#riteofpassage

10 October 2025

Last night, we attended our nephew’s graduation from the Basic Peace Officer’s Course—a police academy run by a Texas sheriff’s department. He’s now officially a deputy. It was a proud moment for all of us, a rite of passage and a major milestone in his life.

After the ceremony, we headed to Pappadeaux’s for supper. With a large party in tow, seating proved tricky. Eventually, the manager emerged with a plan: two adjacent tables near the window, one already empty, the other occupied by guests who had finished eating, paid their bill, and were simply lingering. We stood outside, watching through the glass as the scene unfolded. The tables were, in essence, half ours—but the second group wasn’t budging. I suspect they knew others were waiting. Eventually, I saw the manager approach them. He must’ve asked them to leave. Maybe he used that old nightclub line I remember from my younger days: “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Once seated, I was already fading. I told my wife it was past my bedtime. She reassured me I’d be fine, and I replied, “It’s ten minutes to Wapner.” A small comfort—proof that my odd sense of humor hadn’t yet abandoned me.

As the evening settled in, I found myself quietly observing. I can’t follow the chatter in noisy settings, so I drifted into thought. I noticed our nephew and his younger entourage had claimed one table, while we—the elders—gathered at the other. The generational divide was clear but not unwelcome. It felt like a gentle sorting, a ceremonial seating of past and future.

“Few of us go through life without taking part in some kind of rite of passage.” — Hank Nuwer

“Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it… blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement.” — George Eliot

Image generated with AI When I go outside, summer smells like rain and cut grass. If I sit on my rocking chair on the back porch, I smell the deep green dirt and dead leaves of forest earth supporting my flowers. The deadfall of the yard, dotted with bright pink begonias and orange, fuchsia, and red impatiens emits the scent of the earth under the canopy of green. It is at least fifteen degrees…