So, our little boy is all married off. He found a woman who would take him, and he’s a husband now. How funny to think of my brother as a married man. My family has always been good at the divorce thing, but not as proficient with the marriage. Or at least the staying married part. They seem all right with the marriage, but the glue just doesn’t stick that well. But this boy has taken the plunge, and looks like he’ll be just fine. This is the same little kid who used to bring home bottle caps and cigarette butts, infuriating my mother because he kept them all in his desk drawer. This is the kid who used to be a model train fanatic and would dig holes in the backyard to see how much dirt-per-square-inch he could pack on his body. (If only there had been a category for him in the Guinness Book of World Records. He’d be the record holder to this day.) And look how I talk about him: Nostalgically like he’s gone. Like he’s been married off and then moved to Pascaloosa. Like he’s not around anymore and isn’t the same ole’ Scott who’s still digging holes in the backyard and collecting cigarette butts. He does both and he’s still around.

The big day is here. My brother is getting married. Family are coming into town, last minute arrangements are being tended to, I’m trying to write a speech, and my mother is starting to talk like a hyena with a caffeine overdose and a good gulp of helium. All her words run together into one long sentence an auctioneer might utter: “Brian I need you to get with the National Weather Service and make sure it’s going to be warmer than 65 degrees because I don’t want to pack my sweater and I’m not wearing stockings so do whatever you need to including paying them off because you know how I hate the cold and it will ruin everything and I won’t be able to dance with Scott which means he will get a divorce …” To me it sounds like one long answering machine beep and my mind wanders until I hear a voice on the end of the other line demand: “Brian! Did you get all that?” “Are you kidding me?” I ask. “I’m still trying to figure out who you are!”

Goodbye to the Jeep Funny isn’t it how you can get attached to a car. And you don’t even realize how much until the guy from the car dealership drives it off for good. That’s when you think, “I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.” And what would you say anyway? “You’ve been a good one to me, little fella’. I hate to part, but you’re going to a better place. Somewhere where you’ll have a good family, an open field to play in and all the mid-grade fuel and proper oil changes a youngin’ like you can stand.” Funny, isn’t it? You make a decision to get a new car, you’re all decided on getting rid of the old one, and it’s not until you go to get all your stuff out that you realize how much you’re going to miss it. We bought a new car this past weekend after thinking on it for months. The old 1993 Jeep Cherokee was perfect for what it was — a beach vehicle, a dog limo, and ideal for hauling loads of lumber and other materials that snooty models would turn their noses up at. “Monsieur, you will not put that stinky rubbish on my fine carpet. I’m going to Starbucks. You find other transportation.”