The thing about a circle is that until it collides with its beginning, it appears like it is going someplace.
We calculated twenty odd years ago that our children would be better off in a place like Nebraska. They could shuffle about in rags with rods of hay dangling from their little mouths instead of growing up in Manhatten wearing ankle monitors. Our crises would morph into navigating ” bad signs” like our oldest blurting out swear words similar to “Oh Shucks” after our worthless hound dog stole his ice cream cone. That’s when we found Irvington, NY.
We are all party to this conceit no matter how our money muddies the fantasy. I endorse the mannerisms of modesty over all other affectations though it is a hurdle to pull off when I ride in my snowblower or buy that donated used Van Gogh at the school auction.
Fortunately, kids are like flowers. They seem to thrive no matter how expensive the soil you put them in.
We are closing our circle now; our kids have grown, and we watch steady streams of new illusion seekers arrive in their BMW station wagons and their penchants for even more strict safety signs.
I suppose if I was a man of reflection I might get bogged down in the oddity of my mimicking a life beneath my circumstance. But in the end, I would prefer to be a hypocrite in Irvington than anywhere else, including Shangri-La, Nebraska.