The chalkboard in my kitchen

By Editor | November 21, 2025 |

Sean of the South
Sean Dietrich

We have this place in our kitchen. It’s a wall. It used to be a door, some 102 years ago, when the house was built.

There used to be stairs outside this kitchen door, leading to the backyard. But the doorway has been sealed off. Now it’s just a big blank space in our kitchen.

The wall is painted with black chalkboard paint. So it’s basically a big blackboard, just like the kind you once used for working out algebra problems in front of your whole class.

We write things on this board. My wife and I. The writings always change.

Usually you walk into the kitchen, and you’ll just happen to notice that someone has erased the old writing, and added something new.

My wife writes messages like, “Welcome home, you’ve been on the road for two weeks, we missed you!”

“The dogs say ‘We ‘ruff’ you, Daddy.’”

“Happy birthday, Sean. I cannot imagine my life without you.”

Little messages. Little words. Small words. But words carry power. Words are not lightweight.

In the mornings, as I make the coffee, standing in the kitchen with a bad case of bedhead, I stare at this chalkboard. And sometimes, in my half-waking state, I get lost in the chalkboard text. Gazing into the black-and-whiteness of it all.

During the Thanksgiving season, my wife writes messages to – well – to God, I guess. She writes things she is thankful for.

And as the coffee percolates, I shuffle over to the chalkboard for deeper inspection. Then, I add my contribution to the lot.

The dogs see me squatting, writing with a small piece of chalk. Squatting, of course, puts me closer to their eye level. So, because I am hunching low, my dogs naturally assume I must have ham.

And they attack me.

Soon, I have lost my balance. I am now on the floor. Flat on my butt. With three dogs swarming, trying to muzzle their way past the other, as if to say, “He’s mine!” “No, no! He’s mine!” “Get out of the way, everyone knows he’s mine!”

Tails wagging. Butts wagging. Lots of panting. Lots of licking.

All three of them are pressing their surgically cold noses on my bare skin. Each dog, wholly unashamed, devoid of ego. Fully vulnerable. Unconditionally honest with themselves, and with each other, in all regards. They are expressive, effusive, and rhapsodic with their demonstration of love. They love others like they’ve never been hurt.

And when I am thoroughly covered in dog saliva; which contains 98 percent water, a variation of proteins, enzymes, and other compounds, such as lysozyme and immunoglobulins, which aid digestion and have potent antimicrobial properties; I start to laugh privately.

I’m still looking at the chalkboard. I’m still holding the piece of chalk in my hands. And I’m thinking about my life. About my people. About my little family.

I’m looking at the white hairs on the snouts of my dogs, and remembering when they were mere puppies, cradled in my arms.

I’m thinking of how many generations this 102-year-old house has seen – how many Thanksgivings, Christmases, birthdays, and how many funerals.

I’m thinking about how friends become our truest family. About how nothing in this world lasts forever except memories. About how thankful I am. About how my life has been guided by an unseen hand, steering me from self-destruction, guiding me toward real love.

But mostly, I’m thinking about how it all went by so fast.