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A FATHER'S CONFESSION (I LOVE MY SON):
I was 4 hours and 48 minutes late. If only Jonas knew what I'd endured for him. Heavy (!) traffic in the Sepulveda tunnel that caused me to miss my Raleigh Durham flight (along with it's hyper-cheap rental-car rate). The self-satisfied "customer 'service'" agent ironically named Ulysseus, the Latinized version of Odysseus. But THIS epic heroes idea of adventure involved not moving at all but rather revelling in standing still while lecturing me that he'd once gone on vacation and checked in ten whole HOURS before departure, online. He went on with his terse story a bit (the clock rolling onward all the while), admonished me with a few challenging postures ("you got sumthin to say?") without any apparent awareness that his only job was exactly his greatest displeasure: being kind to the very people who either pay his paycheck or support him as teammates/colleagues). long prom dresses 2019
Long story short, 12 hours later and an entire continent away from that man named after a wandering hero who himself disdains to lift a finger let alone move at all, I found myself starting a rental car at Regan Airport with 1.5 hours to beat a 3-hour trip. And Jonas still foesn't know that that drive took four hours because of an intense thunderstorm, a main-highway closure and a petty tension between myself and the Swedish-language, female "maps" narrator.
See what I mean? Jonas knew none of this as I finally pulled into Colonial Williamsburg in the thick of dusk. Everything slowed down as I drove into this exquisite gas-lamped nirvana of red clay bricks, classically styled into elegant structures set in immaculate gardens.
I got out of my car, unsure where to go. I saw groups of elegantly-clad college student in semi-formal dresses and men's wear-jackets and ties.
I walked up a beautifully colonial road toward a well-lit classical structure that may have been Thomas Jefferson's hall for all I could tell.
As I walked up the bricks toward the building, four imposing figures walked towaed me from a distance. These were not high school students so not inJonas' group, but they made me sigh in any case. Each one dressed in paradigmatically preppy style, light khakis, oxford shirts and confident (even arrogant?) energy in their steps. These were the types who stole Molly Ringwald from Ducky. Who stole Jodi Baca from me. They seemed so joyful and self-contained in a way healthy (vs. the stupid Odysseus of the LAX night shift). And they neared... and oneof them was... MY JONAS. Looking like a million bucks. Like he was in his element. Like he was lucky to be here and he knew it (this is the difference between our airport Ulysses and the real, epical hero).
Summing it all up,'I've written thison my phone, I've written this quickly, and I've written this simoly to remember the joy of my father's heart upon seeing my son---who found this place and this program entirely on his own---utterly and victoriously in his element. And honorably, passionately so. My heart is bursting with joy and happiness right now, for my son has found a place and a thing all his own. He's in love with his work. And that is the most beautiful thing of all.
(p.s. I am fully aware that the above contains misspellings and other infelicities but I've written this on my phone while waiting to pick him up in the morning so... SO WHAT!)