The great festival of people

By Editor | February 13, 2026 |

Sean of the South
Sean Dietrich

Sometimes you meet people. People you feel like you’ve met before. Strangers whom you’ve mysteriously known all your life.

Somehow.

You can’t explain this sensation. You can’t understand why you feel such profound connection with new faces.

It’s almost as if we are all leaves, sprouting on the same tree branch. We have always been leaves, of course, growing from the same region of the same limb. But we’ve never ventured to meet each other. Now that we’ve met, we realize something incredible. We share the same sap.

I have met lots of leaves from my particularly bizarre branch throughout the years. But never so many in one weekend. Never have I met so much fellow foliage as I did at the Savannah Book Festival.

There was Reno. A retired athletic trainer for the Clemson University basketball team. A woodworker. His children are grown, but he still volunteers as a Scout Master. Born and raised in Asheville. He sat beside me at dinner and we laughed. My throat still hurts.

All evening I kept wanting to ask him, “Why do I feel like I already know you?” But I didn’t want to be a weirdo.

There’s Riley. She is a college student at SCAD. A writer, a songwriter, a musician, a long distance runner, a horseback rider, and a 20-something with a 60-year-old wisdom.

This is mostly, because of her lifelong cardiac troubles. She’s been in and out of the hospital more times than she can count. Her body heals slowly due to poor circulation.

Which is why Riley made a choice long ago, that she would live as much life as she could while she could, before there wasn’t any left.

Ethan. A young writer raised in Savannah. Graduated college a few years ago. Easygoing. Humble. A great listener. And although he is decades my junior, we finish each other’s sentences.

Joice. She is sunlight. She is hugs and squeezes. She is generous laughter. All smiles. She is all the greatest things about being human contained in one jumper dress.

Joice is, perhaps, the youngest person at our dinner table tonight. So much younger than me, younger than everyone here. A baby, actually. Joice will, however, celebrate her 70th birthday in a few months.

Mickie. Kind and gentle. Empathetic. When you speak, she doesn’t just listen. She gives you her eyes.

She feels. You can tell. She understands. She “experiences” a conversation, she doesn’t just have one.

You can watch her interact with her fellow humans. These are not just people to her. They are souls. Celestial bodies with some kind of eternal significance. They “matter.”

Tara. Genuine. Heartfelt. Sweet spirit. A servant’s heart. A doer. The kind of person you want to go on road trips with.

Maddie. A college student with hearing aids and low vision. She has been through so much in her brief lifetime. She is going to get her master’s in music, she will not let deafness stop her. She is funny. She is kind. She is a reader. She is magnificent. We text each other now.

Kelly, red curly hair. Dog lover. From Georgia. Fun. Could possibly be a second cousin.

Katie. Hiked the Pacific Crest Trail. And the Appalachian Trail. Knows what matters. Knows what doesn’t. Listens more than she talks. Smiles more than she frowns.

Wayne Dreysdale. In his 80s. Married for 62 years. Lives in Savannah. He used to be a dentist. Now that he’s retired, he’s a writer and brilliant painter.

Wayne is tall and slim. He stands above the crowd. His warm countenance can be felt from across a crowded room. You don’t even have to know he’s there before you sense him.

Upon your first hug, you will feel his spirit, seeping through the cracks of his soul. He is irresistibly nice. Deeply compassionate. Ego-less. Authentic. And you feel like you’ve waited your whole life to meet him. You just didn’t know it.

When we hugged, I felt something.

It’s the same feeling you get when you go back home, and your family is all waiting on the porch. And you’re weary from being beat up by life. You’re disillusioned.

And you run into their arms and they enfold you, and no matter how bad your life is, no matter what kind of hell you’re currently going through, there they are. They love you. You don’t always know why they love you. Heck, you don’t always know why you love them.

But each time you’re with these beautiful people, you realize something deep in the recessed places of your heart:

This life was never about accomplishments. Nor about success. Nor about status, nor about how many meaningful things you could complete before you died. This life was not a race. It’s not a puzzle. It’s not a test. It’s not a rehearsal. It’s not a game. It’s not a competition.

Life is a family reunion.