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Tuesday, 21 July 2026
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Written by Pitt Dickey
Trigger warning: the Postal Service recently raised the cost of stamps from 78 cents to 82 cents. The increase will surely result in better delivery of the mail. If you believe that, want to buy a timeshare in the Gaza Strip Golden Shores Condos, Phase One? Ponder what Grimm’s Fairy Tales teach about the mail.
Once upon a time, there was a poor woman who had a baby boy. The village fortune teller opined that when he was 14, he would marry the King’s daughter. The King did not like this prophecy. He offered the woman gold coins if she would give him her son.
She made the deal.
The King put the baby in a box, tossing him into a river. Fortunately, the box floated away until a Miller and his wife found the baby. They raised him as their own.
Time passed. He grew into a polite 14-year-old.
The King discovered that the Miller’s son was the boy prophesied to marry his daughter. He promised the boy two pieces of gold to take a letter to the Queen. The King sealed the letter, not telling the boy that it told the Queen to execute the bearer of the letter. The boy traveled into the forest, got tuckered out, and found a cottage in a dark glen.
He went inside, finding an old woman. She told him he was in a robbers’ hideout and they would kill him when they got home. He was so tired, he went to sleep anyway. When the robbers came home, they opened the King’s letter. They learned the boy was on his way to be killed.
They felt sorry for him and pulled the old switcheroo by sticking a different letter into the envelope for the Queen. The replacement letter told the Queen to marry their daughter to the boy as soon as he delivered the letter.
The boy gave the letter to the Queen and married their daughter the same day. When the King arrived, he was royally angry. He learned about the switcheroo, but now it was too late. He had a new son-in-law.
He told the boy that he would have to go to Hell and bring back 3 golden hairs from the Devil. The boy set out on his quest, passing through two villages where he was asked a question in each: 1. Why did the fountain in the town that used to gush wine go dry? 2. Why did the tree in the park that used to bear golden apples become bare? 3.
A Ferry man asked him, “Why do I keep having to cross the river and no one comes to relieve me?” The boy promised to find the answer to each question on his way back from the Devil.
The boy found the doorway to Hell and the Devil’s house. The Devil was away doing deviltry, but Satan’s MeeMaw was home. She welcomed him in. He told her he had to get 3 golden hairs from the Devil to keep his Princess Bride. Satan’s MeeMaw took pity on him, warning the Devil would eat him if he found him.
She transmogrified the boy into an ant, putting him in her apron. She promised to get the 3 golden hairs and answer the three questions for the boy.
When the Devil got home, he was pooped. He plopped his head in MeeMaw’s lap and told her to pluck the lice from his hair.
He went to sleep.
MeeMaw plucked out 3 golden hairs one at a time. Each time the Devil woke up.
MeeMaw told him she had a dream, yanking his hair by mistake. She asked him the three questions, which he answered. The Devil said the fountain went dry because there was a toad under it. Kill the toad, and the fountain will flow. The tree that no longer produced golden apples was due to a mouse eating the roots.
Kill the mouse and apples will return. Finally, all the Ferry Man had to do to be relieved of duty was hand his pole to the next person who crossed the river and he would get to leave.
MeeMaw turned the ant back into the boy, giving him the hairs and the answers. He skedaddled, telling the mayors of the two towns how to fix the fountain and the apple tree. Each mayor then gave the boy two donkeys laden with gold. He told the Ferry Man what to do.
When he got back to the castle with 4 donkey loads of gold, the King was tickled pink. The King asked where he got the gold. The boy told him to go to the Ferry Man that on the other side of the river was sand made of gold.
The King went to the ferry and paid to go across. On the other side, the Ferry Man asked the King to hold the pole for a moment. The Ferry Man jumped out, laughing, running away. The King remains to this very day stuck poling people across the river.
Moral: As Postal Employee Newman once said, “Who controls the mail, controls information.”
Don’t complain about the cost of forever stamps; you could be stuck for eternity ferrying people across a river.
("Let Sleeping Devils Lie" Illustration by Pitt Dickey)
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Tuesday, 14 July 2026
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Written by Dan DeBruler
Several years ago, I visited my hometown and drove past the house where I grew up. The street was the same, but a few trees were missing. The rest were much bigger. Everything looked exactly as it had—yet it was all completely different.
The family living there had no idea I was slowing down and looking. And they certainly didn't know what I drove away with — the weight of what had changed, what was lost, what I wished I could hold again — was no lighter than when I turned onto that street.
In one way or another, we all go back. We drive past old houses. We scroll through old photographs. We find ourselves in a quiet moment, mentally walking the halls of something that used to be. And there's an ache in it. Because when you go back, no matter how hard you try, the present won't change.
Frederick Buechner once wrote about a dream he had. In it, he was searching a hotel for a room he'd found on a previous stay — a room that felt perfectly right, like it had been made just for him. He asked the desk clerk how to find it. The clerk said he could — but only if he asked for it by its right name.
The name of the room was Remember.
Buechner described it as the place "where the past lives on as a part of the present, where the dead are alive again, where we are most alive ourselves… and to where our journeys have brought us." The room called Remember is not the room where we change things. It's the room where we understand things — where we sit still long enough to see what was actually happening in the moments we lived through, usually moving too fast to notice.
Here's what I've come to believe: we go back because we're looking for something. Maybe it’s peace. Perhaps clarity. The feeling that we were loved, that we mattered, that the years added up to something worth having. But we keep looking in the wrong place. We look in the physical act of return — the old house, the old photograph, the same memory played on a loop.
What we're actually looking for is already inside us. It's the grace of a God who was present in every chapter of the story we lived. Buechner said it simply: "To remember the past is to see that we are here today by grace, that we have survived as a gift."
The prophet Jeremiah, sitting in the rubble of everything he'd loved, wrote something similarly remarkable. "Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed." (Lamentations 3:21-22, NIV) He couldn't go back and change what Jerusalem had become. But he could enter the room called Remember. And there — buried under the ruins — he found evidence of mercy.
You can't change the present by going back. But you can change how you carry it forward — by remembering, honestly and humbly, that love was there all along.
Several years ago, I visited my hometown and drove past the house where I grew up. The street was the same, but a few trees were missing. The rest were much bigger. Everything looked exactly as it had—yet it was all completely different.
The family living there had no idea I was slowing down and looking. And they certainly didn't know what I drove away with — the weight of what had changed, what was lost, what I wished I could hold again — was no lighter than when I turned onto that street.
In one way or another, we all go back. We drive past old houses. We scroll through old photographs. We find ourselves in a quiet moment, mentally walking the halls of something that used to be. And there's an ache in it. Because when you go back, no matter how hard you try, the present won't change.
Frederick Buechner once wrote about a dream he had. In it, he was searching a hotel for a room he'd found on a previous stay — a room that felt perfectly right, like it had been made just for him. He asked the desk clerk how to find it. The clerk said he could — but only if he asked for it by its right name.
The name of the room was Remember.
Buechner described it as the place "where the past lives on as a part of the present, where the dead are alive again, where we are most alive ourselves… and to where our journeys have brought us." The room called Remember is not the room where we change things. It's the room where we understand things — where we sit still long enough to see what was actually happening in the moments we lived through, usually moving too fast to notice.
Here's what I've come to believe: we go back because we're looking for something. Maybe it’s peace. Perhaps clarity. The feeling that we were loved, that we mattered, that the years added up to something worth having. But we keep looking in the wrong place. We look in the physical act of return — the old house, the old photograph, the same memory played on a loop.
What we're actually looking for is already inside us. It's the grace of a God who was present in every chapter of the story we lived. Buechner said it simply: "To remember the past is to see that we are here today by grace, that we have survived as a gift."
The prophet Jeremiah, sitting in the rubble of everything he'd loved, wrote something similarly remarkable. "Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed." (Lamentations 3:21-22, NIV) He couldn't go back and change what Jerusalem had become. But he could enter the room called Remember. And there — buried under the ruins — he found evidence of mercy.
You can't change the present by going back. But you can change how you carry it forward — by remembering, honestly and humbly, that love was there all along.
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