I didn't have to be at school today until 1 PM. On my way to work, I passed Jami and Josh, and we gave each other the rural hello -- the right index finger raised ever so slightly off the steering wheel.

They had left for the hospital at six this morning, and now they were returning from Joshua's academy physical, nearly the last hurdle before his acceptance to one of the military academies.

Josh already had a nomination to the military academies from our congressman (Ryun), and on Monday received notice that he had leaped Senator Roberts' hurdles as well. Depending on the kindness of Republicans irks me, but that phase of the application process is over. Joshua is optimistic and now awaits word from the academies themselves.

Although his vision might not be good enough to meet the Air Force flight requirements, he nonetheless would prefer the Air Force Academy, but he would take West Point, I think. Curiously, he is uninterested in the Naval Academy in Annapolis, although it is closer to DC, a city he loves.

He's not certain that he would attend any of them if accepted. Having an ROTC scholarship virtually in the bag gives him some options. And he might have some other opportunities as well, not the least among them being the college down the street.

I don't know. On the one hand, the academies and the ROTC scholarships relieve the parents of a huge financial burden. The kid goes to college free, earns some spending money in the process, gets to throw his hat in the air at a few football games, comes out with a good education, falls into a job that's guaranteed for four years, and gets out of the service with either a retirement (if he goes for the twenty-year plan), decent job prospects, or both.

On the other hand, the four-year obligation following college often winds up spent in some unrewarding positions. Pushing enlisted troops through the paces dictated by some REMF (rear-echelon mf) who hasn't seen the real world in years, although a young man's work, might not best use the kind of education offered at the academies, and if it does, then that's a problem too.

And need I point out the sane, parental reluctance to see a child thrown in the way of physical harm in the service of a huge institution with little real concern for that child's individual welfare? "Mission first" after all, not "take care of my baby first."

And might not that guarantee of a job also be viewed as a trap? He will have so many opportunities that it seems a shame to proscribe those opportunities so early in his life.

I don't know. I know that in his same situation during the sixties, I turned down the academies' offers and an ROTC (Navy) scholarship. Viet Nam was getting messy, and Berkeley, Boston, New York, Madison and Austin (among many other places) were beginning to heat up with resistance to the draft and to the war.

But the times have changed, I think. Although the military will never be the favorite child in the U.S., the stigma associated in many quarters with military service during my youth exists no more, or has been mitigated by time, at least in this country.

Despite my reservations, I am proud of him and pleased with the little fascist's achievements.

Ultimately, the decision must be his to make. And to own.

This morning, Taylor turned nine-years-old before my very eyes. J and J were off to the hospital before 6 AM, so I was in charge of getting Owen and Taylor off to school. Unusual for me, I overslept my alarm, but Owen came up promptly at 6:30 to wake me.

Some of Taylor's birthday gifts were laid out among half a dozen balloons in the living room. He had permission to open one gift before school, and he had opened a new Lego set. By the time Owen had awakened me, he and Taylor had already assembled this $45 set -- pffffft!

Taylor always makes thoughtful choices for his gifts. This year, he decided he wanted a metal detector so that he could hang out with the old farts in the park and hunt for pocket change and other treasures.

When he was two, the youngest of three brothers, he recognized that the house already contained an abundance of desirable toys. The problem, as he saw it, was that he couldn't reach them because his brothers had put their most valued toys out of his reach. His sole gift request for his birthday: a step stool.

I remember the pronunciation as more nearly " 'tep 'too' " but that request established him as a tool user and earned him a smile and some respect from his brothers, who began to realize that their household hegemony might be at an end, and that a new division of resources and territory was at hand.

No surfing today. Damn! No photos either.