Dark Eyed Cajun Woman

I set out to prove a point, and I did; the point I proved, and the one I set out to prove, may have differed slightly.

Staring down at my cup of sweet tea and rum, the song Dark Eyed Cajun woman comes to mind. I think that’s what I’ll call this drink. Anyway, to the point.

Her name was Andrea, with the snooty pronunciation, Ahn-dray-a. She was wearing a white dress that fit her dark slender form well, if not elegantly. She and her friend sat down at a table about twenty feet away from us. I asked Greg if I should go ask them to join us – after all, we’d been bachelors in New Orleans for a week and some feminine company seemed like a pleasant interruption to our manly pursuits of music, food, and booze. Greg’s attitude towards life is summed up by his saying “I don’t give a rat’s ass,” which is what he said when I mentioned the girls. Chuck also didn’t care. I suppose for all my posturing, their heads may be screwed on more squarely than my own.

I posited a plan of attack, not the best pickup line ever, but at least it was original. Greg called me out, said I wouldn’t do it. I responded with that elegant little phrase I so often used in college to dismiss homework assignments in favor of more worthy pursuits like Super Smash Bros, beer, sleep, and spending time with my girlfriend.

Original or not, my opening line fell a trifle flat. It turned out the two girls were not alone as I had hoped, but were waiting for friends to show up. This was a bad start. They did invite us to join them, and so, not losing hope (though what I hoped for is unclear… more on that later), I waved Greg and Chuck to come join us.

We made small talk for a bit. The girls had met at LSU before Andrea transferred to Tulane. They were from New Orleans, and we were not. Now, foreign guys may be exotic or cool, but being from Indiana is neither when you are in New Orleans. The band began to play and conversation became more difficult. Andrea lit a cigarette and the five of us took in the strange music. The girls knew this band and vouched for them – they vouched correctly, and our streak of good music continued for the rest of the night. That was about all that did continue.

What I had thought would be two more girls turned out to be maybe three or four girls and a couple of guys as well. Now, at this point if I’d had any sense I’d have ditched the lot of them, grabbed another Jockamo IPA and bathed in the wondrous electric cello. Being devoid of good sense I made an effort to continue conversation with a few of the girls. Most of them just wanted to dance and talk to each other and the guys. The one girl who was there with Andrea at the beginning was standing off to the side, so I went over and talked to her for a few minutes. She seemed the best of the lot – quieter, a little heavy but still quite cute, and somehow radiating a real personality. Maybe the others weren’t bad girls. It’s not fair to judge them just because they weren’t taken by a couple of guys from Indiana in jeans and t-shirts. Maybe we were the ones who looked worthless and hopeless, and maybe we were.

After an hour or so the adventures of the day began to show, and we decided to ditch the place and head for home. I doubt if Andrea and her friends even gave us a second thought.

I proved something that night. I proved that I had the testicular fortitude to go up and talk to a couple of random girls in a bar. I found doing so to be one of the more worthless ways of meeting women. For some men it works. Usually there is a definite aim in mind. Most guys probably aren’t just looking for a change of company and conversation. What had I hoped for? Had I really hoped they’d join us in back and that we’d have a good ol’ time, jesting like old friends? I don’t think so. I don’t think I hoped for or expected anything. I think I just decided to do it (in retrospect probably not a reliably wise mode of operation). Maybe I just had to try it once, fall on my face and realize that good music, good food, good beer, and good friends is more than I could ask for, and I don’t need to go around making pathetic, half-assed and poorly executed attempts at playing the world’s game.

The dark eyed Cajun woman is gone, a pleasant memory tainted with acrid smoke. I’ll stick to making drinks – I’m better at it.

Home and Homeland

Independence Day was cold. Temperatures in Indiana during the summer run towards an abbreviated version of temperatures in Georgia. It gets nearly as hot, but only for about a month. Not this year. This year the 4^th of July was hoodie weather – sixty degrees and rainy – not that I wore a hoodie; it wouldn’t have been manly. I blame global warming – *ahem* climate change, excuse me – for the bawdy weather (I don’t think weather can be bawdy, but I’m writing what comes to mind tonight).

Anyway, Brian, Diane, Scott and I went out to Tipton for a cookout and some good, wholesome, ill-considered fun. Nothing burned (probably because of the rain) and no one got sent to the hospital. After a good American dinner of hamburgers and bratwursts… err… right, at least the beer was American (which may not be a recommendation, come to think of it), we stomped out into the cloudy, misty evening to commence our own mini-revolution. There were a few burns but nothing glorious enough to impress any ladies with our military courage – the worse luck for us, though as you can see from the picture we certainly weren’t trying to exercise good judgment (yeah, that's a lit bottle rocket in my hand).

The obligatory patriotic radio program accompanied the fireworks display, stirring within me long dormant feelings of awe and majesty and love of the fatherland. Scenes from my childhood, singing “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” in my cub scout den, being reminded at the Stone Mountain show that “at least I know I’m free” sprang to mind and I joined in the silent reverence for my heimat. Things may not be perfect here, but here is where I am, and for all its shortcomings I’ll give America this: it has some beautiful land. I’ve a new project in mind: whenever I see an American flag, I’m gonna close my eyes and imagine for just an instant that it’s the bonnie blue. Let that lone white star forever stand for freedom amidst a field of pure blue.

On the drive home I turned on “Georgia on My Mind.” I suppose it’s as good a national anthem as any. That lone evening star glows softly over the rolling blue hills in the land that I’ve called home.

Other arms reach out to me
Other eyes smile tenderly
Still in peaceful dreams I see
The road leads back to you

My country? I was born of my mother; I follow in my father’s steps; I love my brothers; I live by the Grace of God. In the Eucharist I am united in Love to my God and His Church. What better country could I ask for?

Anima Christi, sanctifica me.

The Socialization Fallacy

Some reflections on the most common and frustrating objection to homeschooling...

I’m growing weary of hearing people say, “wow, I never would’ve guessed you were homeschooled.” They don’t mean it the way I’m hearing it. They aren’t trying to sound condescending. I think they don’t know any better.

I really don't feel like repeating the same old defenses of homeschooling that I have been forced time and again to trot out in answer to cliches like "what about socialization"... really that's the only argument anyone uses anymore, as any intelligent person can see the utter failure of the public school system to provide anything more than indoctrination. The last argument I heard was that, if your children are homeschooled, you have to spend *gasp* every minute that they aren't in school trying to get them the socialization they miss by not being in school. Fine, I'll go around looking for bullies and tattle-tales and skanks and other unpleasant characters of my child's age for them to associate with. I believe a boy would be better educated by spending his days with Tom Sawyer. At least Tom could read all those adventure stories that got him into trouble by filling his young head with dreams of... well... something other than a sissified, emasculated, PC regimen, wherein the girls are not girls and the boys are not boys, there are no ladies worth saving nor battles worth fighting, and the ultimate purpose of life is to achieve, not wisdom or excellence or holiness or any other worthy mark, but sameness with your fellow persons. (Yeah, it's a long sentence, read it again and deal with it).

I got socialization out my ass as a homeschooler, and no, we didn't spend every hour seeking it out. Spring and fall I played baseball; summers I went to the pool for swimming lessons and, later, to work; winters I played basketball or did theater. In highschool I spent some time in youth group. I played outside with the neighbor kids, who didn't seem to mind in the least that I was homeschooled, as I was still good at baseball and roller hockey and getting dirty just to annoy our mothers. I did things with homeschoolers, and I did things with public schoolers, and y'know what, I did things just with my family, too. By far the norm growing up was an evening at home, and if we went out, we went as a family, usually. My friends' parents were my parents' friends, and vice versa. I learned to speak politely and well to my elders, to tolerate (occasionally with great annoyance) my juniors, and to enjoy the company of my peers. I dealt with bullies (not well, but what kid does). I liked girls and flirted with them in the same incompetent way that all boys do (by annoying them to get their attention). I had friends and enemies. Sometimes I was a little brat. I'm sure I caused my parents no end of trouble. Isn't this what every kid does? My parents were not slaves to my social life. Indeed, they had the ability to guide it and observe, occasionally with more interference than I'd have liked, but never being tyrannical. If you asked me what I did of an evening as a kid, I'd tell you my family played games and listened to my dad read classic literature aloud. As I grew older the games changed and the reading abated. I rarely was bored, anymore than any other kid.

So was I cheated, or were my parents placed under unnecessary strain to see I got my proper "socialization" (a word, by the way, which makes me cringe)? I doubt it. Were my parents perfect? I doubt it, but then again neither was I (nor will I be when, God willing, I have kids of my own), and neither are any parents, regardless of where their children are educated (or socialized). Am I an exception, a shining example of homeschooling gone miraculously sort of maybe not terribly wrong? I don't know. I know plenty of kids in public and private schools that came out sort of okay, and plenty who went horribly wrong. (See how it sounds... sounds arrogant, don't it?) Some of the ones who went horribly wrong early got their shit straightened out, and some didn't, and some of the ones who went pristinely correct are in for a tough time of it when they find out that life is not full of teachers who can inflict sameness on everyone, and protect you from problems and challenges and hard stuff. Was I sheltered? Maybe. And maybe what most people call sheltered isn't a bad thing. Maybe there's just some shit that kids aren't supposed to deal with at certain ages, and maybe it's worth it to let boys pull the occasional stupid escapade, and leave off the detailed description of the reproductive act until they're, I don't know, capable of dealing with it. And maybe rather than letting the schools teach our children that sex is a game and cap guns are WMDs, just maybe we ought to let the parents have some say in raising their children to be men, and gentlemen, and ladies, rather than persons. And maybe it's time that parents remember that children are a responsibility, that being a parent means growing the hell up and acting like an adult, and loving your child the best you know how. Maybe homeschooling ain't the way to do that. I'm just a simple southern boy, and not too bright about some things, but I think it's a fair start.

So You Wanna Go Back To Egypt?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm looking back on Sodom. I hope I don't get turned into a pillar of salt. Most of my life I've had different groups of friends, but they usually mesh well enough together. At my graduation party there were friends from church and the theater and my next door neighbors and others, and all was marvelous. Now... now I have my college friends and my church friends, and they don't mix. I know they're very different people, but often very different people still get along perfectly well. I know I've changed a good bit in the past year. Are some of the old faces no longer friends worth having? I don't think so. Then why am I never comfortable mixing? I suspect, but I don't know the solution.

Incoherent Reminiscences of a Night on Bourbon Street

Bourbon Street on Wednesday night is far from quiet, though the beads do not fly, the streams of flesh are not seething from one side to the other in a drunken, lustful frenzy. Most people, it seems, are there for what is there, for the mystique and the bars and the drinks and the cabarets. It is a strange mix – tourists wandering curiously back and forth, friends laughing as they drink one too many hand grenades or hurricanes, eighteen year old boys trying to sneak into the strip clubs. The calls of “no cover” and the quieter, more vulgar descriptions of what is to be found inside some of the buildings blend into the flood of noise, but are not lost. The missionaries stopping people in the streets, passing out pamphlets and trying valiantly to reach out to souls in need, they seem so naïve, and I wonder if anyone ever listens to them or takes them seriously. My friend wants to flip them off… sometimes he’s an asshole.

I don’t remember the oppression in the air being there before. Everything looks at once so innocent and so horrible. Few of the people walking the street tonight are depraved, yet most are lost and troubled. They are having a gay time, reveling in the moment, in the sensual numbness that envelopes them. A war seems to be building around me and within me. Too easily I stare, hollow-eyed, at those around me – the girls, the drunks, the skirts, the strippers in the doorways, the sleezy fifty year old man telling you about what’s inside his building. His daughter, if he had one, could be working there, I think. Not all of the places are that sleezy, though. Many of them affect a genteel air, with young, well-dressed doormen standing in the street and pretty girls in modest, professional clothes working the front desk.

The bars are your standard. There are sports bars, a karaoke joint, stands selling beer or fruity drinks. Pat O’Brien’s and Tropical Isle are there, and people are sucking down sweet concoctions that they might later regret.

Everything seems so heavy. The summer air is close, but there is more. I want to enjoy myself. I want to have a couple of drinks and relax. But there’s a darkness there that won’t let me be. I want to laugh at the proselytes in the street and what seem to my mind to be their too strong words. But I can’t, because I think they’re right.

Finally we turned our feet toward Canal and the direction of our cars. A little in front of us a girl walked alone in jeans and a black t-shirt. My eyes followed her out of the club she had left. She was cute, darned cute. Maybe she was a real sweet kid; I’ll never know. Strange, I thought, how this girl who almost certainly had spent the night taking off her clothes for drunken adolescents of whatever age, was showing a fraction of the skin of any of the girls walking down the street. I wish I could have talked to her – I’d have told her she was pretty, and maybe tried to give her a Miraculous Medal, if only I’d had one. Maybe she wouldn’t have taken it, but I wish I could have offered.

For some reason that girl has stayed with me over the weeks. I think maybe she always will. I don’t know her name. Sometimes I pray for her and call her Lisa for no particular reason. Lisa’s a pretty name, and it’s as good as any. Even now, weeks later, I can still feel the oppression that surrounded me that night, the spiritual violence, a battle far greater than Thermopylae. Writing these words brought it down upon me again, and writing the end, the turning of our weary steps homeward and thinking about Lisa, I could feel some of the cloud lift.

Swan Songs

Among my favorite bands of all time (I have 7 albums and six hours worth of their music, and aim to acquire at least two more in the next year) is the Marshall Tucker Band. Led Zeppelin may have started Swan Song records, but if there is any band that epitomizes the ramblin', road hungry, yondering impulse that burns in a man, it was the MTB. From classics like Can't Ya See, Heard It in a Love Song, Take the Highway, and Running Like the Wind, to less well known greats like Anyway the Wind Blows Rider and Ramblin' (which they performed both as a burning gateway to adventure and a weary longing for freedom), to newer songs like Rider of Your Life and Beyond the Horizon, these guys knew the wanderlust, the yondering, what I sometimes refer to simply as "the itch".

The urge to get away - from responsibilities, ties, the familiar, the past - is there. Sometimes even simply the urge just to go somewhere takes hold of me. My dad pointed out that women vacation for the destination, while men (or at least, men in my family) vacation for the going. I don't completely buy into the notion of the journey being the goal, rather than the destination being the goal... it strikes me as too buddhist, and I am reminded that the journey to heaven is not nearly as important or awesome as heaven itself. Indeed, journeys can hurt, and it is in the hurt that we grow.

Despite all this talk of moving, of going, of rambling on my mind, there is a quiet, a contentment, a desire to find a place to call home. So that when I sing "if I ever settled down, you'd be my kind..." I could settle down, instead of going on to say "but I guess it's time to head on down the line..."

There is beauty in responsibility. Duty is a sublime word. There is grace in the simple life. Always moving, always going, always running, tossed about by every wind - to live this way is to hide from life and from the great beauty and grace that come with contentment. Life on the road can be just as much of an escape mechanism as sex and booze and drugs. The urge to be always moving, always doing, always busy, never stopping, never slowing, never looking around to breathe - that urge is a subtle temptation. It tells us that if we just keep going we'll never have to look back, never have to remember, never have to hurt. But that's bullshit, and we know it, just as we know that when we wake up in the morning, sober and alone, we will still be empty.

Don't run from life, from responsibilities and memories and struggles. Stand and fight, submit in humility, trust in grace. When you can't run, you crawl, and when you can't do that, you find someone to carry you. Be a simple kind of man.

On the Cutting Away

Lent is, among other things, a time when we recall our mistakes and (hopefully, and more importantly) repent and return to God. Recalling some of my mistakes, and digging through some old writings, I thought I might share some of my past reflections.

"Say not that to err is human. Say rather that you forgive, as God does. There is this difference: the first is to ignore, even justify, while the second is to accept, and to love. Though we are imperfect, we must never look past our mistakes, but face them, accept them, and strive to change.

Do not seek to be called a gentleman. Only do what is right by those you meet, be kind, love, serve, respect, in sum, be worthy of the name, without arrogating to yourself the title, lest in your arrogance you forget that a good man does not seek notice, but only to serve and love. The obsession with, the mystique of the chivalrous and the gentleman, are misplaced. I do not wish to be a gentleman, but only to be a man, imperfect yet honorable, weak yet deserving of the trust of those whom I love, and all those whom I meet. "

"On the cutting away
Of the sin and the pain
There's peace to be found
Through the fear and the shame
A little voice inside
Says don't screw up again
But there's another place
A comforting thought
On the cutting away"

Now that I no longer have graduation to work for, I often wonder what it is that lies ahead. There is no demarcation, no target... so I walk on, plagued by fear and doubt, but secure in the knowledge that whatever lies before me is better than anything I can imagine right now. I have friends walking beside me, and Easter is my goal. And for now, that is sufficient.

The Curious Case of the Loveless Sacrament

Forgive my absence, I've been short on time and desire, but with the approaching of spring I suspect that the reflective bug will bite more frequently.

About a week ago Zach, Scott, Justice and I went to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button at a local dinner cinema. I enjoyed the movie... well, most of it anyway. For one thing, the Scott Joplin tune Bethena (one of only two pieces he wrote in waltz time) makes three appearances during the film. I love that song, and it holds pleasant memories of youth for me as well, because I performed it at a statewide piano competition my senior year of highschool (and didn't even get an honorable mention thankyouverymuch, but I enjoyed it nonetheless).

The movie is picturesque, sweeping, filled with all the joys and sorrows of life. It reminded me of Big Fish, except that in Benjamin Button, the frame story really added very little to the larger tale, whereas in Big Fish the two are woven together so beautifully that you forget that there even is a frame story. In that respect, CCBB was more like The Princess Bride.

I tried, I really tried, to love the movie. I tried not to be critical. I tried not to parse its every subtlety and flaw. I tried, and I failed. Thinking back now I am finally able to put into words what bothered me when I saw it. I can forgive immoral characters. We are imperfect, sinful people, and art should reflect life. What I cannot abide is the portrayal of marriage as a hindrance to love. With the exception of Benjamin's parents, there are two married couples in the movie. Both relationships hint at a cold, loveless, convenient formality. Love, on the other hand, is expressed solely through sex, regardless of marital status and, in many instances, in the face of it, as an escape for Benjamin's two lovers from the confines to which they must restrict themselves out of necessity.

At no point in the film did I find myself feeling the character's pain as I watched them make the right decision, even though it hurt. There seemed to be no effort to even attempt moral action. The guiding star of both protagonists was self-satisfaction disguised as love. Real love involves sacrifice, pain, hardship, and devotion; it is not a beautiful, passing fling. To divorce marriage and love, marriage and sex, is to strip all three of their meaning. And in this the film left me empty, longing with an unsatisfied desire to see a depiction of real love, rather than this empty fraud, sneaking about and following our passions, giving no thought to our duties or spouses, who are merely a convenience to be discarded at will.

Save Us From Ourselves

I was really bitter and cynical last week during the inauguration. Of course, I'd have been bitter and cynical regardless of who got elected. To my shame be it said that I let my bitterness get the better of my charity, and to the person who had to put up with it that afternoon, I apologize.

As Diane pointed out to me at the time, politics is marketing, and people buy into the brands. I like people. I like being around people, knowing their stories, and just watching their behavior. It's a curiosity with me, a fascination. This is why I like cities. Sure, I prefer the open air, the peace of a blue sky and a spring breeze, but there is something to be said for spending time with your fellow man, for they are also beloved by God. What hurts and saddens me is when I see people whom I genuinely like led astray, either by smooth talk, or selfishness, or power, or what have you. I cannot worship a country, or an idea, or a word or emotion or politicians, and to me that is what politics is all about. Ideals - they are beautiful - hope and change and prosperity are lovely notions. Yet I have learned to much history to forget that ideals are what inspire men to kill without thought. Passion, resting upon the ideal of some higher good, and ending in the use of violent force to deprive another child of God of life or liberty, this is what has driven so many of the atrocities of the last century.

I am not willing to believe that the majority of people are completely and totally given over to evil. No, I am convinced that we have let ourselves be led astray and deceived. We allow ourselves to be whipped into a frenzy, hungry for power, hungry for blood, blinded from seeing the crimes done in our name, the innocents who suffer as a result of our passion for choice, for change, for freedom and democracy. Most Americans seem to me to be guilty of this blindness, and on occasion it infuriates me. Mostly, though, it merely saddens me. Indeed, it behooves us all to remember that we are none of us perfect, we have all, at one time in our lives, offended another child of God, and in so doing we have broken the heart of Him who loves us. It breaks my heart to see the blind cheer thoughtlessly for an ideology.

I have long leaned towards the libertarian thought pattern. A distrust of the state, of government of any sort, seems to me to be a rational approach, for to give someone power and then trust them not to be corrupted by it is foolish. At the same time, there seems to be something missing in libertarian thought, and I think I have finally begun to understand what that is. It is a misunderstanding of man himself, and of the spiritual nature of the world in which we live. One cannot operate on the assumption that by acting selfishly in all things we may achieve perfect harmony, with no government, no laws, but only our own selfish interests and the mores of society to restrain us. This presupposes, first, complete knowledge of our own interests, and, second, a lack of malicious influences in our world (or at least the assumption that they will balance each other out). It is this arrogance that has finally brought me to disenchantment with so many of the libertarian ideals.

Intellectual arrogance is another stumbling block, perhaps as harmful spiritually as unbridled passion. What is gained? True, we ought to oppose evil, by naming it, by fighting it, but too often we fail to name the evil and only name ourselves superior, and then what good have we done? Selfishness rears its ugly head once more, and the struggle never ends, until the end of time.

So what is the point? Fight on, fight for right, for truth, for truth is there. Fight for the innocent who cannot defend themselves, fight passionately, but wisely, with discretion and never in blind devotion. And always, always, fight with charity, for to fight evil with hatred and pride is counterproductive.

Lord, teach me always my own insignificance and failings, lest I think myself better than others, and remind me always of your Love, lest I despair that my life be worthless.

Another Auld Lang Syne

Living like a gypsy, and dreaming like a kid
Can make you old before your time

There comes a time in every man's life when he must, as a friend once told my brother, "sack up." Or, as K-Bo was fond of saying, "don't be a b****, man up." There's more of K-Bo in me than I used to think, and there's more of my brother in me than he ever knew. There is a constant, biting itch, a longing to escape, to get up and go, as God told Abraham to do. Yet I feel that the itch is less of God's call then my own refusal to face life. How happy I am and have been. Why, then is there the desire to pack and leave, to tell my friends they can do without me, that I'm for another time and another place? Responsibility is what separates a man from a child. Boyishness has its delight. Responsibility brings cares and troubles. Yet, viewed another way, when we answer God's call and take responsibility for our own lives and our own actions, is that not the only way to find joy in life? For, to be sure, one cannot run forever. We spend our lives searching for a way out. We run from God, from Truth, and from Holiness. We seek our comfort in sex and booze and money, in people, in things, in work (aye, for the constant drive to always be doing is an escape as well).

Antti once told me I have at least ten years before I have to settle down, and that I should live it up and enjoy life while I'm young. There is a protest in my mind and in my heart, though. For if I live the so-called good life now, will I not have to face up to the real world later, and perhaps with regrets for the time I wasted? It is one thing to experience life and the world, to go places, to try things, to learn people and gain friends and memories. And indeed, what is there for me to leave behind in my childhood? Certainly, I should leave behind the foolishness, the selfishness, the ego. Should I also run from the people who have shaped my life? After this Christmas, I think I cannot.

And it was Christmas that showed me the folly of the old saying "you have to grow old, you don't have to grow up." Too many people never grow up, and so much pain and darkness is the result. Too many never face their God and answer his call. Too many live their lives for themselves. Even a dear friend of mine once told me that, in the end, I should do whatever made me happy, never understanding that those who follow their own will are rebelling against the natural order, and demonstrating a profound lack of care for their brothers and sisters, strangers and sojourners together on this earth.

Six friends and two brothers made my Christmas what it was. One, older than I by six or seven years, just began working as a missionary. She was an assistant youth leader when I was in highschool, and was one of a few that I have always respected tremendously. I saw her joy with life, and I was happy for her.

Another, a girl only in the eighth grade, comported herself like a fine young lady almost twice her age. I have known her since she was seven, and it brought me a smile to see her growing up so well, though she is no child of mine. Thinking of her, and of the other younger kids I know from the times I was in A Christmas Carol, I can only hope that as they grow older, as they face the turning points in their lives, that they face them well, stand tall, and never fall away. To see my friends grow up beside me, or perhaps behind me, and to see some of them fall astray, it hurts. I cannot imagine the care that a father must have to see his own children grow old, to see their mistakes, their triumphs, their failings and their graces. Could I someday bear that burden? If so, I hope I bear it well.

And then four more, much closer to my own age, though indeed Emily Sue is yet in highschool, and Shane is but a freshman in college. To see them and know the changes we have all been through in our lives, to know even a tiny bit of their stories, and to know that still, through it all, we are friends, though our roads are different and we often bear our troubles alone, there is still a care there.

And my brothers, one facing his own trials as a man, another standing on the verge of becoming a man whom I would have proud to walk with his older brothers, that we three, separate but always together, may face the world out there. I hope he is the best of us. He is certainly no longer the baby. I find it strange to think that he will finish growing up without me there, but I look forward to seeing him a better man than his elders.

All this has given me pause to reflect, and to find in the road ahead some joy at the thought of taking responsibility, of being a man - not of making my mark on the world, but of making some small mark in the hearts of those I meet. I stood at midnight last night with my new friends, and though I've known them but a short time, they, too, mean so much to me. In my head and in my heart I drank with them, with Chad Hillhouse, with Katherine Heil, with Nancy and Rachel and Doy, with all the old faces from my childhood, here and gone, I raised a glass and drank a toast to innocence, a toast to time, and a toast - to old times and new times, first times and last times, and the times we've never had.