My Very Brief Bildungsroman

I have no idea what the age of accountability really is. I've heard that it's that time when you know right from wrong, and maybe it really is that simple. But perhaps it's a little more complex.

I knew it was wrong when I destroyed tens upon tens of glass Christmas ornaments. Yup. I had every clue. Was I accountable? Who knows?

Was it evidence that my brother had not reached the age of accountability when he fed my dead rabbit for a week? Hardly.

Had I become accountable the day I let a few drops of Dawn fall into the fish bowl because I didn't want to clean up after fish poop anymore? (I don't know if I've ever revealed that to y'all. Sorry.) Nah.

What about the day I trashed classroom at the church building, splattering all manner of evil on the walls? Did I know that was wrong. Heck, yeah. I know it no more now than I did then.

Was I accountable? Should I have been marched down to a cold, moldy baptistry and drowned my demonically sinful nature?

I doubt it.

Maybe the age of accountability isn't negative at all. Maybe it's not the result of some rite that causes an epiphany that'll bring guilt over you like a cold shower.

What if it's the day you can finally put the obvious together and realize that your family is all you'll ever really have? And what about the day where you wake up and think about how nice it would be if you were loading up in a 1982 Ford Futura and heading off to first period? What about that precise moment when you wish you could go back in time and be a better son? How about that time before lunch when you wished you could call up your brother and go grab a bite together? Better yet, how about the day you look at a picture of the brother you took for granted and the father you hope knows how much you've learned from him, and you sigh into open air trying your best to believe in telepathy.

I bet that's more like the day you became accountable, the age of accountability. That's probably a lot more like the day when you've taken your first step, the very first one, toward understanding.

I guess if I'd truly believed that all along, then I wouldn't have been baptized until I was about 25.

My Sons Are Coming Home

At no time throughout the year is my spirit as light as when my sons are coming home.

Too long I joked when they were kids of breaking their plates when they turned eighteen. Too often I noted of how nice it would be to have the house all to myself. To many times when looking for a tool did I mumble under my breath, "I just wish they would put things back where they found them.

Now...too many plates sit unused in the cabinet. Now…the house seems empty and bare and void of life. Now…my tools are all just where I left them gathering dust.

Thankfully, though. My kids are coming home and bringing their wives. The dishes seem to shine with anticipation, the house seems warmer and more inviting, and even my tools...well they will just stay where they are because when my sons get home there will be far too much rejoicing to worry with work.

My sons are coming home, and I am giddy pleased.

Great-Grandsons

I am not sure who's pride is greater, the great-grandsons or the great grand-father.

Frank and Mary only had two children...Bonnie and Vernissa. Bonnie and Harold had only three girls...Debbie, Pam, and Rhonda. Frank and Mary had to wait three generations before the boys came along.

Joey and Shane are the first grandsons!