time, I don’t care. I look at all the things people around me are doing, and I see just how stupid and fleeting they are, but there are moments when I wish I could join them. There are times when I wish I could stop making everything so complex and just live.”
“Oh, I completely understand,” he assured me. “Tom, you are a thinker. You’ve experienced pain and hardship at a young age. We haven’t talked about it much, but I know that your mother’s death has impacted the way you view the world, as it rightfully should. It comes through very clearly in your writing. The struggle is recognizing that just because things are simple or seemingly superficial to us does not mean that they are unimportant. We must allow ourselves to engage in the everyday and the ordinary and not feel guilty. There is nothing wrong with enjoying a fall day while cracking nuts. We have to let ourselves enjoy these moments because that is where real life happens. We have to appreciate the present with all its flaws rather than ignore its beauty because we see only its imperfections.”
There was a long silence. I did not know what to say in response. Dr. Emory looked at me with compassion in his eyes and reached out and lightly touched my arm. “Tom, when I first read your writing, it was obvious that there was something different about you from other boys your age. There was a separateness, an unusual maturity. It is this maturity that allows us to sit and enjoy one another’s company while we try to solve the world’s problems, but at the same time makes you feel so unwelcome among your peers. You have an old soul in a young man’s body, but you mustn’t let the old man win out and become a miserable old coot, or you will end up like Dr. Groves. The world doesn’t need more people like him. The world needs more people like your mother. From the few things you have said about her, I am sad that we never had the opportunity to meet. She sounds like a remarkable woman.”
Again, words dried up, and all that could be heard were the two rockers going back and forth and back and forth. I thought about my mother. I envisioned her, stringing my different memories together like pearls on a chain. I missed her so much. I felt tears well up in my eyes, but I pushed them back. Not here. Not now.
We sat, talked, cracked, and crunched a while longer, rocking in the crisp autumn air. On the walk home, I pondered what had been said. Was I on a course to become a miserable old man like Dr. Groves? That thought was so appalling that it made my body shiver uncontrollably. That could not be my future. I would not allow it.
That night the Secret Sevens re-convened in the basement of the library to revel in our success.
Patrick started the meeting. “Congratulations, gentlemen! We have managed to pull off the party of the year without a hitch, and I have a feeling we may be onto something bigger than we’d originally imagined. From the comments I have picked up here and there, it sounds as if people are already asking when the next undercover dance will be. Of course, we cannot disappoint the people—especially the ladies. A job well done to all of you, and special kudos to Tom, who had the original idea.” With that, we passed around the customary bottle of whiskey to celebrate.
We decided to strike while the iron was hot and set a date for another dance a month away. The second dance would not be as elaborate as the first; we simply did not have the time. A motion was made to hire a set-up and tear-down crew. When I asked where the money would come from, the group laughed.
Patrick spoke up again. “Tom, the Secret Sevens have been around for over 100 years. It is part of the duty of each graduating class to leave behind a legacy for future members. People have left all manner of things, but across the years, alumni have left behind money in a fund that the current president has access to. There is a board of three graduated members who have
“Oh, I completely understand,” he assured me. “Tom, you are a thinker. You’ve experienced pain and hardship at a young age. We haven’t talked about it much, but I know that your mother’s death has impacted the way you view the world, as it rightfully should. It comes through very clearly in your writing. The struggle is recognizing that just because things are simple or seemingly superficial to us does not mean that they are unimportant. We must allow ourselves to engage in the everyday and the ordinary and not feel guilty. There is nothing wrong with enjoying a fall day while cracking nuts. We have to let ourselves enjoy these moments because that is where real life happens. We have to appreciate the present with all its flaws rather than ignore its beauty because we see only its imperfections.”
There was a long silence. I did not know what to say in response. Dr. Emory looked at me with compassion in his eyes and reached out and lightly touched my arm. “Tom, when I first read your writing, it was obvious that there was something different about you from other boys your age. There was a separateness, an unusual maturity. It is this maturity that allows us to sit and enjoy one another’s company while we try to solve the world’s problems, but at the same time makes you feel so unwelcome among your peers. You have an old soul in a young man’s body, but you mustn’t let the old man win out and become a miserable old coot, or you will end up like Dr. Groves. The world doesn’t need more people like him. The world needs more people like your mother. From the few things you have said about her, I am sad that we never had the opportunity to meet. She sounds like a remarkable woman.”
Again, words dried up, and all that could be heard were the two rockers going back and forth and back and forth. I thought about my mother. I envisioned her, stringing my different memories together like pearls on a chain. I missed her so much. I felt tears well up in my eyes, but I pushed them back. Not here. Not now.
We sat, talked, cracked, and crunched a while longer, rocking in the crisp autumn air. On the walk home, I pondered what had been said. Was I on a course to become a miserable old man like Dr. Groves? That thought was so appalling that it made my body shiver uncontrollably. That could not be my future. I would not allow it.
That night the Secret Sevens re-convened in the basement of the library to revel in our success.
Patrick started the meeting. “Congratulations, gentlemen! We have managed to pull off the party of the year without a hitch, and I have a feeling we may be onto something bigger than we’d originally imagined. From the comments I have picked up here and there, it sounds as if people are already asking when the next undercover dance will be. Of course, we cannot disappoint the people—especially the ladies. A job well done to all of you, and special kudos to Tom, who had the original idea.” With that, we passed around the customary bottle of whiskey to celebrate.
We decided to strike while the iron was hot and set a date for another dance a month away. The second dance would not be as elaborate as the first; we simply did not have the time. A motion was made to hire a set-up and tear-down crew. When I asked where the money would come from, the group laughed.
Patrick spoke up again. “Tom, the Secret Sevens have been around for over 100 years. It is part of the duty of each graduating class to leave behind a legacy for future members. People have left all manner of things, but across the years, alumni have left behind money in a fund that the current president has access to. There is a board of three graduated members who have
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