I had the great pleasure of spending this last weekend at home. By "home" I mean my mom's home in Schmelta Schmutah. Even after almost two decades of living elsewhere, the brick rambler half a block from the high school is, in many ways, home--probably because I left a hat hanging there.
While there, I realized that sometime this summer I will have completed my 18th year living away from home. I also realized that I left home at age 18. The math is reletively easy: I have been gone for as long as I was there (18=18).
Even after all these years, I can't help but compare myself to that fresh-faced 18-year-old, have I become the 36-year-old version that that kid expected himself to become?
There is really only one answer. Who cares? His 36-year-old counterpart certainly doesn't.
However, I have to commend that boy. As I sat in his mostly unchanged bedroom, and thumbed through his writings and rumaged through his belongings, he clearly was a good boy. He was full of potential, spirit, belief, hope, humor, and unrefined talent. He tried hard to do good things. He had a reletively large collection of cassett tapes.
He was a good foundation to build a second lifetime upon. He didn't do it by himself. He was helped and refined along the way by loving and smart parents, and by friends and neighbors who were kind and caring. All of it in a place (both home and town) that was safe and comfortable. So, thank you to the providers of my "home."
Much love,
The 36-year-old version of Wilson Culpepper (Schmick Schmurdock)
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