Spring Breaks

We're on spring break around here; well, not me exactly, but when you've got three kids aged 10-14, whatever their reality is rather closely defines yours. Today, I welcomed a gluttony of pubescent male energy into my abode -- three 14-year-old boys and one (he who shares my initials) who turns 13 in a mere five days.

All of their voices are in various stages of changing, more or less like submarines descending down a watery musical scale well south of the Three Tenors already yet not yet bottoming out among the baritones, or wherever they are to land.

Possibly experiencing a cathartic fit of ecstasy at being freed from school for (count 'em) nine-and-a-half straight days, just as our weather has blossomed into a fever that could cause even an old man to fall in love again, should the opportunity present itself, they pulled out our huge, plastic arsenal of weapons and waged some sort of terrorist attack in my basement that got so loud at one point, that the quietest person I've ever known ran down the stairs, held up her hands, and exclaimed: "Boys! You can't do that! Quiet down! Someone might call the police!"

It worked.

Countless burritos, pizza slices, video games, pickups and drop-offs later, complete with more angst and drama than nursing home residents experience in an entire year, here I sit, at almost 9 pm at night, alone in silence. Oh blessed silence! My friend paid me a great compliment last night after she offered to accompany me to the school's annual spring concert, and I avowed that it really didn't matter one way or the other. I'd like the company, of course, but I was also happy just to attend alone.

"It's really true," she said. "You are totally fine being alone. I was under the impression you couldn't be happy in that state, at that kind of event, even one year ago. But now, you can."

I thanked her. And it is true. Some of my favorite moments in life now are when I am alone, able to think, to read, write, and reflect over the past half dozen decades, trying to make sense of it all.

Don't read me wrong. I still love company, particularly of the female variety. No woman friend is too young or too old to light up my day or my night. (And I love my fewer male friends just as much, though we normally have somewhat less to talk about.)

Meanwhile, there is some breaking news here at Hotweir Central. I've written a song, or rather the lyrics to a song. It's not the first song I've ever written, only the first one in about 40 years. I think it is a good song, and I've given it to a musician friend to consider recording. It fits into a kind of whimsical, country-blues-folk-rock genre, updated for the Internet era.

I'll keep those of you who are my most loyal readers, those lovely habitues of this queerly inconsistent blog, informed as to my progress in this relatively new (yet also very old) career twist. How would you like me to become a popular songwriter?

Stranger things happen every day. Grandma Moses did her thing late in the third act of her remarkable life.

Why not me? Much more importantly, why not you?

Think about it: After all, I can't write anything, let alone a song, for myself. I write for you.

What is it, as you age, that you really would like to do for the others out there who no doubt wish you would finally follow your own passion, enriching us all in the process?

Think about it. Then dare to act.

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