So here I am
by Regis Boff
The thing about a circle is that it always appears to be going someplace until it collides with where it started.
My wife and I calculated twenty-six odd years ago that our children would be better off growing up in a place similar to Nebraska. They could shuffle about in rags with rods of hay dangling from their little mouths while mumbling, “Oh shucks,” just out of our earshot because they feared the woodshed.
We now live where everyone is flush with money. All of us actively cooperate in the affluent conceit that returning to pioneer mannerisms while still riding our snowblowers and donating that rarely looked at, used Van Gogh, to the grade school’s fencing auction is within our selfish reach.
Sadly, babies grow the way they want, no matter how rich the soil is that you put them in.
We are closing our circle now; our kids have grown, and we watch steady streams of new fantasy seekers arriving in our hamlet with their BMW station wagons and their penchants for ever higher speed bumps and ghoulish safety signs.
I could long reflect on the oddity of mimicking a life beneath my circumstance. That is if I gave a shit, or maybe a “shucks,” but I don’t.
Somewhere, profoundly hidden inside me, I strived hard to be this envied hypocrite. So here I am.