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…

The first thing you should know about Joseph is that he isn’t an optimist. In fact, he has no faith in this world. And he has even less faith in people.

Losing your wife will do that to you. She died and left him with three kids. A small girl. A boy. And a twelve-year-old girl.

So Joseph works hard for a meager living. Very hard. He barely makes enough. He comes home late each night, wearing muddy clothes. Sometimes he puts in overtime and sleeps in his truck.

Joseph’s eldest daughter is half mother and half child. At night, she tucks her siblings into bed. She cooks. She helps with laundry. Life is not easy. And on many days, life just plain sucks.

At night, Joseph is in bed, thinking of how bad life is. Not only does he miss his wife, he misses the man he was when she was alive. She was taken too early.

How could anyone think this world is a happy place when good women die so young? How could any widower feel

warm and fuzzy about this world?

And the hits keep coming

One day he’s at his job. He’s exhausted from two night shifts in a row. He makes a catastrophic mistake while operating the bulldozer. It costs the company big money. They fire him.

Later in the afternoon, he's sitting on his steps, face in hands, crying. His oldest daughter finds him, she sits beside him. She drapes her arm around his shoulders.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” she asks.

He doesn’t want to tell her. He doesn’t want her growing up hating life as much as he does. She’s been through enough. She’s already more woman than girl.

“Nothing,” Joseph says. “I’ll be alright.”

The next day, he wanders through town, looking for work. He visits local businesses—hat in hand. He's practically begging for a job. He’s only a few steps away…