The following story was mailed to me by a woman named Carole. The letter was written in pencil.

Carole’s mother was young. Twenty-two years old. She was married and pregnant with her second child. The year was 1945.

The War was freshly over. The Depression was still a recent memory. Carole’s mother wanted to buy her husband a gift for his birthday. He was turning 25.

Her husband had just gotten back from Europe. He had helped liberate the French. Viva la France.

He was battleworn. He was scarred all over. He wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the shrapnel, it was that he’d seen too much.

He got a job working as a janitor for a public school. It wasn’t a great job, but it put food on their table and diapers on their baby.

It was going to be a sparse birthday. The young mother only had $9. She was a homemaker who kept her loose change in a tin biscuit box. She saved up quarters and dimes and nickels in the box.

Only silver. No pennies.

One day, the mother was out shopping for her husband. She was going to buy him a pipe or a bottle of whiskey or something like that. But she met a man on the street.

The man was selling pencils. He had one leg. He was partly blind. He was singing songs to passersby. He was covered in rags. He, too, had been in the War. And he had the injuries to prove it.

She watched him grovel to pedestrians. And she watched people ignore the man. Something moved her. Something compelled the young mother to give him the box of money. It was only $9. But in 1945, 9 bucks was a lot of bread.

He cried when she gave it to him.

“I can’t take this,” he said.

“I want you to have it.”

“Why are you carrying around a…

I don’t know why anyone would impersonate me. I’m not worth impersonating. I talk funny. I have horse teeth. I am pale. Redheaded. And I have unnaturally long legs, so that my wife says I look like a man riding a chicken.

Nevertheless, there are Sean Dietrich impersonators on social media. More impersonators than I ever believed. A whole army of them, actually. Can you imagine a whole army of me? I can’t. It would be like a whole bunch of malnourished men riding poultry, shouting, “Charge!”

But the phonies keep coming. These impersonators are pretending to be me, messaging people, even going so far as to share status updates.

These impersonators, however, aren’t exactly nuclear scientists. Case in point: I have been contacted by my OWN impersonator. Which was chilling, inasmuch as the person claiming to be not only used my personal voice, but he also used bad grammar.

“Hi ther,” the message began. “How is you’re day to be going?”

Jesus wept.

So there I was, private messaging someone in Mozambique, claiming to

be me, and I had this weird feeling I was on an episode of “Twilight Zone.”

“Your are such a very handsome women,” the impersonator began.

“Women is plural,” I write back.

“Whoops,” the impersonator replies. “I meant to say you are such a big handsome woman.”

These impersonators were very friendly, at least at first. They were polite. Courteous. And they expressed a strong desire to have an intimate relationship with me wherein we might lean on each other, support one another, and hopefully, exchange financial information.

Which is why I want to state, upfront: I will NEVER ask for your credit card information via private message. I will always do it in person.

I usually report these impersonators to the social-media powers that be, but the fakes just keep coming. Every time I report one phony account, 10 more crop up to take…

Strafford, New Hampshire. Jake McAlpin accidentally threw away his adult daughter’s favorite stuffed animal, “Cupcake.”

Cupcake is a big, fluffy, stuffed dog that Jake’s daughter Charlotte received for Christmas when she was 4.

Cupcake has always been special to his daughter. But Jake is a dad, and dads don’t always know the importance of stuffed animals.

One day, Jake was doing some spring cleaning. Choices were made. Later, his daughter noticed something was missing after the recent deep clean.

Jake asked his daughter, “What are you looking for?” She said, “Cupcake,” her stuffed animal. And somewhere in the back of his Dad Brain, Jake thought, wait a minute, “Is that the stuffed animal I just took to the dump?”

So Jake’s wife put out a post on Facebook asking if anyone could open the city dump for them to look for the animal.

The post was seen by a member of Strafford’s local government. The official sent a screenshot of what was on Facebook and asked a colleague with keys to the dump if they could go find

Cupcake.

Municipal waste removal experts dug through an Appalchian Mountain range of trash, wading through refuse until their backs were sore.

That’s what they’re called, “waste removal experts.” Anyone who shovels crapola for a living is one such expert.

They found Cupcake.

“Made us feel pretty good,” said Dan Conway, lead waste removal specialist of Strafford Recycling Center. “No one wants to be without their stuffy.”

Here’s another. Kia Rousseve is a 28-year-old bus driver from New Orleans. A few days ago, Kia was about to make her fifth stop when she noticed the schoolbus starting to lose power.

“The bus started acting crazy,” she told reporters, “started jerking, and going real real slow.”

She pulled the bus over. An onlooker told Kia there were flames coming from the bus chassis.

Kia removed Kindergarten through 8th-grade students from the bus moments before…

We first met at a Little Free Library. About a mile from my house. I was walking through the ancient neighborhoods of Birmingham. I was with my dog, carrying a little plastic baggy of poop.

The antique houses caught the light from the setting sun. There was the sound of a leaf blower in the distance. Kids on bikes.

Birmingham is a classically beautiful city. Seeing it at eye level is the only way to appreciate it.

She was a little older woman, digging through the public bookcase. Ninety pounds, max. Mid-80s. She was wearing a sweatshirt that read “I’m a side chick—mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, dressing, candied yams, cranberry sauce.”

She held a Dorothy Garlock book in her hand. I was waiting my turn behind her.

I love Little Free Libraries. I’m a big reader. Little Free Libraries are one of the most beautiful inventions mankind ever created except for, of course, beer.

“Have you ever read Dorothy Garlock?” the woman asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s woman crap, but it’s good,” she said.

The woman weighed the book in

her hand. “Are you looking for something to read?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you take this? You’ll like it.”

“I don’t want to steal your book.”

“It’s okay. I know where you live. And I know jujitsu.”

I took the book. It was a fantastic read. Historical fiction. Set in olden times. With just the right amount of sap. I fell in love with the author because she, too, was an old woman.

Dorothy Garlock was born in 1919, in Texas. Garlock worked for 14 years as a bookkeeper and columnist for a local newspaper before retiring at age 49. To fill her time, Dorothy started writing stories. And that’s when her writing career took off. In her golden years she authored over 50 historical fiction books. She died at 98. She was still writing.

I returned the book to the…

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.…