Heeding the tortoise.

Okay, this is pretty much how I see it:

For as long as I've been substantially aware of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," I've held it to be a terrible policy on all the familiar fronts—it's discriminatory, short-sighted, and self-defeating to our national security. For an excellent viewpoint on the harmfulness of DADT from a military perspective, with which I concur, I urge you to read http://admiralscall.blogspot.com.

While DADT is, of course, an unjust law, an absurd law, unfortunately as of right now it is indeed the law. I greatly admire the individuals who are sacrificing their careers in our country's Armed Forces in order to demonstrate just how wrong and preposterous DADT is. I also sympathize with those willing and able-bodied sailors and soldiers who have endured separation from the military under DADT through happenstance rather than as a deliberate point of protest. Nonetheless, "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" has been in effect for 16 years, and was when most if not all of the people it impacts signed up. That's by no means a defense, simply an objective statement, as is this: The United States employs a volunteer military, and as unfair and harrowing as the stories emerging from the prosecution of DADT have been, there's no reason to think any homosexual man or woman enlisting in any branch of the service did not knowingly accept the inherent risk before doing so. Given that, no legal disciplinary consequence can come as a surprise. Again, that's meant neither to vindicate nor mitigate DADT.

The Executive Branch of our government is charged with implementing, supporting and enforcing all the laws made by the Legislative Branch—the popularity in recent years of the ever-questionable "signing statements" aside. Thus, broadly speaking, and as repugnant as it may be, the current administration is legally obligated to administer "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." President Obama's credentials as a Constitutional scholar are well-established; my admittedly indirect sense of the man is that he takes his responsibilities in that regard very seriously, hence why he has consistently put forth that because DADT came by an act of Congress, its permanent repeal would likewise require Congressional action—something with which I agree. It's true that as Commander-in-Chief the president can simply order a halt to the administering of DADT pending the outcome of the legislative process—ala Truman with the racial integration of the military in 1952. But not only would that be side-stepping the law, but might very well rob the effort to repeal DADT of critical momentum; how often has the urgency of energy reform been sapped because of a temporary decline in oil prices?

Pennsylvania Representative Patrick Murphy has come forward to "quarterback," in his words, the endeavor to repeal "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." In my opinion, the movement could not have a more qualified lead advocate. Congressman Murphy is the first Iraq veteran elected to Congress, and as a Bronze Star recipient has an unassailable frame of reference regarding the practicalities and effects of gays openly serving in the military. I do not believe it is sheer coincidence that Murphy, along with California Representative Mike Thompson, introduced the Iraq War De-Escalation Act of 2007 with then-Senator Barack Obama. And I cannot help believing that with the perfection of this casting, DADT is well on its way to revocation.

I grew up a Navy brat, and know full well the caliber of person it takes to be successful while serving in uniform. But this is not a military issue. Our military operates under civilian authority, and thus permanent change must come from and by the direction of that civilian authority—in this case, Congress. What some have seen as foot-dragging and indifference on the part of the Obama Administration, I see as patience, strategy and intent.

I don't wish to seem the apologist, or worse, naive—I hope no one who knows me would categorize me as either. And in the spirit of disclosure, I did vote for Barack Obama wholeheartedly; I find him to be an extraordinarily thoughtful, talented and inspirational statesman—but by no means infallible. I've no doubt there may have existed quicker, bolder avenues toward repealing "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." But reason and my own experience bears out that any lasting thing is constructed one brick at time, and only after a solid and reliable foundation has been laid. On this issue, anything other than a methodical, even painstaking approach, backed by an undeniable groundswell, would run the risk of failure and thus become vain expenditure of passion. That would be far from merely unacceptable; it would be appalling.

As a white, heterosexual male, with much less stake in this issue than many I know and love, it's a relatively easy thing for me to urge perseverance and understanding as the era of DADT is slowly ushered out the door. But I really do see this heading in the direction it should, the best way it can, and that when this wrong is finally righted, it will be done in such a manner as to be shrugged at by future generations as another piece of the bedrock of our democracy that should have been obvious all along—and just as importantly, that it will endure.

So far but yet so close.

A couple hours shy of seven years. That's pretty amazing.

Miss you lots, Dad.

A nutty scene. Acorny pun.

This morning as I was walking into the building where I work, two squirrels came tearing out from beneath the bushes then raced across the terraces—a bigger one chasing a smaller one. The bigger one had a gleam in its eye as though he was set on seriously beating someone's ass. The little one in front wore an expression that said he knew it.

I laughed out loud, trying to imagine just what the smaller squirrel had done to warrant the whuppin' clearly headed his way.

verb [intrans.] walk heavily or noisily

Per usual, lots going on yet not much to report. The kids have been engaged in an intensive, breakneck soccer schedule—a practice for one or the other every day, with a game each on Saturday. Today, though, happens to be a day off, which means an actual dinner while actually seated at the actual dinner table.

This morning on the way into work I ended up walking behind a not unattractive brunette (Erin, or so her blue and purple L.L. Bean backpack advertised) in a shortish black skirt and tallish black heels. What held my attention, though, was how comically she seemed to struggle in her chosen footwear—leaning forward, clomping unevenly, looking more like a hiker conquering a steep hill than a business woman sauntering to an early meeting.

Beautiful morning this morning. Snapped a quick pic with the iPhone of the sky just before climbing into the car, and posted it to Facebook on the way to work.

The envelope. Please?

In one of those interesting little coincidences that make life, well, interesting, last night while enjoying the Oscars and wrestling with my unexpected and conflicting emotional responses to the absurdly handsome and charming Hugh Jackman (okay, not really; that's sorta an inside joke) I received an e-mail informing me that my short story, "The Swing," had been selected as a finalist for the 2009 Darrell Awards for best short fiction.

Being named as such was a tremendous surprise (I had no idea I'd even been nominated) and is a tremendous honor. For the past twelve years, the Darrell Awards—named for Dr. Darrell C Richardson, a founding member of the Memphis Science Fiction Association—have been given out in an effort to promote literacy in the Mid-South by recognizing the best published regional science fiction, fantasy and horror.

As it happens, though, I'll be out of the country the week of the convention during which the awards are to be presented and I won't be able to attend. Which is disappointing, but may be for the best. That way when I don't win there won't be any fist fights, nor will I be forced to explain again and again why the battered Darrell Award on my mantle has my name written in ballpoint on a piece of masking tape.

Click here for more on the Darrell Awards and the MSFA. If you're interested in a copy of Beacons of Tomorrow: Second Collection, the volume in which "The Swing" appears, click here.

And to everyone who's already heaped-on the congratulations: Thanks, guys. Muchly.

One for the road.

Thought I'd slap one last "George is still president" post on the wall, just because I've always had a penchant for transitions, for those odd borderlines over which we pass when crossing from one era into the next.

I can't help wondering what might be going through our soon-to-be-former-president's mind this morning. Personally, I hope it's a great deal of regret and shame. Actually, no, I take that back. For his own sake, I hope George W. Bush truly and deeply believes the decisions he's made over the past eight years were indeed in the best interests of us all. If not, if his stated reasonings for the things he's done have been an attempt to delude us, him, or both, then I do hope he finds the results of his actions more difficult to live with than he ever anticipated. Or rather, reckoned on. They say "reckon" in Texas, I do believe.

So, there. Done. Finis. Next post will be during the Obama administration. Lights off, chairs up, time to move the party down the street. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here, and all that stuff. Not that you'd really want to linger, I think. Some pretty exciting, memorable happenings are brewing, my gut tells me. Personally, I can't wait to see what they are and the transformations they effect.

Caught a nice dusting of snow on the way to work this morning. Very pretty. I'm gonna take that as a really good sign.

Take two.

A not-so-small correction: Apparently in my giddiness I misunderstood some of what Mike told me about turning my short story, "The Mean Man," into a movie. Then again, it can be tough to comprehend just about anyone mumbling through a mouthful of Reese's Puffs. Anyhow, Ben Staley will be starring in the film along with Mike, not directing as I stated in the previous post. The director will be Danielle Jacobs. Check out the trailer for the film she wrote and directed called boy/man, which looks terrific.

I cannot wait.

Everybody's a dreamer and everybody's a star.

I'm in the movies! Well, not really. And not quite yet. But I'm gonna be. Sorta.

What I mean is my short story, "The Mean Man," is slated to be made into a short film featuring my friend Michael Broderick and directed by Ben Staley. While production is still tentative, a finished script is in-hand and locations are being scouted. Needless to say, I'm very excited and can't wait to see the finished product.

Check out the "Desert Scout" gallery here for some really great photos Ben took during the location search. It's where I found (and blatantly stole) the cool pic for this post, after all.

Not content with boring those he lives with.

This past May, Tyrannosaurus Press, a small speculative fiction publisher (formerly out of New Orleans but recently Katrina'd into Baton Rouge) offered to publish my first novel, A Mage of None Magic. After a brief and amiable period of negotiation, I very happily signed on the dotted line and became officially under contract.

Over the summer the book has undergone a careful and lengthy line edit (prolonged, I'm gratified to say, mostly by external circumstances rather than any real deficiency with the prose). And now, finally, the book is on the verge of being typeset. After that will come another short round of read-throughs, and then—allapeanutbuttersandwiches!—it'll be an actual, factual novel. One that you can see, touch, and if you so choose, taste. But really, purchasing and reading will be all that's required of you. And actually, not even so much the reading part.

Alongside that, I've been working on the first draft of my second novel, tentatively titled A Sister to Butterflies. I think I'm in the final third of that story. On the back burner, though now more fully in mind than it has been in quite some time, the follow-up to my first novel, Banner of the Apostate—also tentatively titled.

So, yes, 2009 should be quite the interesting year—knock on wood. And I couldn't be any more excited.

The person my dog thinks I am.

Well, it's been awhile since my last real post. Months, in fact. But don't think you haven't been on my mind.

And an action-packed few months it's been. I've got several things to make known, and I think what I'm going to do is break them all up into their individual entries to give each of them their due.

So, where to begin? Actually, that's an easy one. This past August we had to say good-bye to our thirteen-year-old Dalmatian, Chaucer. Or, as he was known in full, Chaucer Gusmonster Drown. (Gusmonster was a hereditary name, in case you were wondering. He and his sire, Rockefeller Gusmonster, were AKC registered.)

Chaucer also answered to a slew of less formal names. Spotted Monster (not to be confused with just plain Spot, his evil alter-ego who forced Chaucer to invade the garbage can every now and then). Spotted Beast. Mommy's Boy. Mommy's Baby Boy. Mommy's Spotted Boy. Mommy's Good Boy. Chaucerlope. And, once in a while, That Goddamn Dog.

He liked to sign his own cards. He liked to deliver items from Mommy to Daddy or vice versa, from one side of the house to the other. He loved his annual Mighty Dog and banana birthday cakes. He hated other dogs, and wished Meredith and Alexander (the Pink Things, as he called them, who early-on said he had Pokey Spots) would just go back to wherever it was from which they'd come because they'd upset the proper order of things. He loved popcorn, and was at the ready by the stove the moment he heard Daddy open the DVD player to signify movie time was at hand. He smiled when he was embarrassed, snorted when he was excited, and waited in line to give Daddy a good-bye kiss in the mornings.

But, true to George Carlin's wise and pithy admonition, Chaucer grew old. His world closed off one small piece at a time. He ceased being able to get up on the bed with Mommy to watch TV. He stopped being able to go on walks. Or to lift one leg to pee, soon after which he then became incapable altogether of getting himself up to go outside to the bathroom, which robbed the family of what little tranquility there exists in this modern age of rushing about, and worse—him of his dignity.

So, the heart-breaking decision was made, and the date set. That last night I kissed him on the head goodnight, sick with guilt over knowing what he could not, that it was indeed the last night he would spend wrapped in his blanket on his pallet—he'd long ceased sleeping on a doggie bed since it was too high for him to move on and off. Even worse was his excitement at seeing his leash again the next morning, and the way he hopped about like he hadn't in a long time at the prospect of going for a walk. And, so, we did, and postponed the terrible deed for a few lovely minutes as Chaucer sniffed about and trotted as best he could from mailbox to tree and back again.

And then, finally, it was time go. We loaded Chaucer into the minivan and headed off to the animal hospital. The rest I'll keep to myself, or spare you, depending on how you care to see it. I did, though, whisper into his ear as the drugs took hold and his breathing began to still, how glad I was that he'd been our Spotted Monster, and I thanked him for being part of our family.

Which, of course, he still is.

Gathering the newspapers from the driveway.

Sorry, can't stay. Just popping by to air the place out.

We'll catch up soon, though.

I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

So, a couple of weeks ago I got stopped for speeding just outside the university where I work. And I was indeed speeding, forty-six in a thirty-five. Not the most egregious traffic violation ever committed — the road I was on drops from forty-five to thirty-five at a particular intersection, and I just took a block or two too long to slow down accordingly. That and, well, I was in a hurry.

With the police car flashing wildly behind me, I pulled into the lot where I normally park, which apparently sort of confused and irritated the officer who came out to issue me the citation.

"You could've pulled over on the street," he said.

"I work here," I replied, "so figured I'd go ahead and park and get out of everyone else's way."

"Oh," he said, and flipped open his ticket book. "The reason I stopped you was that I clocked you on radar as going forty-six in the thirty-five."

"That sounds about right," I said.

The officer look up from his clipboard. "Are we gonna have a problem?"

I shrugged. "Not from me. I was agreeing with you, that that sounded right. I wasn't speeding on accident, officer. I was running late."

"Oh," he said. And he wrote me the ticket.

On the back of the citation is stated that the accused has fifteen days to pay the fine. Yesterday I went to the web site to do that, but found no record of my ticket. Maybe it got lost in the system and that would be that, I hoped.

Since that sort of thing rarely works out for me, I called the Traffic Violations Bureau to find out the amount of fine, only to discover that my court date had been accidentally set for this past Monday, the seventh — ten days after I was issued the ticket. And, because the court had no knowledge of the clerical error, their perception was that I'd simply not shown up for my court date. Thus, a warrant was issued for my arrest.

"Does that mean I'm a fugitive from justice?" I excitedly asked the clerk with whom I spoke.

He laughed. "Until I make this fix in the system, yeah, you're a wanted man."

He made the fix, then told me to check back on the web site in the morning — this morning. I did, paid the ticket, and thus ended my days as an outlaw.

Next time you hear Jon Bon Jovi's, "Blaze of Glory," be sure to think of me.

Scratch my back, I'll scratch your eyes out.

Don't, dear colleague, ask me on countless occasions to bend over backward to save your ass, then scold me like an exasperated mother because one of the few times I actually need your help in return, and fairly urgently, happens to be while you're on the phone.

Don't do that again. Ever.

You can pretend to be serious.

I got a review!

Well, a sorta review. More like a complimentary synopsis. Eh, screw it. It's a review, and it appears on the short fiction review site, The Fix:

What would a Heroes Issue be without an honest to goodness sidekick? In “The Show” by A. Christopher Drown, Billy Paulsen, a.k.a. Rocket Lad, is attending yet another humdrum celebration where he and his partner receive, yet again, a Key to the City. Drown twists clichés with this superhero story told by a reluctant sidekick, exploring the persona, position, and strengths of a sidekick, bringing to the role new depths. Sometimes witty, this tale ends on an unexpected note. A fun ride through Metroburgh and morality.

Kinda cool, huh?

Me, I like the "sometimes witty" part. I think most who know me would agree with that. Sometimes.

Because it isn't there.

This isn't the big announcement I mentioned earlier, but it's a big announcement nonetheless. My short story, "The Swing," appears in the latest anthology from Tyrannosaurus Press — Beacons of Tomorrow: Second Collection.

The folks at TyPress have worked hard on this book, and I'm very proud to be included. I both humbly ask and strongly encourage everyone to support the important work they do as a small, independent press, and pick up a copy here.

For all the support and congratulations that've already come my way, my heartfelt thanks. It means the world.

Wisdom of our fathers.

Word of Tim Russert's death left me broken-hearted. I've been following as much of the story as I can stand, until the sheer sadness of it begins to cut too closely to the quick of me and I've no choice but to turn away, flip the channel, think about something else.

Tim (and I think of him as Tim, not Mr. Russert, as I'm sure most who admired him do) was a gifted and graceful newsman, of rare breadth and depth, of even rarer substance and thoroughness, who from my perspective took very seriously his responsibility to the public, to this country, to seek out the truth, to hold holders of office accountable to the citizenry — accountable to you and me. His enthusiasm for political processes, political history, was palpable, and a fundamental reason for my recent status as a newly converted political junkie.

More than that, though — more than his stature as a preeminent journalist deserving to be mentioned in the same breath as Murrow and Cronkite — was Tim's relentless, tireless role as a devoted father and, if such a thing is possible, an even more devoted son. Given the loss of my own father in recent years, Tim's stories about his Dad, Big Russ, and his son, Luke, never failed to make me smile, to make me tear up, and fill me with warm appreciation for the relationship I had with my own father, and silently congratulate those three for theirs.

Right now, on this Father's Day, as I prepare for an outing with my kids, I'd give just about anything for a few minutes to talk with Luke Russert, to try in some way to let him benefit from my experience of what it means to lose a father, and how to continue forward — out of abiding respect for his dad, and out of lasting love for my own.

Our cheers will still be heard.

Although I was born in Brunswick, Maine, I only actually resided there for a handful of years — sixth through most of eighth grade. Nonetheless, Brunswick is the place I've always called home. My hometown. Where I come from. As I've grown older my ties there have thinned and frayed — elderly relatives have become fewer, and most of my childhood friends have long since abandoned the relatively provincial mid-coast life for the faster, wider world. So, when I visit there these days I spend as much time with ghosts as I do with anyone else. Fortunately for me, those memories are mostly happy ones, abundant enough to sustain me, and the streets and shops, the grass and trees, and even the salt-sweet air that binds them all together always seem glad for my return.

My family left Brunswick for Memphis in late fall of 1983. November, in fact; a week or two after my thirteenth birthday. As a Navy brat I moved around quite a bit — eleven schools all told, Kindergarten through senior year. That's no complaint, mind you; my childhood was a marvelous adventure of cross-country migrations I would never wish away. In this case, though, transplantation from the one place I ever truly cared to be left me heartsick, and when I arrived in Memphis the perfect foreignness of the city angered and disgusted me. Granted, angst inherent to newly-hatched teenagers contributed heavily to the supersaturation of ache and despair, but that's not to say the essence of my despondency was neither real nor acute.

The new school to which I transferred by necessity of locale — the naval base was too far from where we'd originally intended to live — only made matters worse. There I arrived looking like an L.L. Bean catalog had thrown up on me, an island of disdainful New England bookishness amidst a sea of ragged black Lynyrd Skynyrd concert tees and faded back-pocket Skoal rings. I remember standing in the school's office my first day, and how my transcript had confounded the guidance counselor about what exactly to do with me. Few of my classes in Maine readily translated to the courses offered there. I was already in my second year of French, for example, and the only foreign language offered there was Spanish but not until ninth grade. The same held true for the level of Algebra I'd been taking. Somebody suggested I be moved up a grade. Even in the face of the momentous changes I'd endured already, I admit the prospect of skipping ahead did have its appeal. But the scowling ogre of a woman holding my paperwork didn't like that idea at all, as though I'd caused her some sort of personal affront by being so far ahead of most other students there, and she consigned me to finish out eighth grade, which along with my freshman year ended up being a not so slender slice of hell.

I learned about the Memphis City Schools Optional Program toward the end of ninth grade. Optional Schools offer more challenging courses, more diverse and dynamic learning environments, focused on cultivating talent and thought rather than teaching by regimen and rote. At least, that's what their website says. And, actually, it's all true. Prominent among these high schools was a place called White Station. For me, learning of White Station's existence, particularly given the reverence with which most said its name, was a glimpse of paradise from the bowels of purgatory. I wasted no time gathering the required forms for my parents to fill out, even though the deadline for admission had already passed, and we sent them off. The day before classes were scheduled to begin, someone from the school board called to let us know there'd been a sudden vacancy and that my application had been approved.

The three years that followed at White Station High School served as a considerable salve against how much I missed Maine. In fact, they were easily among the most rewarding experiences of my life. So much so that even as they happened, contrary to the normal immediacy and myopic obliviousness of youth, I sensed the specialness of my time there. I befriended people from every walk and creed — black, white, rich, poor, gay, straight, jock, brain, band nerd, drama freak, Asian, Indian, Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindu. As with any body of high school kids there were, of course, cliques, but at White Station they existed as open border states permitting just about anyone to move freely to, from and in-between. What I'm describing here, though, isn't simple tolerance. Rather, what I'm describing here is fraternity. Affinity. People who honestly respected one another, valued one another, despite the limited worldliness of their years. People who engaged, challenged, supported and bettered one another. Classrooms weren't where one merely studied art, literature, math, science, music and theatre, but where through discussion and debate these subjects and anything even tangentially related were ravenously devoured until no scrap remained unexamined or unconsumed. Well, okay, that may be a romantic exaggeration likely borne of having seen Dead Poet's Society one too many times, but it really isn't that far off the mark. And, of course, as well as schoolwork came all those matters well beyond the books. Laughter, love, anger, sorrow, jealousy, desperation, anguish, confusion — all the triumphs and tragedies that have defined teen-age years ever since John Hughes discovered them, wrapped them in a Simple Minds song, and put them out there with the hopes that grown-ups might just understand.

And here endeth my preamble for conveying my recent experience at my twentieth high school reunion.

I volunteered to serve on the Reunion Committee about eighteen months ago, deciding then to lend whatever hand I could with whatever graphics work might be necessary. Now, I've never been exactly the rah-rah sort, and even if the more standoffish aspect of my personality has mellowed somewhat as I've gotten older, it's still easier to stay out than to get out, just like Mark Twain says. So I have to confess while my wanting to help was deeply embedded in the affection I have for my classmates, the superficial, knee-jerk impetus for lending the aforementioned hand was that as a professional graphic designer, someone experienced with event and corporate branding, there was no way I'd be able to enjoy any of the planned events if every time I looked around I winced and thought, "Christ, I really should have stepped in and done something." Now, let me be clear: I'm in no way claiming that had I not pitched in things would have looked terrible. I'm just saying that I couldn't bring myself to run that risk by not helping, which is a very important distinction. So, I helped.

And I'm really glad I did. The committee meetings became monthly miniature reunions in and of themselves with Shantih, Mary, Stacy, Angie, Shannon, Whitney, Sherie, Patrick, John, Veronica, Tonia, and of course, Jenny. Yes, there was much that needed to be done, and much that was done. But the cooperation and fun that took hold of our little group was nothing short of familial, and because it's always so much more motivating to go out of your way for a friend than it is for merely a colleague, the quality of our work and the efficiency with which it got done shone all the more brightly. The very last meeting we scheduled for ourselves — the night before the first event of the actual reunion — was the busiest, most harried, and most fun we had. Food, music, drink, and lots and lots of work. I hope we can find excuses to continue getting together.

Friday, June 6, was the opening ice-breaker event, held at AutoZone Park during the Redbirds game that night, and it was an unqualified success. We reserved the party deck up over first base, had a nice barbeque buffet set up along with free beer (which of course makes any happy event all the happier) and the four hours that followed flew by in a flurry of hugs and shouts and smiles from people who hadn't seen one another in a few years, in ten years, and in some cases, twenty years. During those hours that thing that bound us together in our youth and had receded somewhat into the dry practicalities of distance and time, bloomed again with the barest tending. Without real effort or awkwardness we were a class again. A family again. Suddenly we were amongst some of the most important people in the world to us, and we celebrated our togetherness. Hardly anyone noticed when the ball game ended, or who had won, or that the stadium had emptied — we were practically kicked out by the custodial staff. From there many of us, if not most of us, made the short walk over to the restaurant Shantih and her husband now own, McEwen's, where even more talking and drinking and reconnection took place until late became early again.

Saturday morning I took my kids out to my alma mater herself for a family picnic, the second of the three reunion events. The day grew too hot to stay outside with the Frisbees and the Eighties music and the lunch buffet and the moon bounce, so everyone moved into the school's dim and air-conditioned cafeteria to eat and talk and continue the reminiscing begun the night before. No fewer than fifteen teachers, including our former principal, showed up at the gathering — a testament, our principal said as he addressed us all, to the outstanding people we were then and are now. I took Meredith and Alexander on a quick tour of White Station's interior — the school had been opened up for summer cleaning, and the reunion committee had arranged permission to wander about. We visited my old locker (number 378) next to my old homeroom (number 137), whose door by sheer luck happened to be unlocked. The kids and I slipped inside, and I took pictures of them sitting at the desks. After a quick intrusion into the teachers' lounges (I'd never had the courage to venture inside them while I was a student there) the kids and I returned to the cafeteria where they scampered onto the large stage and played up there among the desks, chalkboards and dry erase boards. I took a seat by myself at one of the round fold-up tables, in a plastic chair that had probably been there long before I was a student. There I watched, and I listened, and I basked in the sights and sounds of dear old friends standing in circles conversing, their voices echoing through the large empty box of a room — something I soon and sadly realized neither I nor that cafeteria had experienced in two decades and after that day likely wouldn't again. The smile I wore as I observed became a smirk at the irony of we who'd gathered to commemorate the days of our youth, spending just as much time chasing and squawking after our own kids. After a short while I decided it was time to go. I dropped the kids off at my mother's for the night, then continued home to get ready for the final event, dinner at the Crescent Club.

Dinner that night, as intended, was the reunion's main event — a whirlwind of laughter, table-hopping, conversation and embraces. As a friend of mine described it, the whole thing was like marathon speed dating — a hundred people to catch up with and only a few minutes for each. From that perspective the evening was all but overwhelming, and even now, a week later, I'm not alone in not having quite caught my breath. From another perspective, though, the reality — or surreality as more than one had put it, and with which I don't disagree — of our being together again after so much time was perfectly, warmly, excitingly comfortable. I had a wonderfully tremendous and tremendously wonderful time, and so about an hour before the official end of the night, I told my wife I was ready to go. She asked why, and I did my best to explain that right then, at that very moment, the night for me had achieved a pinnacle as close to perfection as it could, and everything to follow would be descent and denouement. I decided to leave then, at that height, rather than linger. The decision ended up providing a nice bit of historic symmetry — leaving early, I missed being in the group photo; a particularly prickly barb I've carried with me is missing out on the group shot for the superlative section in our senior yearbook. Check it out. I'm not there.

In no order other than in which they come to mind, here are some of the weekend's highlights for me: Hanging with my old pal Danny, his beautiful new wife, Laura Beth, and seeing Jake, their just as beautiful and even newer baby boy. Adam, who as far as I'm concerned has done for sarcasm what the Beatles did for rock and roll — elevated a form of expression considered crude by most to a subtle and sophisticated art; I shook his hand and thanked him for his part in all the deliberate stupidity he and I concocted together in high school, and thought to myself that the fact he now has a hand in shaping the future of jurisprudence in this country is perhaps his best and ultimate last laugh. Tracy, who apparently could not wait to rat me out to my wife for sitting behind her in Geometry and pulling her hair — which in my defense has always been a gorgeous reddish golden blonde, and if you had its kinky curls flowing over onto your desk, you'd have pulled it too. Shantih, who belly laughs at everything and makes me feel like the funniest person in the whole wide world. Veronica's spinach dip. Tim, whose stint in the Navy as an M.D. only deepened my regard for him. JuJu, who looked exactly the same and whose crooked smile and dry humor made me realize just how much I missed picking on her. Beth, whom in a recent e-mail I told that seeing her again reminded me how in high school I always thought she looked just like one of those ruffly Victorian dolls with the long, curly hair, with the porcelain faces, and with the big, round eyes — which I really hope she took as the compliment it was intended to be, because I thought she looked exactly the same. Alison, who admitted to stalking me on the internet and to my being one of her favorite people from school, which while making me smile because I reciprocated the sentiment came as no surprise once I remembered she and I were born exactly a week apart — it's a Scorpio thing. Krishna and his lovely wife, Stephanie — with his hair cut short he looks just like M. Night Shyamalan now. Amy, her delicate features belying a harshness of wit and sharpness of tongue that always seemed to intimidate everybody but me. Ruth Ann, who's just ... well, Ruth Ann, and whose profession demands a resolution and dedication that frankly leaves me humbled. Kevin, who's now an Air Force Lt. Colonel, and whose hand it was my honor to shake — and I told him as much — because my father was a flight officer and I know in very personal terms the caliber of person required to excel in such a job. Anna, whom I dated for much of eleventh grade and to whom I joked that when I heard she'd be attending that I hoped she'd show up looking horrendous — which, of course, I didn't, and she didn't, and I was glad to see just how wonderful and happy she did look. And there were so many others (Deanna, Bryan, Barney, Eric, Brad, Hunter, Kyle, Amy, Mary, Chris, Jessica, Brian, Cherie) as well as many who weren't there but should have been (Katharine, Erin, Jennifer, Greg, Brae).

I didn't spend a great deal of time with my good-byes that night, primarily because the exuberance of the evening threw everything pell-mell, but also because that night I experienced a long overdue epiphany of reconciliation regarding my homesickness for Maine and these people who form the bedrock of my life as an adult, in the light of which long, weepy good-byes just wouldn't have been all that appropriate.

For twenty-five years I've lived in Memphis, but still have yet to completely acclimate. It's a place, and I do call it home, but with a shrugging ambivalance. Yeah, it's where my job is, but the only thing that really keeps me here is my family — my wife and children. As I said earlier, Brunswick is home, will always be home, but it's also becoming emptier of those who recognize me as one of their own — a beloved geography without the comfort of community. However, these people, my classmates, I realized, are that community, have always been that community, just without the anchor of geography. And with the benefit of e-mail and services like Facebook, preserving that community, that sense of family, is all that much easier to do.

Yes, I know this all likely comes across as soppy and overwrought, but sentimentality can also be sincere. On the other hand, throughout the course of the reunion weekend these very same expressions were not conveyed to me just by many others who are classmates, but by spouses who also commented just how genuinely we all seemed to care about one another, about how tightly knit we still seemed after so much time. Which for me drove home the point that these observations weren't merely wishful thinking, a dismissible result of whatever child-without-a-home psychosis may yet linger in my brains.

As I stood in the bar area in the Crescent Club with Adam, Amy, Brian and Cherie — along with a couple dozen others seated at tables — watching a copy of our class video yearbook produced our senior year, I turned to my friends and said something along the lines of, "Wow, I guess that's proof positive it all actually did happen."

Me, I'd like to try my hand at seeing it never really ends.

Twenty minutes.

I know I've been regretful of it these past six years, but I don't believe I've ever apologized. Probably not, because I also know it's unneeded and just plain silly. Nonetheless, I'm really sorry I couldn't be there, Dad.

I miss you.

The significance of a clean desk.

Funny, because while I have lots going on at the moment, I really don't have a heck of a lot to say, and I'm updating my blog primarily to prevent the entire month of May from slipping past without an entry.

The kids have started a new daycare for the summertime, and thankfully both seem to really like it. The wife and I are both getting over particularly nasty little colds — the kind that starts out as a sniffle on Monday and by Tuesday you feel like you've been run over. I spent more than twenty hours in the bed on Saturday this past weekend, because I'm sort of the person whose body simply shuts down when sick. Can't be helped. My wife, however; it takes a death blow to stop her.

I've been helping make preparations for my upcoming twentieth high school reunion, which has been as much fun as it has been work. Hanging with old friends who remember me, and respond to me, as the person I was when they knew me very well has been ... well, refreshing I suppose is the best way to put it. Or maybe even therapeutic, in many ways, to get back in touch with that person again. Going forward I hope to keep him in mind more often.

My writing is going fairly well, if slowly. But then, doesn't it always go slowly? In this day and age of being able to print a several hundred page document in just a few minutes, creating one a page at a time often seems archaically plodding and incredibly inefficient. Then again, the most lasting structures are built a brick at a time. The most satisfying meals are usually made from scratch.

So, it's back to the kitchen.

Which taken on the flood, leads on to fortune.

Feels like it's been a lot longer since I've posted than it has, mostly because my days of late have been crammed with every sort of this and that. Work's been amazingly busy. Home's been fairly frenzied as well; seems the kids' agendas increase in size right alongside their ownselves. But what's had me most engrossed (Most engrossed! Rhyme time! Ta da!) is my writing. Some very exciting stuff's about to happen in that particular playground, kids. So exciting I don't even really wanna think about it too much or too hard, lest it disappear from over my head with a pop like one of those cartoon dream balloons.

Suffice it to say for right now, I'm stoked. Giddy, even.

Stay tuned.

The importance of turning around three times before lying down.

In the warmth of the summer night, even through the thick dark of the lampless street, she looked radiant. Long, golden hair pulled back. Conservative brownish, maroonish cocktail dress betraying her less than modest shape when she happened to move in a certain way. She had a friend or two on either side of her, but he couldn't remember who they were. They weren't important, anyhow. He didn't even really see them.

She smiled a strange, vague smile as she trudged up the lawn to the front door — her lawn, her front door, where he stood. She tottered to one side, but quickly caught her balance. His heart sank. For a moment he thought she'd smiled at him, because of him. She'd simply been drinking.

She reached the sidewalk just before the porch, then threw her handbag down in anger and kicked over a potted plant near the brick wall of her house. It shattered like a pitched coffee cup.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "You're not supposed to be here."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down for a moment at the black-green lawn. "I know," he replied, then strode back to his car past her and her friends. "But this is where you expected me to wait."

Amidst the crickets.

Yesterday I sent a quick e-mail to about twenty friends, giggling about Dawn Wells (a.k.a. Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island) being busted for marijuana possession. I don't usually send mass e-mails, and apologized for as much in the message.

Twenty-four hours later, and only one person has replied. Which, frankly, both burns me up and bums me out. Yeah, that's pretty whiny, but it's not so much pouty complaint as it is me wondering if maybe my expectations when it comes to personal interaction really are tremendously skewed.

Proximity to a tree.

A quick note, Dad, to say hello, and happy birthday, and that today your five-year-old grandson beat me in checkers. Not because I let him. Not because I wasn't paying attention. But because he just plain outplayed me. It was amazing, and amusing, to watch him think about his moves, block me cleverly, and trap me mercilessly.

The moment he won, when his face lit up with the elation of accomplishment, you'd have been as proud as you were missed.

Frightful? Hardly.

Today we got our first real dose of snow in a long time. A whole whopping inch has fallen so far, and the wind is whipping powdery gusts all around. Having grown up in Maine, an inch is a mere pittance, yet more than enough to make me very homesick. Outside, the air smells and feels just like it did when I was ten and would spend so much time romping through thigh-deep snow that it would take an hour of being in the house to start feeling my fingers and toes again. My favorite part, though, was when it started getting dark out, when the yards, rooftops and sky waned from stark white to a dreamy moonscape of baby blue and lavender.

Just like it's doing now.

Although they and loneliness are a dangerous mix.

The abusive wind sharpened from mild to outright cold as I stood waiting for the kids to emerge from school. Low, charcoal clouds galloped along just overhead. Rain quickened from fat, occasional drops to diagonal sheets, soaking my pant legs from the knee down. Finally, the doors opened and a rambunctious, colorful stampede of wavering little umbrellas charged out onto the shiny, water-darkened sidewalk.

The first two girls reached me and marched past. As they disappeared behind me, one said to the other, "Man, this is perfect weather for a warm cheeseburger."

I smiled, because she was absolutely right.

As in, tall buildings.

Superman was born on February 29, according to an answer column I remember reading in a comic book when I was little. I can't tell you which one, what issue. It must have been a Superman book, though, even though I was never really a big fan of the Man of Steel. Batman has always been more my hue.

I've nothing really to report right now, other than wanting to be able to post on this, the rarest of calendar days. Because if something fleeting can't be preserved, it should at least be commemorated, if not celebrated, before it's let to slip finally, entirely away.

Righteous judges, dead churches.

I was pretty much convinced An Inconvenient Truth was the most disturbing documentary I'd be seeing for a long, long time. Well, tonight I saw Jesus Camp.

Jesus.

I followed it home. Can I keep it?

Never mind me, folks. I'm just at the Apple Store again, this time playing with a MacBook Air. And being in love, I think.

Before thou goest over the threshold thereof.

Not five minutes ago, Meredith, my seven year old, looked up from her little paperback book and asked, "Daddy what does 'make out' mean?"

I stared back, eyebrows raised. "What does what mean?"

"What does 'make out' mean?"

Inside my head two thoughts collided at an intersection I really, truly wasn't wanting to cross just yet. Those thoughts were along the lines of: Oh no! and What the heck is her mother letting her read? I decided I'd best make darn sure I understood the question lest I give the way wrong answer.

"Read me the sentence it's in, sweetie."

Meredith flipped back a page. "'In the dark room her eyes could not make out a single thing.'"

I exhaled deep, sweet relief. "That means to be able to see something not very clearly at first. Like when the lights go out it takes a minute to make out the closet door. Or if someone points at a cloud it may take a minute before you can make out the shape they want you to see."

"Oh," she said. "Okay. Thanks."

"You're welcome, princess girl," I replied.

Whew.

I do, I do, I do believe in ... oh, wait. Jeez. Never mind.

Early this morning while I stood in the walk-in closet I share with my wife (well, the walk-in closet she allows me to share with her) the light turned off. I don't mean the light bulb went out. I mean that I heard the light switch on the wall next to me click, and suddenly it was very dark. As in, someone flipped the switch. Problem was, I was the only someone around.

The next couple of seconds found me genuinely unsettled, but then I saw a heavy sweater on the floor that hadn't been there a moment earlier. I must have brushed against it on my way into the closet, which caused it to flop down from a shelf on my wife's side, and it caught the light switch on its way down.

Whew.

The kind that makes you cry.

My wife's in Chicago this week on business, so it's just me and the wee folk fending for ourselves. Because they've been so good and helpful in making sure poor, clueless Daddy does things right (morning preparations, you see, don't usually far within my jurisdiction; my specialty is afternoons and evenings) I took the kids to Pizza Hut for dinner as a thanks. We talked, laughed, munched salads and breadsticks and, well, pizza, and had a nice little time.

When the waitress, who might have been as old as sixteen, asked what we wanted on the pizza, I told her half-cheese, and the other half with Italian sausage and red onions.

"We don't have red onions," she said.

"You don't?" I asked. I was confused. They'd always had red onions, and the menu specifically said so.

"No," she said. "We only have the purple kind."

"Oh," I replied with an amused smile, feeling the moment pass where I could have easily — and I admit, nearly did — become One of Those Customers. "Okay then. I'll have those instead."