I receive a lot of mail in the form of emails, letters, private messages, texts, Morse code, etc. It is impossible to answer all these messages, so I compiled some commonly asked questions:

Q: This world is a mess, why don’t you ever address the central problems of our society? It seems irresponsible to not cultivate awareness. Why are you pretending that humanity is one great big happy family, and everything is hunky dory? This isn’t helping our country.

A: I think someone needs a nap.

Q: No, I’m serious. Don’t gloss over the question with your glib, sophomoric attempt at ill-timed humor.

A: You could use a beer, too.

Q: Hi. I just want to know: Is Sean Dietrich a real person, or just a secret team of a bunch of wannabe writers pretending to be one guy?

A: We aren’t wannabes. We’re never-weres. Big difference.

Q: Ginger or Mary Ann?

A: Lucille Ball.

Q: Come on. That’s not fair. Please comment on this age-old debate.

A: It’s not a debate. Not really. Dawn Wells, who played Mary Ann on “Gilligan’s

Island,” former Miss Nevada 1960, received more fan mail than Tina Louise (Ginger) and nearly every other actor at CBS Studios combined.

Even after Wells’ heyday she still received some 5,000 fan letters per week from hormone crazed post-pubescent boys, most of whom were offering to bear her children. Not that I would know.

Q: You write a lot about dogs, but why don’t you ever write about cats? Don’t you like cats?

A: As I type this, I am currently on my porch surrounded by six neighborhood cats. Two are sleeping near my feet. One is beside me, communicating telepathically with her giant, yellow, frightening, apathetic eyes.

Q: So why don’t you ever write about cats?

A: I just did.

Q: I am a writer, trying to establish a daily writing routine, I was wondering how often…

Sunrise on Lake Martin. I’m usually the first one awake. I rarely have any company in the mornings. I wake up with the chickens. Most mornings, I sit on my porch alone. Just me and the feral cats.

This morning, however, I had company.

I heard small feet walking onto the screened porch, overlooking the lake. I turned to see a child with messy hair, staggering toward me. A 12-year-old girl in pajamas.

She used her hands to feel her way through the maze of patio furniture. She walks like this, feeling her way around, even when it’s daylight.

My goddaughter sat beside me on the sofa. She sort of crawled into my lap, head resting against my chest.

“Morning,” she said with a yawn. Her breath smelled like a billy goat’s lower intestinal tract.

“Good morning, Dragon Breath,” I said.

She cupped her hand to her mouth and attempted to smell her own breath. Birds fell out of the trees.

I picked crust from her eyes. “You’re killing me,” I said.

“What do you see?” she asked.

“Sunrise,” I replied.

“Can you describe what it looks like?” She

curled against me snuggly.

I looked at the pink sky of morning. Daylight had taken hold of the world.

“You’ve seen one sunrise you’ve seen them all,” I said.

“Wish I could see it.”

I squeezed her. “I have an idea. How about you tell me what the sunrise sounds like.”

She yawned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I want you to tell me how a blind person experiences a sunrise.”

Becca curled tighter against me. “You really want to know?”

“I do.”

“Well, you have to close your eyes.”

I did.

“No cheating,” she said.

“Scouts’ honor.”

“First,” she said, “I hear birds. But, I feel like when sighted people hear birds, they don’t think about all the DIFFERENT birds they’re actually hearing. They just hear one sound, birds.…

Becca and I were at the little lake cabin. It was noontime. The interior of the 1940s cabin was a sweltering 92 degrees.

Thankfully, old bungalows were designed before A/C. I opened all the windows and doors, and within mere minutes the cabin had cooled to 91 degrees.

The 12-year-old wore a dripping swimsuit, beach towel draped around her shoulders.

“What do you want for lunch?” I asked.

She thought about it for a few seconds. “Can I have anything I want?”

“Within legal reason.”

She thought again before speaking. “Know what I want?”

“I don’t have ESP.”

“The sports channel?” she said.

“Never mind. What do you want?”

“I want you to teach me to make a sandwich.”

Becca is blind. Her eyes are closed because the muscles in her eyelids are atrophied. So she looks like a renaissance painting of Raphael’s angel.

“I’ve never made myself a sandwich before,” she said.

“Sandwiches are complicated things,” I said. “Even for a sighted person. Making sandwiches is messy. Let’s do that another day.”

“I don’t mind making a mess.”

“I believe you.”

She was not giving up. “Please?”

So

I reasoned with her. “How about I HELP you make a sandwich?”

She shook her head. “I want to do it myself. I don’t want your help. I want you to talk me through it.”

Becca stood in the center of the kitchen, dripping, holding her white cane with the red tip. The faint traces of a little sunburn were starting to show up on her face even though—I swear—I coated her face with a sunscreen product resembling commercial aviation wax.

“Is this important to you?” I said.

“Yes.”

I caved in.

“Good!” She was all smiles. “You sit at the counter, and just tell me what to do.”

“Ten-four.”

The first thing to do was talk her through navigating the inner labyrinths of the unorganized refrigerator. I told her where…

To the dog abuser in rural Mississippi. The hound you left chained behind the tire shop is with us now. Her name is Marigold. We got her a few years ago.

You beat Marigold so hard she went totally blind. She wasn’t even two years old. And you blinded her.

I can’t imagine what she did to make you so mad. She is a gentle dog. Painfully gentle. Plus, she can’t weigh more than twenty-five pounds.

I can only assume that you were not in your right mind.

She had one eye removed, one eyelid stitched shut. The other eyeball is just for show. It doesn’t work, the iris is bloodred and vacant. But it’s a beautiful eye.

Because, you see, she is a beautiful girl.

It’s taken a few years to relearn how to get around. She bumped into furniture, she walked headfirst into walls. She uses her nose to lead her. She is a professional now.

Being blind is still brand new for her. And it’s a full-time job. She is constantly working, constantly trying to map out

her new world.

Constantly deciphering new smells. Constantly trying to determine whether a nearby sound is friendly or otherwise.

She walks with a careful gait. Often, she high-steps, like she’s walking through quicksand. Other times she tests every step, like she’s on a tightrope.

It took a while to relearn stairs. She tripped over curbs. She fell over thresholds. She needed help finding her food bowl sometimes. She loves toilet water.

But I don’t want you feeling sorry for her. I don’t know if you are capable of such feelings. I just want you to know what you did to her.

You made her afraid. She cowers at booming noises. Probably because she can’t see what’s making the noise.

Benign objects, such as, for example, vacuum cleaners, sound like monsters. The sound of a garbage disposal is like a nuclear…

Springville, Alabama (pop. 5,043). I am downtown with a few minutes to kill. I pick up a copy of the Trussville Tribune, sit on a bench by the antique store and count cars.

I count four.

I shake open the newspaper beneath an angry noontime sun. The Tribune is a slender paper. Not much to it. You’d need at least three to line a litter box.

The Tribune is your typical small-town paper. Just like small-town papers used to be. The paper is not loaded with reports of stabbings, shootings, and senseless acts of politics. Just local stuff. It reminds you of a bygone age.

The front page, for example, features important breaking news from nearby Argo (pop. 4,364). The headline reads: “Ann ‘Granny’ Grimes celebrates 100th birthday at Fox’s Pizza Den.”

“God has just been good to me!” Granny is quoted as saying.

Granny has nine grandchildren, 23 great grandchildren, and six great-great grandchildren. She also ties down a full-time job at Fox’s Pizza.

She works in the kitchen, preparing her special spaghetti sauce, prepping food, and

washing the dishes in the three-compartment sink.

The article goes on to say that if you should ever visit Fox’s Pizza, you should ask Granny for proof that she’s 100 and “she will gladly show you her current driver’s license!”

That’s what you’ll find in a small-town paper.

There’s also the weather forecast, sponsored by Trussville Water and Gas. This week’s forecast: you’re going to die of heat stroke.

In other news, the Winn-Dixie in Pinson is remodeling. And, in case you were wondering, 2,000 people attended the rodeo. More on Page 5.

There’s the classified section. The first three for-sale ads are advertising adjoining funeral plots. Get’em while they’re hot.

The community calendar of events is slamming. Visit the Trussville Public Library for summertime stories, read by Ms. Alicia. And don’t forget, ladies, the “Yarn Manglers” knitting club meets on Thursday…