A moment.

Writing silent replies and a tv emanating various sounds in the distance. A somber sound of a constant violin. It's sound increasing it's take over of mental concentration. Then rearing from the direction of vision form a computer screen to a TV screen. Simultaneously saying "The obituaries!". The local news station playing a moving list of local people who have passed on. Dad, relaxing on the couch saying, "Yep, mostly older people." We have been watching the obituaries for YEARS. The same resounding somber violin, the mentions of "Wows" to some of the oldest people listed and the "Oh's" of the youngest. It's surreal being here now, sitting comfortably, in a different home, in a different situation. Dad is older as well. Back to the recent past, Dad says "Wow, just 54." That statement immediately had a profonding impact and realization.

(from the archives, c. 2002)

Along the edge of the highway, off the usual course of his daily walk in order to give space to the pheasant hunter he passed a while back, he sees in each piece of discarded litter an untold story. Fully aware that most of these stories are probably mundane, and the teller in many cases may prove little more articulate than the artifacts left behind, he attempts to convince himself that a broken table leg or chunk of tire reflects human trials worthy of drama. Even the endless stream of broken and whole bottles, wax-coated fast-food drinking cups, and loose bolts might be more than the mundane droppings of people who use the bed of their pick-ups, or the passenger side window in their sedans and SUVs as garbage cans. The walker has tried to forget the one time that he contributed to this beautification of America’s highways (that’s what Hayduke calls it) when he pitched his empty Sobe bottle out the window because he felt completely powerless to do or say anything about the tentacles his ex-wife still has reaching into his wallet.

That is rather profound, thank you.

For ounce Dad was not 50plus, now him having said, "54" in the view of an obituary notice hit home of all that has passed.

When people my age die, it hits home. When I was younger, it was usually tragic accidents or suicide. Now, I’m far enough into life that heart disease and cancer are more frequent causes. My second wife was taken by cancer when she was 43–too young. At the high school reunion last summer, there was a nice video tribute to those we had lost. The first was while we were still in high school—rolled his car on an icy road.

Two professors and one principal who wrote letters for me on the job search are gone.

That's life,