Some fool once called her “white trash.” And that’s when she made up her mind. She wanted to better herself, and her family. So, that’s what she did.

“That GED test,” she said, while she checked my blood pressure. “That ain’t no joke, now. It’s tough.”

Her accent is so Alabamian it hurts. She’s missing a few teeth, but it doesn’t look bad on her. She’s old. Wiry. Strong.

Where she grew up, country folks didn’t go past the eighth grade—some still don’t. And according to her daddy, “Once a young’un can read, it’s time to get out and work.”

Saying this made her laugh. I’m not sure why. Maybe one’s own private memories are just humorous.

All six of her brothers dropped out, so did she. It wasn’t a big deal to drop out of school back then.

Take me. I dropped out of school in the seventh grade. Nobody said a word about it. I returned to school as an adult and got my high-school equivalency stuff. And to this day, I still have a hard time spelling “equivalency.”

She and I aren’t that different.

She met a man who worked in a lumber mill, they had two children before she was 20. She’s still with him. She calls him Beater. I don’t know why. But personally, it’s not a nickname I would want.

When she was 24, Beater suggested she apply for a job at the hospital. She thought this was ridiculous. Hospitals didn’t hire “poor white trash.” Hospitals were for learned people. People with letters behind their name. Not hillbillies.

“Which is exactly what I am,” she tells me as she checks my temperature with an ear thermometer.

Even so, she inquired with the hospital about getting a job there. The hospital told her she would need college. So she called a college. The college said she needed a high-school diploma. So she called a high…

Morning. I’m drinking my coffee when his photo pops up in my cellphone memories. And I’m thrown three years backward. I remember it all too well.

There I am, watching him. He sits on the steps of the Shell Station. A backpack beside him. His skin is rawhide. His beard is white.

His name is Buck. He’s from North Carolina. He says he completed two tours in Vietnam.

He’s not here begging, he’s resting his feet.

“My old feet hurt more’n they used to,” says Buck. “Hard getting old, buddy.”

There is a half-smoked cigar next to him. He dug this used cigar from an ashtray. It still has life in it, he says.

He’s sipping coffee.

“First cup’a joe I had in a week. Fella gave me a quarter a few minutes ago. Piled my coins together to buy me a cup.”

A quarter.

When Buck went inside to buy it, there were only cold dregs left in the pot. He asked the cashier if it were possible to brew a fresh pot. She told him to get lost.

“But I’m paying for it,” he

insisted.

She escorted him to the door.

So, he’s drinking dregs for which he paid full price—for which he is grateful.

There are holes in his shoes. He found these sneakers in a sporting-good-store dumpster. Buck estimates he’s put nearly eight hundred miles on them. Who knows if he’s exaggerating or not. Buck has a flare for the dramatic.

Still, his bloody toes poke through the fronts. His middle toenail is missing.

Buck explains, “God says, ‘Don't worry what you’ll eat, drink, or wear.’ And I believe it. But it's hard sometimes. ‘Specially when you ain’t eaten and you don’t have [cussword] to wear.”

So I walk inside the gas station on a mission. I ask the aforementioned cashier to brew a fresh pot of coffee—I tell her it’s for me. I am very…

The letter came from 21-year-old Julia.

“Dear Mister Sean,” it began, “I cannot find a job that fits me…

“I keep trying job after job, and I just want to find my true career path… And be happy. What should I do?”

Well, Julia, I’ve had a lot of jobs. My first real job was hanging drywall, after my father died. I was 14 years old. I was chubby for my age. I learned how to sand drywall joints, how to apply drywall mud, and most importantly, I tasted my first beer.

Mister Rick, my boss, was a cheerful man who looked like Otis Campbell. He gave me my first sip. I was covered in Sheetrock dust and sweat, I looked like Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Mister Rick handed me a can and said, “You earned a sip, son.”

I took three sips. He grabbed the can from my hands and said, “Easy, son. I don’t want you getting drunk.”

“What’s it like being drunk?” I asked.

“See those four trees over there? Well, if you were drunk, there’d be

eight trees.”

“But, Mister Rick,” I said. “There are only two trees.”

I was an ice-cream scoop once. That was a pretty good job. I was allowed to eat all the leftovers.

I gained 19 pounds in six weeks.

Once, I worked food service. I was a line cook. I wasn’t very good at it. I lasted one year. On the day I was fired, the head cook took me aside and said, “You’re an employee with incredible motivational skills, did you know that?”

“I am?”

“Yes. Whenever you’re around, everyone has to work twice as hard.”

I worked as a tile layer. I had a job digging drainage ditches. I hung gutter. I helped my mother clean condos and apartments.

And once, I stooped so low as to work as a telemarketer.

“Hello,” I said into the headset, “would…

I love you. Maybe you need to hear that. If so, allow me to be the one to say it. I love you.

You don’t have to believe me. You don’t have to trust me. You don’t even have to keep reading this; I’m not going to. Just know that someone loves you. Namely, this guy.

You don’t have to do anything to deserve love. There are no criteria to meet. You don’t have to say magic words to receive love that is rightfully yours. You don’t have to chant “I’m special” three times, hug yourself, then affirmatively pat your own backside.

Maybe you mistakenly think love is something you have to work for. Something you have to earn. Maybe you’re a people pleaser, continually trying to win people over so they’ll love you.

But it’s not like that. You don’t have to work to receive love. It’s free. Love is a basic human right. Like water. Or air. Or SEC football broadcasts.

So I don’t know what you’re going through. But I know you’re a human. Just like me. Therefore, I know you need

love just to function.

It’s biological. They’ve done studies on it. Love is what makes your cells grow. What makes blood move. What makes a heart beat. This is legit, you can trust me. I’m on the internet.

Moreover—and you know who you are—I know you don’t FEEL any love right now. Which is probably why you’re still reading this poorly written article from some guy you’ve never met in Alabama.

You’re reading because deep down, you want love. But you just can’t seem to find it. Well, you’ve found it here.

So if that’s you, allow me to reiterate. I love you.

I love you if you are a total jerk, and you push away everyone who has ever tried to get close to you. I love you even though you try to destroy…

“I enjoyed our vacation together,” the 12-year-old said.

It was the last day of beach vacation. We stood in our driveway. It was time to part ways. Becca’s ride was waiting.

Vacation was over. She had school. I had work. Real life awaits us all.

But we had four days of beach. Four days of sand. Four days of seafood joints. Four days of lethargy wherein the biggest problem of the day was: Should I scratch my butt now or later?

“I’m going to miss you,” Becca said, clutching her pocketbook.

So grown up.

Her little face was sunburned. She wore her platform sandals, like a big kid. She wore cutoff shorts and a colorful Tee. Hair in bobby pins. Cuter than a duck with a hushpuppy.

I forget she’s 12 sometimes. She was a child when we met. Itty-bitty. She still knew all the words to “Baby Shark.”

Now she’s on the cusp of teenagehood. You never know what she will say. One moment she’s eating a popsicle, with a purple tongue, talking about puppies. The next moment, she’s

discussing the finer points of existential free will like a French poetry major.

We’ve had a good four days. And after four days of living with my blind goddaughter, I’ve learned things. The main thing I have learned is that never once does one get a break from being blind.

Not once is blindness not a factor in her interaction with the world. Not once.

A few days ago, someone emailed about a column I wrote. “Why do you ALWAYS feel the need to mention that Becca is blind? It’s offensive to me.”

I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that this remark was made by a non-blind person.

It’s simple really. The reason I always mention Becca’s blindness is because Becca is always blind. Believe me, she never forgets it. And neither do her loved ones.

Day Three of beach vacation. They awoke early. The sun wasn’t fully up, but obscured by a quiltwork of gray. It was balmy and warm. The seagulls were still asleep.

His blind 12-year-old goddaughter’s first words were “Can we go swimming in the ocean?”

“It’s not the ocean,” he explained for the 3,429th time. “It’s the Gulf of Mexico.” Then he defined the important differences once again.

She wanted eggs for breakfast. So he made eggs. She ate hers, then asked if he was going to eat his.

“I planned on it,” he replied, mid-bite.

“Well,” she said, “I can eat your eggs if you’re not hungry.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.”

She smiled at him.

So he ate a granola bar.

After the kid polished off two plates, she said, “Can we go swimming in the ocean?”

“It’s not the ocean,” he restated. “It’s the Gulf. And isn’t it a little early for swimming?”

“What time is it?”

“Seven,” he said.

“That’s not too early for swimming in the ocean.”

“Gulf.”

“Whatever.”

So the odd couple left the rental condo. They were barefoot, carrying beach towels, wearing bathing

suits.

One dorky, pale, out-of-shape, middle-aged writer with a hairy back and oversized feet. And one 12-year-old blind girl in floral-print swimwear.

Together they walked along the unstable sand. He held her hand tightly because sand is difficult to navigate when you’re blind.

No people were on the beach that morning because it was too early. So the man and the girl had the whole Gulf of Mexico to themselves.

They eased into the green water a little after sunrise. It was bitingly cold at first. The first wave crashed around their knees and delivered a shock to the system. What an exciting way for a middle-aged man to wake up.

“Don’t worry,” said the 12-year-old, “the ocean will get warmer, you just have to get used to it.”

“Gulf,” he…

“Dear Sean, are you a Christian? Sometimes I can’t tell. There is only one way to heaven, and your ‘tolerance for all,’ and ‘just be a good person’ philosophy sounds fine, but it leads to hell.

“...Hell is real, Sean. I read about your affinity for alcohol, and how you condone flagrant sinners. …As a Christian, I find your feel-good writing to be misleading and disgusting to Believers. There is only one way to heaven… and I believe you know this. I am not saying any of this in judgment, I am only saying this as your brother. Repent, friend. The time is at hand.”

Dear Friend. Gosh. First of all, your concern for my soul humbles me. I am honored. You sound like someone I could be friends with.

Thank you for taking time to write such a stirring and unsolicited email.

It’s funny, I used to know an elderly retired preacher who said that someone’s eternal soul was like their groin region. To just walk up and start talking about someone’s

groinal region is rude and downright uncalled for. But congratulations to you. You just jumped right in there.

The writer in me needs to tell you that your letter was extremely well written. Not one grammatical error. I am verry empressed. I actually counted your total words. There were 912. It takes me hours to write 900 error-free words.

Ergo, you spent at least an hour out of your day writing to me. How unselfish.

I’ll bet you spend the same amount of time worrying about children who are born to crack-addicted parents. I’ll bet, each day, you visit those drug-addicted babies in their lowly states.

I’ll bet you are also a frequent volunteer in the NICU, holding motherless and fatherless babies, so they don’t die of neglect. Kudos to you, sir. I wish I could be like you.

You probably also visit the homeless shelters and…

My sister’s family is visiting from Florida this week. It’s difficult to get any serious writing work done becausspiwjg[qi31 0409UJ15M\2
TOJLOIKN B4G=2 2309RU3O jfjwd ifjw8989898#(#(*&

Sorry. That was my 5-year-old niece, Lucy, banging away on my laptop keyboard while I’m working.

Lucy is obsessed with the things in my office. She marches in here all the time just to look around, climb on the bookshelves, go through my tax returns, or to use crayons to add some color to my walls.

But she’s particularly fascinated with my computer. Sometimes I’m afraid she’s going to bump my laptop off my desk and knock it on thFi340YYY(&#$%2 ti9u2-39tu 1203902hsb IUHW)*i23ub. &#)OOPWow 4-2t-h024h)#$)T*)UUW 283h2039))239#.

My nieces have enough energy to power an average suburban electrical grid. They arrived in our driveway last night after spending upwards of six hours in the car. By the time they got here, they were not unlike compressed atomic matter contained in a jar, just waiting to explode.

When my sister’s SUV pulled in, the doors of the vehicle were flung open and little voices screamed, “UNCLE SEAN!”

Immediately, a

duo of two-foot-tall humans leapt out of the automobile. These were towheaded girls, barefoot, wearing multi-colored tutus, their lips and tongues were stained with blue dye from eating either Kool-Aid, candy, or—and we cannot rule this out—BIC pens.

They moved so quickly they looked like a giant blur. I could hardly see them. They were blond-colored streaks, wholly invisible to the naked eye. Their location could only be determined by the distant sounds of their spontaneous singing of songs from the Disney movie “Frozen.”

“AUNT JAY JAY!” they said, throwing their arms around my wife.

They call my wife Aunt Jay Jay because at one time they could not pronounce the name Jamie. Used to, my niece Lucy couldn’t pronounce the name Sean, either. So whenever she said my name she just called me “UNCLE SSSHHH!” which…

I am not sure whether you understand English, but I’d like to think you do.

I’d like to think that you know exactly what I’m saying to you. I’d like to think I speak fluent dog.

Heaven knows, I speak to you non-stop. Because you’re blind. Because you need me to keep talking. When I talk to you, you don’t feel so disconnected. That way you’re always part of what’s going on.

So I’ve been talking a lot since I brought you home. I say anything and everything to you, so you feel involved.

I tell you when I’m going to the bathroom. When I read a book, I read aloud. When we go for walks, I describe what I’m seeing. I talk to you about the green crabgrass, the particular shade of blue in the sky.

Yeah, I know it’s silly. You probably can’t understand me. Although sometimes I’m not sure.

Sometimes I think you actually know what I’m saying. Because there are occasions when I tell you how much I love you. And when you hear this, you sort of

lean into me like you know precisely what “I love you” means.

Other times, when I tell you “It’s going to be okay,” after something frightens you, you tuck your head into my chest because I think that, on some level, you know. You know what I mean.

I can only imagine how scared you get when a loud sound occurs nearby. I can only guess at how disoriented you feel when you stumble off the curb.

I owe you an apology. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to teach a blind dog. I am learning as I go. I have so much more to learn. I’m reading books. I’m watching videos. I’m trying. I promise you, I am. But I am an inadequate trainer.

Any troublesome issues lie within me, not you. You’re doing perfectly. You have…

DEAR SEAN:

Just wanted to say we caught your show in Lake City, but I was not as into it as I wanted to be. Because, you see, a few days earlier, they did a scan and found lesions on my spine. It looks like cancer. I have tests scheduled.

I’m only 50. I have many things I still want and need to do. I’m scared but ready to fight. I want more years with my wife. I want to be there for my kids. My son is getting married in October. I’m not really sure why I emailed you other than to ask for your thoughts and prayers, and maybe a word of advice.

Anyway, I’ll wrap this up because I’m rambling now.

Thanks again Sean,
JOSH-IN-GEORGIA

DEAR JOSH:

First off, it’s okay to ramble. Secondly. I don’t give “advice” per se, because the best advice I have is: Don’t eat the yellow snow.

So anyway, I contacted several of my friends after I received your email and asked them for THEIR advice, which—trust me—will be better than mine.

People such as Rhonda, who has had cancer three times.

“I fought hard,” says Rhonda, of Hartford, Connecticut. “...And now I’m 53, cancer free, and I still bike, jog, and swim every day. Cancer has not stopped me yet. I have many friends who have survived cancer.

“Start searching out the stories of how many people have defeated cancer. It will blow your mind.”

The doctor found cancer in Jace’s (49) abdomen. He went through multiple treatments, and he is now 14 years cancer free.

Jace has some outstanding advice: “My advice is not to write Sean Dietrich.”

I have a friend, Allen, in East Tennessee, who writes:

“Yeah, I’ve had cancer twice. I’ve done radiation, chemo, and all sorts of other weird experimental stuff I don’t recommend.

“It was a tough road, but last week we celebrated my…