Bravest Thing (He Ever Did)

Not to brag, but I’m engaged in some high-end professional research right now with someone named John. However, I will let you be privy to the details. You see, a staff washroom at the school I teach at has a toilet not working properly. The handle sticks when you flush it. It’s an easy fix–I’ve checked. Yet it won’t be me who has the honor of restoring this throne to its former glory. I learned my lesson that one time I changed a lightbulb in my classroom and subsequently received a lecture on how that heinous act steals jobs from union members. I practically took food out of the mouths of innocent children by changing that light bulb. Not this time. The union kids will eat well tonight. A company Help Ticket has been requested to fix the toilet. And–here is my research–I am now tracking the days… weeks… months…  before it gets fixed. In this new and improved world of equality and wokeness, just how long does it take for a toilet to get fixed? The question makes my brain swirl. ...

Back in the fall my wife made a passing comment to me. "I got this book from the library. Hannah Coulter. I think you might like it." Little did I know. This innocent remark has packed quite the punch. I was introduced to the world of Wendell Berry , and subsequently into Wendell Berry's fictional world of Port Williams. I haven't looked book. If you are unfamiliar with Wendell Berry's works, he is perhaps best known for his essays on preserving true farming, community, rural living, and all things common sense. However, he is also an accomplished novelist. So much so that you could swear his fictional Port Williams, and all its residents, are real.  Little did I know: Part 2. In the fall, as I was reading Wendell Berry, I wrote my first book. Disconnected: The Broken Path . It is a novel for ages 10 and up, and imagines a day when the internet crashes, and people are forced to live (or survive, I should say) in the real world.  Looking back, I see just how much ...

It is a fine Sunday morning and my wife, children, and I are at a traditional Latin Mass many miles from our home. A typical occurrence plays out. I have our one-year-old boy of perpetual-motion in a headlock as he tries to wrestle away from me towards the teleological aim for someone his age: the glorious freedom of racing down a church aisle. Somehow, as I try a different martial-arts hold on this feisty kid - he takes after his mother, you know - I still manage to carry an open Latin missal and give the semblance of being at prayer. Fake it till you make it, I always say.  Glancing up at the sanctuary, I see two altar boys with the usual synchronized perfection one is accustomed to find at a reverent Catholic Mass. They look clean and professional. I am a hot mess. It is a surreal moment for me. How the tables have turned from when I was in their spotlessly clean shoes.  Just then I notice one of the altar boys give the look . His serving partner just messed up. I imagi...

How quickly time passes, memories fade, and youth withers. A couple of evenings ago my wife was reading Defending Boyhood by Anthony Esolen when she stumbled upon the lyrics of a song Esolen was mentioning in passing. "Hey, do you know this song? The words sound familiar... It goes: 'Gaudeamus igitur, Iuvenes dum sumus…" "Hmm. I'd have to see." After staring blankly at the words for a couple of minutes, desperately trying to hum various Latin tunes, suddenly the scales fell from our eyes, and we were able to recognize a treasure from our youth. We began to piece the tune together. "We used to sing that in Latin class at OLSWA! Mr. Zakrzewski taught it to us." "That's right. I can still see and hear him. He'd be so into it. It was his dream to have the old academic hymn make a glorious comeback. We used to sing that song everywhere. On hikes, in class, anywhere." And so it is, the great academic song trumpeting all youth to seize ...

“Good night!” exclaimed Joe Hardy, the younger brother of Frank. Joe, a high school star in football, wrestling, lacrosse, swimming, distance running, weight lifting, chess, trigonometry, and theatre, looked worried as he hid behind a skull shaped rock while watching the head of the New World Order toss the Holy Grail into a potato sack. “Golly gee, I think the President’s phone call will have to wait until we deal with this!” replied Frank, who in addition to excelling in all school sports and subjects, was the youngest town councillor in Bayport’s history and a consultant for the State Senator. “Let’s get em!” roared the impetuous Joe. Joe knocked out the biggest crook first, with a solid right cross to the chin. Meanwhile Frank, with a flurry of punches to the solar plexus, was immobilizing the head of the New World Order against the skull shaped rock. Just then another crook, dressed like a tree, attacked Joe with an iron bar! Joe went sprawling to the ground in pain...