Haven't You Forgotten Somebody?

Owen? Owen. What can I say about Owen's summer? Well, from what I've seen his summer has required much stillness.

In the early part of the summer holiday, he interrupted his sleep only for drivers ed classes and trips to the pool.

In the middle of his summer vacation, his daily pattern grew more complicated: rise at noon; scarf a bowl or two of Cheerios and a tray of brownies; bike to the pool; bust a cannonball and a can opener from the high board just to let them know you're there, and a flip just to remind them that you can; nap again under the sun and occasionally under the admiring gaze of a small but developing harem; pedal home from the pool around suppertime to complain that somebody ate all the brownies and nobody has baked fresh ones yet what'sthedealwiththat; spend a few more minutes tormenting parents and younger brother just to let them know you're there; check to be certain there are at least two clear exits before taunting your older brother with the fact that you're now taller than he is, and be prepared to skedaddle; commandeer the computer and the telephone to stay in touch with your running mates and harem; return to bed in the wee hours; repeat.

Sloth can be a good thing, a lifesaver, and a family can be grateful that a testosterone-flooded, fifteen-year-old body sleeps so much. Absence, after all, not only makes the heart grow fonder, it may also prevent both filicide and fratricide.

In the last two weeks, his schedule, his life has changed so that he can arrive by nine a.m. at a local band camp, where he must oompah his trusty trombone and stomp his outsized sneaks in concert with the other members of the high school marching band. By ten p.m. he's exhausted. And in less than two weeks, school resumes. O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

Still, he has had some fine, fine moments. Late on this past Saturday morning, Taylor practiced his violin in his bedroom, a room across the hall from Owen's. Having developed some decent touch in the past year, Taylor was playing some new tunes and playing them well. Wearing only his boxers, Owen arose from his bed hours before he was expected to and entered Taylor's room to say "Hey, that's sounding pretty good," before stumbling back to bed and more sleep. Not bad, I thought, for a walking hormone.

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!