Sean Dietrich - Will the Circle Be Unbroken?: A Memoir of Learning to Believe You’re Gonna Be Okay

PRAISE FOR SEAN DIETRICH

Dietrich is a Southern Garrison Keillor.

Library Journal

Sean Dietrich can spin a story.

Southern Living

Sean Dietrich is Southern storytelling at its finest; reading his words is like sitting on a front porch with a Mason jar of sweet tea, listening to your uncle weave a story you know in your heart is true, but theres a little magic thrown in too.

Annie Butterworth Jones, owner of the Bookshelf

Southern Literature at its finest.

Southern Literary Review

Dietrichs hopeful tale [Stars of Alabama] illuminates the small rays of faith that shine even in dark times.

Publishers Weekly

[Stars of Alabama is a] big-hearted novel.

Garden & Gun

[Stars of Alabama is] mysterious and dazzling.

Deep South Magazine

ZONDERVAN BOOKS

Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

Copyright 2020 by Sean Dietrich

Requests for information should be addressed to:

Zondervan, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

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ISBN 978-0-310-35575-5 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-0-310-35577-9 (audio)

ISBN 978-0-310-35576-2 (ebook)

Epub Edition January 2020 9780310355762

Any internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any otherexcept for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Some of the names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Published in association with The Bindery Agency, www.TheBinderyAgency.com.

Cover illustration: Conrad Garner / agencyrush.com

Author photo: Sean Murphy

Interior design: Denise Froehlich

Printed in the United States of America

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TO MY MOTHER, MY WIFE, MY SISTER, AND

ELLIE MAE, THE WOMEN IN MY LIFE

CONTENTS

The day before my father shot himself, I saw a blue heron. I was standing on the muddy banks of Camp Creek. The bird was there for the same reason I was. We were fishing.

I was a child, standing onshore with a rod and cork float. The bird was taller than I was, with shocking eyes. He stood upright, perched on a fallen spruce that was half in the water.

The elegant bird looked straight at me. He was the picture of mystery, with his shaggy feathers, his S-shaped neck, his slender beak.

My father had always reminded me of a heron. Once, I told my father and it seemed to amuse him.

No way, he said. Im not as ugly as a heron.

My father wasnt ugly, but he was lanky and birdlike. His long legs, his lean neck, his beak nose. My fathers arms hung below his knees, almost like wings. And when he walked, it was with a forward lean, like he was keeping his center of gravity in the right place.

His build suited him. He was a welder, an ironworker, and birdlike qualities came in handy on the iron. He could crawl upon the skeletons of skyscrapers like a tightrope walker.

Only a few days earlier, I had watched him climb a fifty-foot tree to hang a tire swing. He did that just for me. He risked his life to do it. Id never seen anyone climb a tree that high and live to talk about it.

Be careful! I yelled from the ground.

Careful? he said. This aint nothing! On a jobsite, I climb thirty stories sometimes!

My father scaled a mostly limbless tree like a native, barefoot, jeans rolled around his ankles. Then he walked along the branch, arms spread outward for balance, a two-inch-thick rope over his shoulder.

Finally, he draped the rope over a sturdy limb and tied a bowline knot. The swing was exquisite. On his downward descent, the bark cut his forearms so that he was bleeding. But he didnt even feel it. Ironworkers are like that. He only fastened a tire to the other end of the rope, and that, by God, was that.

I burned up entire days on that swing. On it, I was a fighter pilot, a trapeze artist, a sailor of the high seas, a cowboy riding his faithful horse. To a boy who lives a hundred miles from town, a good tire swing is everything.

Its funny what you remember. There are entire years of my life that blend into beige mush, and I can hardly remember what I had for supper last night. But I remember that swing. I remember the rough, orange-and-white rope that left blisters on my hands. I remember the smell of that tire, warm and soft from the sun. I remember the way itd be full of water after a rain, and I remember the hole I punched into the bottom of the tire with a pocketknife to prevent this.

Sometimes I remember too much.

The heron stepped carefully along the branches with perfect balance. Then he leapt onto the shore so that he was only feet away from me. He took a few steps in my direction, through the mud, leaving a trail of footprints.

Then, for no apparent reason, he stopped.

The bird gave me a hard glare. He was so still I could see a pulse throbbing in his breast. Maybe he was begging. Herons are known to beg for fish. A lot of fishermen feed them, but you werent supposed to toss a fish to a heron. At least thats what my father told me once.

You hungry? I asked the bird in a quiet voice. Ill feed you, boy.

It didnt matter what my father had told me about feeding herons. My mother taught me to always share with company.

With one hand, I reached into a brown paper bag, careful not to make much commotion. I didnt want to scare the bird. I unwrapped a sandwich of white bread, ham, and mayonnaise.

How bout this? I said. Do you like ham, boy?

The bird didnt answer.

Its good. Tastes just like... ham.

I removed the meat from the sandwich and tossed it toward him. The thick chunk of honey-glazed ham fell several yards before the bird with a slapping against the ground. The noise spooked him. He leapt backward and resumed his perch on the limb and kept his eyes on me.

The ham was covered in sand and dirt.

Thanks a lot, I said, biting into my all-bread sandwich. Dumb bird.

In this memory, I was happy. Not just in part, but fully. I can see that happy child in my memory. The sun is upon his freckled skin, and he is glad, there on the banks of Camp Creek.

The child has no idea that in twenty-four hours, within the little town of Parkville, Missouri, his father will place the barrel of a hunting rifle into his mouth and alter the course of the boys life.

This child knows nothing about the gunshot that will tear a hole in his uncles roof, ringing throughout Parkville like the sound of a single clap, scaring birds away for miles.

The boy doesnt know that neighbors nearby will hear gunfire or that people will come running to see what happened. That sirens will whine, that police will barricade the scene with yellow tape, or that the entire world will fall.

The child is clueless. But in a few hours, once he finishes fishing, the tributary of his family stream will change, like a river that starts flowing sideways. The boys family current will flow far away from this place, trickling downward through the Ozarks, past Mississippi, through Alabama, stopping briefly in Georgia, and finally dumping into the Florida Panhandle.