A Series of Fortunate Events.

My daughter graduated from high school last Wednesday.

Loaded statement, that.

How, in a word, would I describe how I felt as the winding rivulets of Columbia Blue and white entered the stadium from the far end and slowly engulfed the track's north turn? How can I accurately portray in a single word, the intensity of my emotion as Pomp and Circumstance ushered the graduates in front of the bleachers, most wearing grins you'd be lucky to see once in a lifetime of Christmas mornings?

I think the word  is "rocked."

As soon as they turned down the home stretch toward their seats on the fifty yard line, I could make out faces. Parading slowly by was a group who'd encapsulated the past eighteen years of both a childhood and a parenthood. I gazed upon the procession, a surreal documentary streaming through my mind as each face unearthed a memory nugget, however small, from earlier days.

Most commencement ceremonies end with the hurling of caps into the air. Not this one. Didn't have to worry about Great Aunt Eufagenia's bloodshot eye being impaled by an errant mortarboard and leaking gelatinous goo onto the toupee of the guy in front of her. Nary a grad wanted any damage done to this or her custom-detailed head covering.

She spent two hours decorating that thing, ensuring that most of the rooms in our house had been lightly dusted with a sparkly reminder of where she'd be going in the fall.

Here she is with one of her best friends,Trevor. 

We love Trevor—and his parents. He'll be a Husky soon, bless his heart. I'm going to encourage my girl to keep in touch with Trevor, maybe grab some frozen yogurt or catch a movie when they're both home. And if, you know, they eventually find themselves with college degrees and jobs and having some sort of children together, that wouldn't suck at all.

She and Jake chose to walk together.

Jake's also highly awesome, as are his mom and dad. As an added bonus, these two will together tread the mossy climes of Western Washington University this autumn.

Grandma and Grandpa came. 

These people have cowboyed up, rain or shine, for just over twelve thousand of her t-ball, soccer, volleyball and basketball games, as well as miscellaneous performing arts and school pageants.

We know how those can be. 

And how could I neglect mentioning the two or three times per school year when they'd drop everything and motor up from Puyallup to care for a pink-eyed tot? Yeah, gold cord for the grandparents.

Last Wednesday was ridiculous in its riches. Here's what happened on June 12, in chronological order:

1. After a six-week construction period, our remodel was completed.

2. My wife was offered and accepted a teaching position she'd been pursuing for months.

3. Did I mention the whole high school graduation thing?

And finally, as I reclined in the living room that night waiting to drop my kid off at her grad night, I scrolled though the usual websites on my iPod. A single email popped onto the screen in the bold typeface of a message not yet opened. In the preview pane, the words read, "Thank you for your query regarding Ben's Fall…" 

That's the name of my book. For the past month or so, I've been sending query letters and sample chapters to literary agencies who are currently accepting submissions. I received a handful of prompt rejections, most saying things like, "It's not really for me, but good luck finding a home for it."

I tapped the screen and the remainder of the message appeared: "…I would like to take a look at the full manuscript. Please forward it as a Microsoft Word document, and I will get back to you as soon as possible."

As if the day hadn't proven to be enough of an emotional meat grinder, apparently Wednesday wasn't quite done making sausage. I read it and then read it again and then read it about nine more times.

Someone who works in New York City wants to read the whole thing! OMfreakingG.

Being of Irish heritage, I grappled with the idea of divulging item number four, since I don't want to jinx anything. But what the hell, if it happens it happens, and if it doesn't it doesn't, right? It's a step closer, after Wednesday.

Thursday was a little boring.

Give Us a Chance. We're Just Like You.

We've got a high school senior in our midst, and lately, she's been dishing up dollops of household angst. 

She's been getting all deep on us, harshing our mellows with her sentimentality and nostalgic yearning. 

All this, and her mom and I just want to party.

It's a time most of us remember vividly—that last chapter of traditional schooling when all that's left is a million flicks of the wrist launching a million mortarboards and nearly gauging out the cataract-clouded eyes of a million Great Aunt Carolines.

Yeah, our kid has really been reflecting recently, feeling little daggers of regret for not having soaked it all in just a bit more, that growing realization that things will never be the same. 

It's so tempting to extract the "when I was a boy" arrow from my quiver, but any anecdotal wisdom would surely careen off her still-teenage deflector shields. Plus, I can't really reach my quiver anymore, so I'm thinking it may finally be time to sign up for Pilates.

So, rather than inserting my gin-blossomed face into her grill and delivering a forceful lecture on my ability to relate to her senior sorrow, I'm going to jot it down in passive, twelve-point Arial. 

What better way to explain the mindset of youth than through popular music? Throughout the past sixty years, the pop charts have chronicled the pulse of our youth, and I'd like to demonstrate how things haven't really changed much. I've decided to sample the tops song names from my dad's graduation year (1951), mine (1981) and my daughter's (2013). You decide.

All included songs about hands:

In 1951, Nelson Eddy and Jo Stafford hit number 22, singing "With These Hands," 1981's number 19 tune was "Slow Hand" by the Pointer Sisters. And 2013 featured Akon at number 30 with "Hold My Hand."

Apparently, kids have always appreciated hands. I know I did, especially during that long, boring summer of 1978.

Commentaries on societal taboo and scandal :

In 1951, Vaughn Monroe reached number 76 with "On Top of Old Smokey," a song of forbidden love at remote Michigan logging camp. 1981's "Whip It," as performed by Devo, climbed to number 98, and in 2013, one man's sociopathic manipulation of his Irish Wolfhound is revealed in David Guetta's "Sexy Bitch," at number 31.

Crying songs:

Johnnie Ray hit the stratosphere with 1951's number 3 song, "Cry." In 1981, Don McLean reached number 40, with "Crying," and Flo Rida hit number 93 in 2013 with "I Cry." 

Wow, what a bunch of babies. Sorry, I should keep it positive.

Tunes promoting safe sex:

In 1951, Del Wood became one of the first artists to provide us with a road map of proper condom placement, singing the year's number 60 song, "Down Yonder," 1981's number 34 title, "Living Inside Myself" by Gino Vanelli,  points out the simplest way to avoid STDs and unwanted pregnancies. And BoB featuring Bruno Mars, currently at number 28, extols the virtues of condom use, with "Nothing On You." 

After reviewing these themes, I've got to tell you, I'm pretty impressed with the voices of America's youth over the past sixty years. I'd expected to find a predominance of gratuitous sexual themes, but I'm pleasantly surprised at the consistency of socially conscious subject matter. Hopefully, this exercise will help prove to our kids that we really do know what they're going through since we were there once ourselves.

Now, if Taylor Swift would just go away for a while.

The Day I Got Back My Yo-Yo.

"...no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks."
-Anonymous

"Finally, I won't be a kindergartner any longer. No more naps and I hereby vow to return as a non-thumb-sucking first grader. Will, too!"

"I'm going to dress up, not like the first day, but more than usual, so she'll remember this vision of me all summer."

"Ah, decent. This is the last day I have to sit by Brian, who smells like toast, plus I get my confiscated yo-yos back."

"I can start next year with a clean slate and know that it's been at least a year since I accidentally wet my pants during reading group. Next time, don't be polite. Just go, man."

"Why do we always have to race each other on the last day of school? I don't need any more 'participant' ribbons."

"Somehow, I'm going to have to sneak The Happy Hooker out of my desk."

"I should take advantage of my big dog status, because next year at junior high, I've heard you have to poo standing up or you'll be attacked by ninth graders and given a swirly. I'll  practice this summer."

"No smoke-filled school buses for three months. Hallelujah."

"Let's see what she wrote in my yearbook...she thinks I'm cool (good, I guess), she thinks I'm funny, (good, I guess), and she thinks I'm cute (bingo!). She says I'm not like the other guys who she'd go out with. I'm much more than that; I'm a good friend. (Shit)."

"Wow, I've known those four since kindergarten, those three over there since second grade and him and him and her and him since fourth grade. Unbelievable. Okay, I've got to walk straight or this cap's going to fall off. Oh, my god. There's the music..playing for us this time. Don't cry, you fool. Here we go."

School's out.