“Should I make my bed every morning?” the email began.

The writer of the letter is a 24-year-old who I’ll call Jerry. Jerry is in graduate school. His major is in medicine. He is—without getting too technical—a grown freaking man.

“My dad is a Army colonel,” Jerry went on, “who used to spank me if I didn’t make the bed each morning. …He believes making the bed is setting oneself up for success.

“But now that I’m on my own, I don’t make my bed, and I know Dad is disappointed in me. It even makes him mad at me. What do you think, Sean?”

Well, Jerry. The way I see it, there are two camps.

There is the camp that believes making the bed improves your mental health and propels you toward wealth and success. And there is the camp that believes in eating Cocoa Puffs out of a dirty bowl found in the sink that has not been washed since the Clinton administration.

I belong to the latter camp.

That isn’t to say I don’t believe in

making the bed. It’s just that I conscientiously choose to abstain.

Namely, because there are more important things in my morning routine than the condition of my sheets. Such as, strong coffee, properly cooked eggs, Gary Larson, and the importance of relief pitching in a National League lineup.

The problem is, this world rewards Type-A behavior. We learn about these rewards young. Authority figures are constantly telling us:

“Wake up early!” “study hard!” “brush your teeth” “go to college,” “get a good job,” “eat right,” “exercise,” “invest in an IRA,” “don’t eat cholesterol,” “buy a nice car,” “be a success,” “get your kids into the right school,” “and don’t forget to brush your teeth!”

But did you know that you can go one week without brushing your teeth before your enamel starts to fail? That’s right. You have seven days.

So…

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…

Deputy Sheriff Jermyius Young was the first in April. He was laid to rest earlier this month. Killed in a traffic accident. A slender guy. Nice looking. Honest smile.

“I loved this young man because he was true,” said Montgomery County, Alabama, Sheriff Derrick Cunningham.

Jermyius was 21.

The next U.S. law enforcement officer to pass was Andrew John Faught (27). An automobile accident in Illinois.

Then, Chief of Police Steven Allen Singer (48), in Lake Lafayette, Missouri. He died of a heart attack. He was pursuing trespassers. At the end of a long shift, he went home and suffered a fatal heart attack.

Then, Lieutenant Rodney Osborne (43). He was shot during a training exercise at the tactical firing range at the Correctional Training Academy in Pickaway County, Ohio.

“One of the best men you could ever ask for,” said a family member.

Special Agent Derek Sean Baer (49) was killed in a head-on vehicle crash in Ranson, West Virginia. He served with the United States Postal Service

Office of Inspector General for 19 years. He is survived by his wife and three children.

And then there was Police officer Ross Bartlett (54). He was conducting a traffic stop in Ceresco, Nebraska. Parked on the shoulder. His patrol unit was struck from behind by a Ford F-150.

There was 26-year-old Police Officer Joseph McKinney. Memphis, Tennessee. He leaves behind a wife and daughter. He was killed in a shootout with two suspects. He was handsome. Nice. Funny. A former Chick-fil-A employee.

And don’t forget Sergeant William Marty Jackson, II. According to the Winchester, Kentucky, Police Department, he was involved in a struggle during an assistance call. This led to cardiac problems later that night. He was in law enforcement for 50 years.

Jackson was 73 years old.

Police Officer Michael E. Jensen (29) of Syracuse, New York. “He was a happy-go-lucky kid, always smiling, always happy,” said Jensen’s childhood…

Well, it’s official. I’m done writing.

The email came in this morning. This one sealed the deal. “Sean,” the message began. “You are a social media attention whore….”

Great way to start a Monday.

“...You’re like all other attention seekers,” the writer went on, “constantly looking for likes and engagement… I’ve been a professional writer for 29 years, and it’s people like you who corrupt the profession. …I think you know what I’m talking about.”

The last sentence ends in a preposition.

A few hours later, a book review on a major bookseller website.

“...[Dietrich’s] book was a laborious and difficult read... I found [the author’s] tone glib and disrespectful. This author might indeed have something to say, but he’s too immature to say it.”

You’re only young once. But you can be immature forever.

Then there was the letter to the editor of one of the newspapers for which I write.

“...I am a former reader of Sean. I was disgusted with his treatment of religion in his last column… I take offense at the tasteless jokes about Baptists.”

Why should you take

two Baptists fishing? Because if you take just one, he’ll drink all your beer.

And here’s another little gem from another newspaper that carries my shoddy work:

“...I found Sean’s article in [name of paper] especially upsetting, especially the jokes about the Baptist tradition. I have been a Baptist all my life. I am 77 years old, and found his humor belittling.”

As it happens, I have been a Baptist all my life, too. I come from a Baptist town. Even our atheists were Baptist, because it was a Baptist god they didn’t believe in.

Ironically, most of the Baptist jokes I’ve learned have come directly from Baptist preachers.

One of my childhood friends, for example, is a Baptist preacher. I recently told him about some negative mail I received.

He replied: “Don’t worry about it.…

I’m writing this for a friend—the state of Oklahoma, who I consider a close personal friend of mine.

I know you wouldn’t usually refer to a whole state as your friend, but that’s what I’m doing here.

Today, a tornado swept through Oklahoma’s bosom. Four people were killed. Over a hundred injured. Two deaths in Holdenville. Another near Marietta. Another in Murray County. Thousands are without power. Even more are grieving.

As I write this, nearly 7 million people across America’s midriff are under a tornado warning. From Texas to Wisconsin. By the time you read this, more destruction could have happened.

I first learned of the Oklahoma tornadoes when I got an email from a friend outside Sulphur, Oklahoma.

“I don’t know if you’re even getting this email, Sean,” the note began. “Our phone service is down, and we don’t have any power… But if you can say a prayer for us, it would mean so much.”

Sulphur. A Rockwellian town of about 5,000. Houses and buildings are rubble. Cars were flung. Busses moved. The rooftops

were scraped off.

“You just can’t believe the destruction,” said Oklahoma Governor, Kevin Stitt. “It seems like every business downtown has been destroyed.”

Things started getting bad on Saturday. The weather service reported that two tornadoes were crossing Oklahoma’s Highway 9. Between Goldsby and Blanchard. There was another sighting east of Tinker Air Force Base. Another tornado headed toward Norman.

“I don’t know what were going to do,” said my friend in the aftermath. “I don’t know how were going to get over this.”

Well, I don’t know much, either. But I know one thing about Oklahoma. They are resilient.

Long before the World Trade Center attacks in New York, I remember being glued to the television after an Oklahoma City truck bomb killed 168 people and injured over 500 in 1995.

I remember the witnesses being interviewed on news channels were all…

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…

Morning. I went down to the lobby and ordered a coffee. I was carrying my banjo. Nobody even looked twice at me.

“Room for cream?” the guy said.

“No, thank you.”

I waited for him to stare at my banjo and ask what was in the case. Everyone asks.

But not in Nashville. Banjos here are superfluous. In fact, it’s more unusual NOT to be carrying a banjo in Nash-Vegas.

But before I left, he smiled and said, “Break a leg, man.”

I played banjo on the 650 WSM AM morning show. Bill Cody interviewed me and did his best to make me sound interesting and smart. After a lifetime in radio, Bill Cody could make a fire plug seem interesting and smart. Which is exactly what he did this morning.

Then I left the studio and met an older woman from Bowling Green, Kentucky, who has attended well over 500 Grand Ole Opry performances. Elaine Sledge. Tonight she’ll be bringing her sister to see me. We got our picture made together. She told me to break

a leg.

Then, I went back to the hotel. I had a whole day to kill. So I played my fiddle for several hours until someone knocked on the door and interrupted. It was a veterinary doctor with a medic bag.

“Hello,” he said, “we just received a call about a dying animal in this room?”

So I played banjo instead.

Then it was almost time for soundcheck.

I took a shower and kept thinking to myself how surreal this all is. Me, an ordinary fire plug, playing the Opry.

I put on my suit. My lucky red socks. Socks which have not been laundered in over 20 years and smell like it. My wife won’t come within 200 feet of them.

I picked up my guitar case. I walked out the door.

“Break a leg,” the hotel clerk said.

“Yours or mine?”

A truck stop. A little cafe, somewhere off the Great American highway.

The waitress is bustling between tables. She’s an older woman. Maybe mid-seventies. Salt-and-pepper hair. More salt than pepper.

She puts food on my table. Two eggs, sunny. Hashbrowns. Black coffee.

“Anything else, sweetie?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Ketchup for your hashbrowns?”

“How’d you know?”

She smiles. “Just a hunch.”

She produces the bottle like a magician pulling hankies from his sleeve.

Then, I see the woman walk outside. The bell on the front door signals her exit. I see her through the large window. She sits on a bench. Removes a carton. She’s smoking a cigarette now. And something tells me she’s earned it.

A car pulls up. Old car. A Honda. Rusted fenders. The car used to be blue, now it’s beige There’s duct-tape on the windshield.

The driver hops out. He hugs the waitress. Together they remove a fold-up wheelchair. Together, waitress and man lift a little boy from the backseat.

They place the child into the chair. The woman hugs the kid. The boy is rail thin. She bathes him in her kisses and the

kid returns the favor.

They share a long embrace. The Honda leaves, then the woman wheels the kid inside the cafe.

She parks the kid’s chair in the corner and deals with her workload. She checks on her other customers. They all need something. More napkins. Refills on tea. Plates need to be cleared.

She’s warming up my coffee when I ask who the kid is.

“That’s my neighbor’s boy,” the woman says. “And that was his uncle who dropped him off.”

“You two must be close.”

“We are. Sort of. I’m raising him. He’s about to be legally mine in a few weeks. Once I sign the papers.”

I’m looking at this woman, and I’m thinking that she is a little long in the tooth to be raising a child.

“His…

My truck cab was filled with three barking dogs and one idiot. The dogs were in the backseat. The idiot was behind the wheel.

“Sit down!” the idiot kept saying.

But my dogs do not sit when I drive. They never sit. They dutifully explore their space when the vehicle is underway.

To the untrained eye my dogs appear to be acting disobediently. But that’s not it. Really, they are just looking for food.

They are always looking for food. They even look for food in places where there has never been any food, such as my bathroom. In a pinch, they will even resort to eating non-food items such as my reading glasses, my sandals, sheetrock, etc.

But they particularly go crazy when in my truck because they know the odds of finding abandoned food here are exponential. Thus, they are constantly on the lookout for expired Corn Nuts, old pistachio shells, or a petrified French fry predating the Reagan administration.

So we finally arrived at the dog park. I turned

them loose. They ran. They chased squirrels. They wrestled. They hunted around for any threatening or suspicious objects so they could sniff them, bark at them, then pee on them.

And then, basically, all the dogs in the dog park just stood around. That’s all the dogs do there. They play for short bursts, then they stand around and look at their owners.

“Why do dogs just stand around at dog parks?” one dog owner asked the group of us dog owners who were also, as it happens, just standing around.

Another dog owner said, “I drove forty-five minutes to get here, just so my dog could stand around.”

One of the other dog owners remarked, “You ever wonder what would happen if dog and human roles were reversed? What if DOGS took US to human parks? Would we go to the bathroom in front of each other?”