Another Week to Remember

Under most circumstances, I have the ability to communicate my thoughts via the written word rather capably. I mean, sure, I am not Tolstoy, but I think I am at least as good as say, Dave Barry. That's good enough for me. Yet, for this entry, I find myself having great difficulty.

This is because I am typically an observer. As such, I am able to turn my observations into words and therefore into a story or what-have-you. I had a premonition months ago that this workcamp, my fifth from which I returned last Saturday, would be something different. I was right. And I am having difficulty writing about it because I did not observe it so much as I experienced it.


REACH Workcamps is an organization that works with community organizers and residents to identify people in need of home repairs and handles all the logistics and organization involved with bringing 250-400  mostly high school students and adult chaperones to a given area. There are typically two camps going on in two sections of the country at any given time over 8-10 weeks of a summer.


The project homes and to-do lists range from fairly simple, like painting, to very complex. For instance, in the past my projects have included replacing an entire subfloor in a kitchen and ripping out and rebuilding a porch. This year, our project was to drywall a ceiling and lay a laminate wood floor. I don't do all the work, of course. This week I was one of two adult leaders of a group of six amazing high school teens.


Our project came with an unexpected level of emotional baggage as our homeowner, (to which we refer as our "neighbor"), had REACH install a roof in the recent past that failed. The failure of the roof was remedied by another camp the week before we were there. Our crew was there to fix the water damage inside.

On day zero, we receive a project description and some background and meet our fellow adult, if there is one. Last year I lead a crew on my own. I was happy to see our projects would all be interior and that our home had air conditioning. I thought we were rolling in clover since the house looked really nice in the pictures and with the high heat and high likelihood of rain, we wouldn't be stymied by the vagaries of weather. And I had a co-leader who seemed very likable and ready to go. It was going to be a good week!

The first, 'first' was that the home was a full 40 minutes from base. Ugh. That's a lot of time lost each day just driving. Walking in to the trim and tidy house in a nice neighborhood only a minute's walk away from my REACH 2010 house, we saw immediately that the job had been undersold in the description provided. That was the second, 'first' - as the project descriptions typically make the scope of work sound much more difficult than they bear out to be in real life.

The third, 'first' was that our neighbors, weary from the previous week's camp and not entirely trusting of us since the reason we were coming back was bad work done by a previous workcamp crew. To say they were not totally happy to see us would be an understatement.

Our neighbors also smoked. A lot. I was already nursing a sinus infection. That was oddly not a 'first' as I had  a sinus infection last year, too. But the smoking really put me over the edge and the sinus infection quickly descended and became an upper respiratory infection within 24 hours. I would be spending the week with a fever, a cough and sotto voce. You know, just to make things interesting.

Crew 24 was Ashton, Emma, Zach, Zach, Frank, Ryan and co-adult Laura. To keep the Zachs apart, we needed to nickname them. So one got the name "Big Zach" and the other, originally got the unfortunate sobriquet of "Not Quite As Big Zach." Both Zachs, you see, were big guys. As we were holding up drywall over our heads, I just started to say "Big Zach" and "Back Zach", since "Back Zach" was behind me. Too bad for "Back Zach", but it stuck.

I was given the humble monicker of "Big Daddy Steak Homes", and I did not argue since I have long maintained that nicknames are bestowed... not necessarily earned. Besides, I like steak, Homes...


Crew 24 was amazing. And were it not for the incessant positivity and willingness to keep going until the job was done, we never would have made it. What crew 24 doesn't know is that by Thursday, I was pretty much past it. I had no idea how to finish and was pretty sure we wouldn't finish.While my words tried desperately to convey positivity and can-do spirit, I was panicking inside.


What crew 24 showed me was that all things are possible if you want it. These teens were supposed to be having fun first and foremost... it is rule number one that relationships and spritiual growth in faith are the objectives and the projects are secondary. Here I was working through lunch devotions on Thursday and we all skipped lunch devotions on Friday just to get a leg up. REACH would not approve. Crew 24 made some of their own fun, but I guarantee they didn't have as much as they should have. We were first to leave base in the morning. We were last to come back at night. Every day. Every night. Friday, we rolled in a full two hours after everyone else.

These kids worked. Hard. What they did not do, is complain. What they did not do is goof off. What they did not do is fight or waste materials. The did not wallow or despair. They just worked. And sometimes sang. I shared with them that one of my many quirks was I have "Yellow Submarine" on repeat in my brain, in full Ringo Liverpudlian twang, when I am under pressure. It's what I do. When things got tough, the kids would just sing "Yellow Submarine", butchering the lyrics all the way. It made us laugh. We needed to laugh.

We had to get help the last day to finish. One of the other adults and a student from our youth group came, and so did a couple others and so did our "Troubleshooters". And we did finish. We can legitimately be proud of the work we did  and the final product. We were thankful to experience what is commonly referred to as "Miracle Friday." I never needed a miracle before. My groups have always been done in the morning on Friday. The reward is sitting with out neighbor, building community and me giving what I call my REACH speech. Then we all go out to lunch, have a good time, get back to base early, take showers and await the rest of the crews coming in weary to give them high fives and revel in their miracle.


That's how I like things to be. This year, it was not to be. And I had been conflicted about it. I felt like I owed so much to the kids who did the lion's share of the work, and yet I didn't feel I got to know them well enough. I feel closer to them than I did to previous crews because of the resolve they showed and the attitude and the work and the camaraderie, but I wasn't sure if there was a lasting connection. I didn't know if we actually accomplished what we were sent to accomplish.


After some time removed, I realize I can't second guess the circumstances. I... we, were not in charge. And we made it work and made it successful because we gave our problems and concerns up. We recognized we were in stronger hands.


So, that is the nutshell version of an amazing and "great" week. I put "great" in quotes because I don't mean it the way people often mean when they say they had a great time. I did not have a great time and I reckon that the others didn't either. Not on the worksite anyway. But I believe we all had a "great" time, as in a time that was simply extraordinary and out of the bounds of normal.

Great things are not easy things, nor are they always fun things. But I would bet that if we were given a chance to work together again and go though adversity again, Crew 24 would elect to stay together and do it all again. I know I would. And even though this project was by far the most difficult in broad terms, I can't imagine doing anything different with any different people.

I have been reading a book, much of which is predicated on the 23rd Psalm. And boy, what a perfect read for the struggles of the week.

Ups and downs, hope and despair, celebrations and thanks. And none of us were in control of any of it. We simply placed our faith that we would be led as we needed to be lead and reminded ourselves that we are not given anything we cannot handle.

At the end, having walked through the dark valley, feeling the cold shadows upon us, we did not feel alone. Only for a short time did I feel helpless and defeated. And when I did, the angels of additional assistance came willingly and injected new energy and life into us, and into our project.

The difficult homeowners, once adversaries became friends. The eight strangers that made up Crew 24, were now brothers and sisters in arms, undefeated and indefatigable. I would venture we will not forget each other or our triumph easily.

And that, among so many other things, made this past week "great". In that I was not just a spectator of the glory of faith and trust in something we cannot see and do not understand, but I was a recipient of the grace and kindness that the universe has to offer. It is there for us if we want it, no matter what we call it. No matter how we attempt to quantify it or explain it, or deny it and turn away from it.


After a long last day, we took the crew to eat. It was the first time they had seen a TV all week... and the TV was dominated by the story of a crazed and helpless man who took his confusion and frustration and anger and angst and turned it against so many people in a theater in Colorado.


What a bookend to the week we just had. And it teaches us that there will be no end to evil. There cannot be good without evil. We can choose to focus on the story of a criminal mind who acted horrifically and inexplicably, or we can focus on the hundreds who helped, who called for the wounded, who evacuated the and protected the injured under extreme danger to themselves. We can focus on that which fractures our minds and leads us to derision and hate, or we can turn our attention to the church groups who were immediately on hand to pray, to the community organizations who were there to counsel and heal.


You see... you will always find what you are looking for. In a difficult project, you may find challenge and ultimate victory, or you may find despair and defeat.


Crew 24... a bunch of kids, taught me in a very real way that the bright side of things is where the action is. And for that, I am eternally grateful!

"All Things Must Pass Away", or, Eligy For Saint Mary Magdalen

There is a conventional and oft-coined platitude best applied in the form of a Beatles song... "All things must pass away." For it is true that in life, no one gets out alive. Indeed some of us don't make it very far at all. Still many of us overstay our welcomes. But psychologists and theologists alike agree that humans universally struggle to achieve "symbolic immortality."

We have children to pass the family line, to be a legacy for us. They will in turn do the same, and so on. I don't have kids by choice. I revel in the upside and accept the downside as consequences of that decision. My attempts at achieving symbolic immortality are the memories of myself I leave behind with the people and places center to my life.

Whether those memories are jokes, anecdotes, blog posts, angry exchanges, or what have you, we all leave our ghosts behind in everything we do. "We may never pass this way again," goes another song, which implies we'd better do it right the first time. Or at least do it big.

One of the places I left a lot of fond memories burnt- all but to the ground- this weekend. Even though I had not attended a mass at Saint Mary Magdalen Catholic Church in Kentwood in the better part of 20 years, it was my home church. I always referred to it as "my boyhood church". It was a significant place. It was a place that elicited smiles as I would drive by all the way up to last Wednesday when I drove past it on the sunny evening in my Corvette. I smiled at the memory of playing baseball on the fields there, and of working at the concession stand. It was a place that many friends went to back then in my ever waning youth. Many friends attended church in that building even up to this weekend when an out of control fire raged for hours and destroyed the sanctuary.

 I made a lot of memories in that place. I'd like to think their ghosts survived within those walls, informing all that happened since. Now it is sure they are gone. With them, a piece of me. It was very sad to see the building, (which I was fond of anyway), as a sad empty hulk. A building once inviting, now foreboding. It died violently, spitting flame and ash and flotsam out 100 feet in each direction as it surrendered itself inch by inch to the violent, unquenchable inferno.

The charred remnants of the mighty wooden beams which soared over the sanctuary and provided much inspiration through architecture, are all that remains.

A view into the remains of the sanctuary looking northwest. This was the last place I stood watching mass from the hallway in the nave. The mass was for the commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the church in 2006. Later, we had a good time at the festival held on church grounds. I won the 50/50 raffle and donated my proceeds to the church. It was the last time I saw a favorite priest, Fr. Jim Kawalski, alive. (Photo Courtesy Grand Rapids Press)

There will undoubtedly be a new building. The parish is strong and the diocese has already committed to rebuilding. A church, after all is its people, not its location.

This is the exterior door through which the above photo was taken. The fire burned so long and intensely that the steel I beams (added during a 1980s renovation, funded in part by a generous donation from my parents), deflected. The feel was "Daliesque"

But the new building won't be the building I was baptized and confirmed in. It won't be the building where I helped reconstitute the moribund youth group, was an alter server for mass and for the funerals of many distinguished and well-loved people from the clergy and community. It won't be the place where learned about right and wrong. It won't be the building where I met some of the best friends I ever had. It won't be where we staged  "lock-ins" and played music at insane volumes all night long with weary looking adults attmepting to be cool and have fun. It won't be the place where I won talent shows and danced and flirted with girls. Church is a much better place to meet girls than any bars. I learned that, here.

After college, I lived with some great guys in the nastiest house on the prettiest street in the uber posh Detroit suburb of Birmingham. Like this church, it was a formative place in my memory. A place where many rights of passage took place. a place where memories were made. The house fell victim to "neglect by rental" and to the irrational exuberance of the real-estate market of the go-go aughts. It was razed and replaced with a lovely new home. The former school across the street suffered the same fate. Now, I drive down the street as though it were just another street. There is no need to slow down. No inexorable tug to revel in the fond memories. Why bother? After all, it's just a house on just a street. Nothing to see here.

The new Church building will not be home. For me, it will be nothing. Just another church.  I and so many other people who have moved on will regard this once important place as another building. And while it is a joy that the congregation was not hurt, and will rebuild, it is a profound sadness to me that whatever part I, my family, and so many other people dear to me played in the history of the place burned up and flew away, like so much ash and tinder, never to return.

The icon of the patron saint of the parish, Mary Magdalen, kneels at the feet of the crucifed Jesus. It remains virtually untouched in the memorial yard in front of the church.
On this day after the fire, the church marquis on 52nd street read "Behold, I am with you always".

How Many Dozen in a Gallon?

I worked this morning. I even skipped church to work, which is forbidden on some sort of stone tablet somewhere. And yet, those stone tablets don't concern themselves with my deadlines. After church, I made breakfast for Em and me and then my sister called. That took another hour.

After a busy morning, it was time for a little "Bill time". I bought all I needed for an oil change for the Vette yesterday and so started to work. It was while under the car I decided the transmission needed to be serviced as well. The once cherry red and sweet smelling fluid had become dark and musty, a telltale sign that the time had come.

This is one of those jobs that a trained monkey, grease or otherwise could do in his sleep. That's why I was doing it. But said hypothetical grease monkey in my story has a lift and such. And I don't. So what takes 10 minutes for Mr. Lube to do, it took me 4 hours from start to stop, including  a trip to the parts store to buy what I needed to support the trans service, which was sorta a snap decision to do.

My manual said I needed 6 pints of fluid. So I got to the store, stopped the man from selling me the wrong part, even though he SWORE it was the right part (parts men these days only know what a computer tells them and that is a problem, but it is a problem for me to discuss with people who actually care, so I will move on), went to pick up the transmission fluid and the one I grabbed had a broken seal that spilled all over my fresh white tee shirt.

You know, the clean one I changed into to go to the parts store.

Anyhow, I got distracted by all this and left the parts store with 2 quarts of transmission fluid. The book said I needed six pints. Why it didn't just say 3 quarts, I don't know. Quarts are the most common units of measure for fluids to be sold in.

So, everything went well. I got it all up and in and tight, (used my new torque wrench that I liberated from my Dad in January), and surprise, no leaks.

I didn't even draw blood as is customary in these matters.

Everything went perfectly... except I am a quart low.

But you probably already knew that.

... I Just Think about Baseball

For those of you who know me well, you know that I have historically not much cared for baseball. It may be the national passtime, but only because that's all that happens in a baseball game... the passage of time. Lots and lots of time.

My poor father, who grew up loving most sports and I am sure wanted a son to share that love of sports got me instead. A baseball hating, wussy-pants nancyboy. I like most sports now, except professional basketball which is populated with degenerate idiot thugs with way too much money and not nearly enough oversight from people with decision making capabilities. But that broad and unfair statement will have to be defended in a different blentry. Today, we're talking baseball.

My pops grew up in Cleveland, OH. Among the many disadvantages that kids from Cleveland face, (namely the disadvantage of being from Cleveland in and of itself), they have to be Indians fans. Every summer we would go visit my Grandma in the home that Dad grew up in. One summer, he thought, "let's go to the ball park. Everyone loves to spend the day with family and every family loves a day at the ball park."

So we went to a double-header. Featuring the Indians. The Cleveland Indians. You know, the ones they made fun of in the classic film "Major League." A double header is to a young boy with a short attention span and an abiding ambivalence to the sport of baseball sort of like sitting in church, listening to the same prayers and sermons and singing the same hymns for a long time. Twice.

I am sure I did not make my father proud that day with my incessant whining and wondering of "can we go now?" Although my unbridled cheers of joy upon the completion the second game might have, taken out of context, been a little payback for the kindness of treating your family to a day at the park. Nah... Dad isn't stupid.

Flash forward a couple years, my grandma passed, and the last light in the city of Cleveland, OH was extinguished forever.

There was the matter of having to call my baseball coach, Mr. Marlor, (I normally wouldn't use real names, but in this case I am because I want him to find this one day and know I think he was a jerk, a bad coach, a bad father and a bad person with a bad family), and tell him my Grandma had died and I would miss the upcoming game(s). I was 10. I was not dealing well with the death of my only grandparent. It took a lot for me to call him.

"Yeah, so?" was his response. I don't recall playing baseball after that year. I think my Dad finally gave up.

And so did I. On baseball, anyway. I grew to love hockey and football. I even like soccer. I like most forms of motorsport to one extent or another. So, it isn't that I don't like sports. I don't like baseball.

Except, I actually got a little tingle of anticipation yesterday when I thought about being able to relax and watch not only the Tigers (v. Cardinals), but also the Cubs v. Sox on TV last night. I have seen all three teams play in person, (an irony not to be overlooked that as far as professional sports goes, I have been to FAR more MLB games than any other type of sport... combined), and I like them all. I still remember "Old" Comisky Park, "Old" Tigers Stadium, and thankfully still with us, Wrigley Field.

I have to admit this isn't an entirely newfound phenomenon. Instead, it is the result of years of subtle erosion perpetrated like so many other erosions of my exclusive thoughts and notions, by my wife who likes baseball. I guess if you can't beat 'em...

And I am not one to complain like a lot of guys, because Em likes to watch football and hockey and likes to go to races and sports games. I don't catch flak for whiling away the hours watching sports. She does too, right next to me. It's nice.

Since I can't talk about specifics from last night's contests without the express written consent of Major League Baseball, I will just say at one point I shouted an obscenity, (a really big, hyphenated, polysyllabic one often heard in Richard Prior routines and rap music), at the TV screen. Itself not surprising as I have been one of "those people" my whole life, (one trait I did pick up from my Dad). But for it to be in the context of being swept up by the action of a baseball game is quite something.  

Emily whipped her head around with a quizzical look that was equal parts consternation and delight and just said, "really?"

And so there it is. Today was an early day and I actually stayed up past my bedtime to watch the conclusion of the baseball game.

I don't know where to go from here, but there are a couple things that I simply must come to grips with. The first is, the older you get, the more you like sports because it is a big diversion from the difficulties of adult life. A little vacation right from your Barcalounger. Second is, I am getting old. Third is, number two doesn't really bother me too much. And if it did, I could just sit down and watch a baseball game and forget about it for a few hours.

Diagnosis: Death/The Truth Hurts

I was reading about the suicide of Bob Welch, the great guitarist and songwriter formerly of Fleetwood Mac and a successful solo career in the 1980s. Mr. Welch had an undisclosed illness and decided to go out on his own terms. At the bottom of the article was an article that caught my eye. 10 signs you may have lung cancer or some such thing. It was not a WebMD thing, but another related site that was sponsored as far as I could tell by a pharmaceutical concern. What can be more fun that reading about lung cancer over an east German omelet?

So, I have more of the 10 signs of lung cancer than I am comfortable with. I figured I'd have one or two, since 'symptoms' are often pan-conditional and don't necessarily mean one thing or another. For instance, one of the symptoms is shoulder pain radiating down the outside of the arm. Well, I have had this for many years as my neck and shoulders are afflicted with arthritis. Pain in these areas is de rigeur.

Wheezing - Of course this is a symptom. But I have asthma, so wheezing is something I deal with on a frequent basis.

I don't have a persistent cough, score one for me! But I do have frequent hoarseness. This is typically only a symptom if there is metastasis in the esophagus, so if you didn't know you had lung cancer until this point... well, so long. But again, hoarseness is a common sign of allergies and asthma.

The last is the pain in the areas of the chest cavity where the lungs are... but in my case, that only happens acutely and is the result of gas. I know this because... well, I know this. let's leave it at that.

So, I don't have lung cancer, (I think?), and I am not worried, but it brings up a good point. Don't go to the internet to diagnose yourself, because you will find that you are an encephalitic leper with mommy issues  who is steps from the peace of the grave. And you are likely contagious. All the best diseases are contagious. That ain't no rash, son, that necrotizing fasciitis! Get thee to a bubble!

The same held true when I was studying Psychology in college. Our first day of Abnormal Psychology, Dr. Anneliese Bowlby said in her Swabian slur, "You are all here because you are interested in finding out if you are crazy. I encourage you to refrain from diagnosing yourself with every little thing we read about this semester. After all, we are only in Psychology not to find out what is wrong with the others, but what is wrong with ourselves. We are all crazy to one extent or the other."

True words. Later, Dr. Bowlby would tell me I didn't have what it took to compete in grad school and I should look elsewhere for my future. Words that hurt, up to that time, more than any other words that had ever been spoken to me. Very true words. Dr. Bowlby was in her final year teaching and she was my academic advisor.She was long past mincing words. Later at the end of the year banquet for the Psych department which I attended because my then girlfriend was the salutatorian of the school, Dr. Bowlby apologized for saying what she said. I told her it was okay, and it was right. Perhaps she could work on her delivery, but her message was pretty spot-on.

I did a quick google search for Dr. Bowlby and am happy she is very much with us at 76 years old. hopefully she has many more years with us. And for some reason, if Dr. Bowlby googles herself one boring morning and comes across this little inconsequential reference to her otherwise stellar and important academic career and life, I have this to add:

We are all indeed a little crazy. Thanks for not only teaching me how to spot it, but also how to be at peace with it.

Now, about scheduling that chest X-ray...

Family Feuds

I am really enjoying The History Channel's presentation of Hatfields and McCoys. I have only watched the first 2 hour episode, but I am looking forward to the remaining two episodes. It is very well done and I am surprised by my like for this series in a few critical ways. 

First, Kevin Costner cannot act any more than Lindsay Lohan can do complex physics. He is roundly terrible. He has been in some movies that are amazing in spite of his efforts to ruin them completely with his wooden subtlety.

Second, Bill Paxton cannot act, and in fact is a worse actor than Kevin Costner, which is really like hitting rock bottom at full speed, picking yourself up, dusting yourself off and digging for a new bottom. Only Keanu Reeves could possibly compete for a worse male actor than either Costner or Paxton.

In these roles, these guys pop. I am shocked that they are so dialed into their roles and they are both pitch perfect in them. I don't know if it is the story, or direction or what, but they have both come alive on screen and are very good.

The action is intense and the story tellers have done a magnificent job opening with a scene of a Civil War battle before all the doins transpired that show Hatfield and McCoy fighting shoulder to shoulder, saving each other from defeat and certain death. It is from this lofty brotherhood that these two men fall into the abyss of hatred that conspires to create the now infamous and long-standing feud between their two clans.

I don't know if this story as it's told is completely accurate. I was unaware of the nuances of the decline in relations between these families. But I don't really care in the end, because the storytelling is amazing. It is actually riveting. It is gut tying, hand wringing, me-oh-my stuff.

My only criticism of the cinematic aspect is that both Paxton and Costner look pretty well past their primes as the show opens in 1863. Are we to believe that they looked 60 in their 20s and in their 50s? I know times were tough, but even the frontier needs a good makeup lady to fill in those deep grooves.

That aside, the sets and the costumes and the shots are all superb and lend a big hand to moving the story along. The casting is really genius with Tom Berenger, Mare Winningham and Jena Malone rounding out the big name cast, and some really amazing fresh faces to support them.

I love ensembles and this one works. I love epic stories and this one is epic.

So, DVR Hatfields and McCoys. Pop some corn, or pour some white lightning, skip past the commercials and enjoy. You won't be sorry.
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Survey Says!

RIP to Richard Dawson, Icon of my childhood who by watching Family Feud each night at 7:00 pm taught me that kissing girls was really where it's at, and that it is good to know all the answers before you ask the questions.

I appreciated Dawson's reactions to the funny things his contestant said. This was also shown in his Match Game persona, where he could always be counted on to quip the right quip at the right time to make someone's funny joke even funnier.

Dawson would put people at ease and pick out the slightest little thing they said and make it something classic. He was not unlike Carson in this regard.

I am visited by many wonderful memories of my childhood each time one of these men and women of the 1970's TV landscape age and pass on. And that is a positive legacy. After all, Richard Dawson may be deceased, but through the miracle of recorded media, he is not dead.

An Open Letter to the High School Graduates

Congratulations! You have made it. Exactly where you've made it to is open for argument and interpretation. But since I am the author and this is my blog, we shall pay attention only to my argument.

You have made it. To nowhere.

Now, I am not putting you down, but you are basically in the process of your first "do-over". I say your first, because if you are like the majority of people in the western world, you will experience multiple do-overs in your lives. Some will be the result of good things, like graduating, getting a promotion, making a lot of money, having children. Some, will be bad things. Those bad things that often begin with the letter "d". Death, divorce and "damn kids".

Whatever the reason, you are at the closing page of your first chapter and we all know, most books aren't loved, revered, respected or even all that memorable after just the first chapter. Your accomplishment of graduating is a big one. But it is the first, and perhaps least important milestone that is ahead of you. In short, what you have done, while worth celebrating, was simply compulsory.

It's the subsequent chapters of your personal book that will be most revealing. Revealing the whole you, your character, your charms, your beauty and. yes, even your inner ugly. College is the next chapter for many of you. The college years are great. This will be the most confusing, hyper, fun-filled, traumatic romp through Idville ever conceived. It has some great bits.

You will spend the rest of your life re-reading the second chapter, which is fine. I would just encourage you to be living in a more mature chapter while you do so. No story is worth the world's time and attention, no life is well led if it never gets past the second chapter.

I pray you all look at the world around you, dream a solution to just one thing near to your heart and go about working for change. Everyone can complain. Everyone can commiserate, but did you know that nothing changes if you don't make the change you seek? If you don't vote, don't volunteer, don't fight for the furtherance of your beliefs, you are not holding up your end of the bargain. That is uncool which is just as bad to be when you are older than it is now. Life never stops being a popularity contest. The good news is that all the things that make you unpopular now, like being careful, making good decisions, studying, working hard... these make you a rock star later on. That guy who played sports and bullied people and never grew up will be a security guard at the company you own; and even though you will recognize him, you will pretend you don't when you walk by him every day looking all important and rich. And even though that is wrong and mean, it will feel so good you won't stop.

Sorry, this isn't about my unresolved issues, I digress.

Let's sum up and get back on track. You have taken much from the universe to get you this far, which as you will recall from my premise statement is essentially nowhere worth bragging about. Even with that said, it is still a great and important achievement.

So, what's the good in all this? Well, I am glad you asked because this is where it starts to get really interesting. The good in all this is that you will soon be an adult. You will be the master of your own decisions and your own destiny. So long as you stay within the bounds of the law, (or stay quiet about breaching them), the world will leave you alone.

Remember ever saying as a kid, "I can't wait to grow up and I can be the boss of something..." and the adult to whom you declared this smiled at you and said, "Oh, TimmyJ or SuzyQ. Don't rush to grow up. These are the best moments of your life right now!"

They were lying.

Adulthood is awesome.

Aside from the hours I work in a week, my life belongs to me. I can volunteer, I can take classes, I can work on a cause, I can stay out all night, (but I don't), and my status as the breadwinner of the house has afforded me the unquestionable and inalienable right to both the remote control and the biggest piece of meat on the platter for all  perpetuity! Or until I die, whichever comes first.

It's a pretty good deal. And that is the good news. Of course this is a great day in your life. A great accomplishment. You should feel proud! I hope you do. I am  proud of you! But the good news is that you ain't seen nothin' yet! It gets so much better. It will keep getting better if you look for it to, and take steps to make it so!

Chapter 2 is coming up and you deserve to write a good one. Chapter 3 will start out fast and furious, like chapter 2, but will slow precipitously. Some parts will seem a little boring and mopey. It will be difficult to go back and reread parts of this chapter which makes up your 20s. After all, at that point you're not quite all the way grown and not quite living in your parents' basement. You are somewhere in between.

Chapter 4 is your 30's and it rocks if you let it. More money, travel, true love, better friends, less puking... it's all good stuff. Sure, you won't be able to walk a tightrope while doing a beer bong and then go to work the next morning and be "fine"  like you could in your 20's. But you won't care. By the time you hit your 30's, your idea of fun is different and thankfully less bad for you.  Unless you're into all that weird stuff like climbing mountains with no safety gear, or jumping from a perfectly good plane to test your revolutionary rocket suit that runs on rainbows and ambition. If you are one of those people, I fear there is little hope for you.

I assume it gets better from there, but I don't know yet. I am looking forward to what comes next. You should be, too. I think in short, life is great. If you make it so. And that is the one thing you can resolve to do today, and every morning you are blessed by God to walk on his Earth. 

Today, at the time of your graduation, remember you are good, we are proud, we love you, you have done a wonderful thing and we salute you. But you owe us. You owe us for the help studying and the talks about every boy or girl who broke your heart and made you want to die. You owe your parents for shelling out the equivalent of the GDP of a small country to buy you school supplies, instruments, computers, sporting equipment to say nothing of clothes, whose purchase you continually honored by storing them in giant heaps on your floor, under your bed, or if you were really a go-getter, the bottom of your closet. And we haven't even begun talking about hocking the house and selling your younger sibling into slavery to afford tuition for that lucrative liberal arts degree you'll pursue with vigor. Remember that each time you skip class to watch a rerun of The Waltons or The Price is Right. Trust me, it happens.

You owe the world for the amount you have used and thrown away. You owe all of us and you can pay us back by starting over from this day with an eye toward the positively impacting the future of the world and all human kind!

I proudly proclaim to you, the high school graduates of 2012 that today is the last day of the first part of your life and the first day of  the first part of the second chapter of what we all hope will be a long life ahead. Don't screw it up. We're expecting big things from you.