had a little sister who loved SpongeBob. I would come home after work, tired and filthy—I worked full-time…

Kansas. Eight-year-old Marcus was playing outside when he heard the thud.

At the time, Marcus was playing Cops and Robbers with his friend Daniel. Marcus was the cop. Daniel was—once again—stuck with the unsavory role of Robber.

“I’d like to be a cop, just once,” Daniel told reporters. And by “reporters,” I am speaking of me.

Their game was interrupted when they heard a loud noise from an upstairs window of Marcus’s house. It sounded “sort of like a drum, but not all the way.”

The boys investigated.

It was a bird. They found it lying in the grass. The bird had apparently flown into the window of Marcus’s home, injuring itself, and lay fluttering its wings. In shock.

Marcus crouched low to look at the bird.

“It was hurt real bad,” Marcus told journalists.

“Don’t touch it,” said Daniel. “It’s very dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” said Marcus.

“Yes. A bird carries diseases,” said Daniel.

Then Daniel recounted to his friend a true story that, allegedly, happened to a friend of a friend, who heard, through reliable sources, about a man whose cousin,

evidently, once touched a wild bird and was thereupon stricken with an incurable disease and was later buried in the cemetery of, what can only be described as, a leper colony.

Bravely, Marcus ignored his friend’s strong warning and lifted the bird into his hands. The boys placed the bird into a shoebox, lined with a dishrag.

“Mom!” Marcus ran through the house shouting. “We found a bird!”

Marcus’s mother could tell the bird was wounded. So they took the bird to a wildlife rehabilitation center.

By then, Marcus and Daniel had already named the bird Bob, after their hero and longtime mentor SpongeBob SquarePants. Which is a television show ranking higher than any other children’s show in the world.

A program so popular that in 2011 an actual species of fungus was named “spongiforma squarepantsii,” after being discovered…

You’re a Little-Leaguer. You’re riding in the bed of Mister Jimmy’s pickup with 13 of your closest teammates. Mister Jimmy is your coach. He’s driving.

Mister Larry is riding shotgun. He’s your assistant coach, the one who tells inappropriate jokes in the dugout. He’s been married thrice. He’s working on his fourth. He’s good people.

Both coach’s windows are rolled down. Their arms are hanging out the open windows. Cigarettes dangling between their fingers.

It’s a nice evening. Warm. The sun is setting. You’re on your way to Dairy Queen.

Mister Jimmy’s truck pulls up to a stoplight. A sheriff’s car pulls behind you. The county cruiser is a Crown Vic. Early ‘80s model. Chrome bumpers.

The cop waves at all 14 of you. You all wave back. A few beg the officer to sound his siren (sy-REEN). The officer smiles. He obliges by flipping on the lightbar. The siren yelps once. Your teammates are in heaven.

The light turns green. Mister Jimmy hits the gas, and the momentum nearly propels all 14 of you out of the truck bed.

Fine times.

You’re riding down the highway now. Your teammates consist of 13 boys and Lisa, Zachary’s little sister. She hits better than anyone on the team. Fields better. And keeps the dugout clean. Mister Larry says Lisa is the team’s conscience.

You’re all waving at passing motorists in traffic now. A Cadillac Eldorado. A Mercury. A few Ford F-100s.

One of your teammates dares you to moon the Lincoln Town Car behind Mister Jimmy’s truck. Everyone on your team gets in on the action. They all chip in 50 cents if you’ll moon the lady in the Lincoln. So you do it.

You drop your drawers. Your teammates howl. Lisa covers her eyes.

Mister Jimmy notices you back there, with your little pants pulled down, displaying your perpetual whiteness to an innocent motorist.

Mister Jimmy smacks the side of…

I was 11 years old when my father shot himself. It is a day that will live in my memory. A crisp summer day. High 60s.

Daddy used a shotgun. He did the act in his brother’s garage. My aunt found the body.

That was the year I became who I would be. My life was heading one way, but after that day, life went another route.

It was as though someone had dumped a bucket of black paint over me. Everything was altered. Colors looked different. The way I talk changed. Sleep patterns changed. I developed an eating disorder.

You don’t undergo the suicide of a loved one then go home and cut the grass.

Likewise, you don’t ever forget the way the sheriff's deputy came to your house, sat you down, and said, “We had to use dental records to identify your daddy, son, because…” The officer cleared his throat. “Well, we couldn’t tell it was your daddy.”

I am not looking for sympathy. I am not looking for help. I’ve had

decades of therapy and lots of help. I’m not looking for anything. Except this:

I write columns for newspapers. They run in the East. The run in the West. And for some reason, people read these columns. Which only shows you how far America’s standards have fallen.

But if you’re reading this, I’d like you to think about something. Today, as you go about your routine; as you feed your kids; as you walk the dog and pick up their doggy excrement in little plastic bags; as you brew your coffee; as you browse Facebook, think about this:

In the last 20 years, suicides rose 36 percent. Ask any cop, paramedic, fire-medic, nurse, or therapist. It’s an epidemic worse than diabetes. Worse than obesity. Worse than the epidemic of pop-country music.

Last year, suicide was responsible for about 50,000 U.S. deaths. About one death every 11…

The following actually happened. In a major American city. A guy emailed me about it.

A young woman is in Dollar General. A mother of two. Shopping. She has her kids in tow. They are dressed in ragged clothes that look like they’ve been washed too many times.

The woman’s oldest daughter is pushing the cart. She is maybe 12. The girl says, “Mom, can’t we get a frozen pizza?”

“No, sweetie,” says Mom.

The girl is skin and bones. “Please?”

“I already told you. We can’t afford pizza.”

Mom says they have to spend money on the kinds of food that will feed a family. Cheap, bulk-item foods. Dried beans. Rice. Pasta. Tomato paste. Flour. Sugar. Frozen pizza is a bridge too far.

The mother weaves her buggy through the aisles, assembling a piecemeal shopping list, squeezing every nickel. She is constantly tapping prices into a calculator before putting the item into her cart.

There are other things in the basket besides food. Other necessities. Socks. Toothbrushes. There are elastic hair bands. Shampoo. Bars of soap. It all adds

up.

The boy is maybe 5. He asks his mother if she will buy him something. The boy wants, of all things, a box of crayons.

He asks his mother softly. Almost too softly. As though the boy already knows what her answer will be. And it turns out, the kid is right.

“Put them back,” Mom says. “We can’t buy fun stuff today.”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Mom says. “We don’t have money. Mommy is looking for a job, she swears.”

“But Mom, I thought you already had a job.”

“Mommy is looking for a new night job.”

The boy returns the crayons to the shelf. And he makes sure the box is sitting proud before he peels himself away from them.

The family keeps meandering through the store. They help her find all the things she…

A small town. The kind of American hamlet that causes you to start looking around for the Norman Rockwell signature. Hanging begonias. Storefronts with colorful awnings. A cute downtown.

There was a loud party happening on Main Street.

I followed the sound of distant music and many voices. I suddenly realized I was still wearing my pajamas. I shuffled into town barefoot, with sleep crusted in my eyes.

The sun was shining. Birds were cackling. People were everywhere. It was a veritable town-wide hoedown.

I saw women positioning casseroles on card tables. I saw children playing tag. Old men in aprons were deep frying hunks of fish.

There was music playing at the hardware store. Good music. The kind with twin fiddles. People were dancing before a plywood stage. Each front porch was crowded with people drinking lemonade and sugary tea.

Everyone was there, the whole gang. I saw them all. All my loved ones who died and left me behind. All my friends who met untimely ends. All my relatives who were called

home too early. All my kin.

They were all right here, holding plates of hot food, mingling with one another. Everybody was smiling, throwing their heads back, laughing until they couldn’t breathe.

I saw grandparents, deceased uncles, departed aunts, and cousins who died before they were old enough to know what life was about.

I saw multitudes of unfamiliar children, dancing while the musicians played “Turkey in the Straw.” I asked an old woman nearby who all these children were.

“Those are the babies who died in the womb,” the woman said. “Aren’t they precious?”

We were interrupted when a large pack of dogs came running through the town, careening up Main Street. They came stampeding like a herd of bison. Among them, I saw six of my own dogs.

I saw Lady, the cocker spaniel who died in my arms when I was a teenager.…

I receive a lot of feedback from this column in the form of letters, emails, serious legal threats, etc.

Most of the time I try to answer these messages, although I don’t always have time. Often these messages are uplifting. Such as one I got this morning:

“Sean, you are a literary idiot,” the uplifting email began. “...How dare you criticize classic American literature...

“I have been teaching high-school English for 23 years… I cannot believe you insulted a literary giant like Herman Melville.”

The writer of this email, who I’ll call “Deb,” although she is actually Julie from Saint Paul, Minnesota, is responding to a recent column wherein I stated that the classic American novel “Moby Dick” quote, “sucks pond water,” unquote.

“...[You] are part of the dumbing down of this culture…” the writer went on. “I hold writers like you responsible for our functional literacy.”

Let me start by saying, thanks for the letter. It sounds like you and I could be friends.

Moreover, I love receiving feedback like this, in much

the same way that I love receiving, say, root canals.

This kind of criticism is helpful to a columnist because it allows you, as a writer, to realize (a) that you are not perfect and (b) some people are truly psycho.

No. I’m only joking. I’m certain the writer of this letter is not really psycho. I’m sure she just needs more dietary fiber, like we all do.

Either way, as a professional writer, I retract my former statement that “Moby Dick” sucks.

Yes, it is true that the novel is a quarter of a million words long. And yes, the story does not actually begin until page 428. Yes, there is an entire chapter dedicated to the color white. But on the upside you can use the book as a doorstop.

When I was in college, I had to read “Moby Dick” just like everyone…

This is his story.

Bryan was walking along the Arkansas highway shoulder with only the moon to guide him. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder. It was cold. Blisteringly cold.

He was a kid, 23 years young. This was not a friendly evening, weather-wise. Tonight it was colder than a brass toilet seat in Nova Scotia. And it was sleeting.

He had a long way to go before he hit the nearest town. He was wet. His feet hurt. His back hurt. His whole mind hurt.

His family was a downright mess, and his homelife was a wreck. He had decided, tonight on this walk, that he was going to end it all. He didn’t have the details worked out, but he’d made up his mind nonetheless.

A pickup truck practically materialized out of nowhere. The headlights were blinding. The vehicle pulled over, crunching on gravel.

Inside was an older woman. The heater was blaring.

“Get in,” said the lady.

And she didn’t say it as a question.

Bryan piled into the bench seat. The heat felt good on his wet body. They shook hands and swapped

names.

“Where you headin’?” she said.

Her hair was gray and messy, like it hadn’t been combed since the Crimean War. Her eyes were wild.

“Don’t know,” said Bryan. “I’ll go anywhere you’re going.”

She just looked at him.

“Are you an angel?” she said.

He laughed. “What?”

“Tell me the truth.”

He wasn’t sure if this old woman was pulling his leg.

“I’m no angel,” he said.

She stared at him like she was boring a hole through limestone.

“I can take you as far as Little Rock,” she said. “That’s where I’m going, I’m meeting my granddaughter tonight.”

“Little Rock would be great.”

In a few moments, they were careening down the highway. Bryan noticed the woman kept staring at him with an odd look on her face.

The…

DEAR SEAN:

I’m pregnant. My husband and I have been going back and forth on name options but have no ideas. So right now I have a baby without a name. I know this is a strange request, but can you give me some name suggestions? I don’t want one of those modern names.

Thanks,
NEW-MOM-IN-GRAND-RAPIDS

DEAR GRAND-RAPIDS:

The night I was born, my mother took me into her arms and decided that she was going to name me Elvis.

My aunt recalls: “Your mama loved Elvis. Plus, you were a Capricorn, you know. Elvis and Jesus were Capricorns.”

Case closed.

In the end, my mother gave me a Scot-Irish name. But over the years I’ve wondered about how differently my life would have played out if my mother would have gone with Elvis.

PATROLMAN: License and registration, please, sir?

ME: Here you are, officer.

HIM: Do you know how fast you were driving back there…. (looks at license) Elvis?

ME: Uh-huh-uh-huh

As a writer, when you start working on a novel, the first thing you think about

are the names of your characters. In fact, names are one of the most important parts of any story. Think about it. How many pieces of classic literature do you read where the hero was named Heman Pickles?

You do, however, have to be careful when you give opinions on names you like and dislike because feelings can get hurt very easily. My mother and aunt once got into a knock-down-drag-out argument after my aunt admitted that she never liked my mother’s name.

My mother was fuming. She stood from her chair and informed my aunt that she never liked my aunt’s name, either. Things got ugly. My mother said my aunt’s name reminded her of a barefoot and pregnant hick—my aunt at the time, was barefoot, also pregnant.

So then my aunt said my mother had a bad singing voice…