|
| News | Sports |
Business | Opinions |
Columns | Entertainment |
| Science/Technology| Weather | Archives | E-mail Us |
Brooks Peterson
Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com
Monday, June 14, 1999
A short stroll becomes a rite of passage
Generally speaking, I try to abide by a rule promulgated by a columnist whose work commands far more attention than the offerings that appear in this space: Under other than ordinary circumstances, he holds, you're best advised not to drag your family before the unwinking eye of media exposure.
Makes a certain amount of sense. If you gin out a column that puts a family member in other than a flattering light, you're liable to find yourself looking at some chilly evenings at the dinner table. Conversely, should you do a piece celebrating the accomplishments and/or sterling personal qualities of one of those to whom you're near and dear, your readers may bridle a bit, suspecting (perhaps correctly) that you're taking advantage of a forum not available to everyone.
Well, tough. I'm declaring a holiday from The Rule. Didn't some wise man/woman/carbon-based life form say rules were made to be broken?
The thing is, we found ourselves last week smack in the middle of a tribal rite that proved to be an unusually powerful, and touching, experience.
High school graduation.
Incredibly, the little fellow who came into our lives about 18 and a half years ago was one of the maroon-gowned figures crossing the stage Tuesday evening to receive, in no particular order, a diploma, sundry handshakes and an abrazo from a party of administrators and school trustees.
He seemed to be enjoying the experience, and why not? The lad earned it, for crying out loud. Mom, dad, grandfather and aunt, however, emerged a little dazed: aware, of course, that what we were experiencing was something that almost all parents and family member experiences: a classic rite of passsage. Norman Rockwell stuff - pure Americana. Almost hackneyed, in fact - until it's your kid who's taking that momentous stroll.
At such moments, you look back in wonder at some of the stuff you and this young person have experienced together over the years. Comes to mind:
3 A profoundly science-averse dad struggling in the wee hours of the morning to help a third-grader conduct an experiment having to do (if memory serves) with the flight characteristics of deflating balloons. The minute calculations. The angst. The sense of wonder that mankind ever got off the ground at all.
3 Enduring - er, experiencing - the musical magic of a young man coming to terms with a French horn. As a former University Junior High Eagle Band trombonist, I could only marvel at the effort that goes into producing anything other than squawks or bleats from this fiendishly demanding instrument.
3 The profound gratification (tinged with relief) when the kid, with no drama whatsoever, went out and gathered the soil and plant samples to complete a science project. (I did mention that his father has a near-pathological aversion to science projects?)
And now . . . now, in a few weeks he's off to one of my favorite universities in the whole wide world, up in the heart of the Rust Belt, where The Youth Who Laughs At Cold will have an opportunity to get up close and personal with serious winter; where he will see trees actually change color; and where of course he will he will have ample opportunities to put to work all he has learned from a really outstanding collection of teachers, counselors, administrators . . . The list is virtually endless.
Odd how someone with whom you've lived for 18 years can remain in some respects a mystery to you. His housekeeping practices call to mind those of a a small, burrowing nocturnal mammal (though, in fairness, I'm hardly in a position to throw rocks on that score). His tastes in music are . . . incomprehensible.
But the lad has a fine mind. A good heart. A healthy dollop of his mom's generosity of spirit. And a helping of resilience from both his granddads. All the grousing from this side of the generation gap notwithstanding, I suspect we're going to miss him.
Truth to tell, I think I already do.
(Readers can reach Peterson by phone at 886-3772, or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com)
Brooks Peterson
| Talk about this column | Other Columns
| Home |
© 1999 Caller-Times Publishing Company Corpus Christi Caller Times, a
Scripps Howard newspaper.
All rights reserved.
|
 |
 |
|
