Rolling Stones

Dear You,

In the river of Life are different kinds and sizes of rocks. Water rushes around the boulders, which remain in place over time. Smaller stones shift, but rarely and not very far. It's the pebbles that wash around and drift downstream that interest me.

Growing up in different towns in Ohio, I never felt much of an affinity to place. I attended three elementary schools and two junior highs before spending five years (!) in the town where I was graduated from high school . . . thence to leave and return only for the occasional school reunion. Without some research I could not list all my addresses. Even now, I'm comfortable in my "snowbird phase," living seasonally in the North and the South.

I'm always curious about those who were born, grew up, and remain in the same community. Such stability is foreign to me; sometimes I'm envious. Wouldn't it be interesting, I think, to live parallel lives, just to see how different would be my outlook. Well, the river wouldn't be the river without the variety of its stones.

Girls, Interrupted

Dear You,

Perhaps you, too, saw the photographs of the five girls spread across the newspaper this morning, just under the flag and above that dreadful headline. And if so, perhaps you, too, stopped whatever else was going on in your otherwise ordinary day to read about who, what, where, when, how . . . and why.

Five 17- and 18-year-old girls, just graduated from a nearby high school and chums all their lives were driving to a lakeside home for what promised to be a day of fun and friendship -- perhaps one of several they had planned for the summer before they headed in different directions to college and the adult lives that were to follow. They died quickly in that fiery crash.

It is the job of the newspaper to tell us the facts, but it's really our job to find possible meaning in events. I have no idea how many books I have read -- hundreds? I studied philosophy and psychology and literature, and I taught thousands of teenagers during my 34 years in classrooms. I attend church regularly. And I really don't know how best to answer any questions about the Meaning of Life.

So I think about the other four girls in the story -- the friends in the following car who were also headed for that day of enjoyment but who had to witness those awful moments. Doubtless they are occupied with the shock of feelings. You know: the ones that we have felt ourselves or perhaps just read about. But maybe in the coming days they will understand better than ever the miracle of waking up, the importance of being truly present every day, the need to take little for granted.

I wonder if they will understand what I do not . . . just why Life must teach us this harshly.