Ground Control to Major Jane

Despite frequent bouts of knuckleheadedness, I somehow made it through my teen years without ever being grounded. I even managed to dodge that bullet following the Shameful Shoplifting Incident of 1975, when I was caught, red-handed, with one of those "I Love You This Much" plasticine statues as I headed to the exit doors of Sears. Certainly, it would make sense that a long stretch of grounding would have followed.

Alas, my dad did something much worse.

When I came home that afternoon, shamefaced with ticket in hand, my dad simply continued to read the newspaper, ignoring me entirely.

Perhaps that's why I pursued journalism, having witnessed its immensely distracting powers on that fateful day in 1975.

For most of my life since then, I have sought to be grounded, not so much as punishment but rather as a salve against the wacky world "out there." And, for the most part, I have succeeded in finding and relishing in it.

That is why yesterday--a crisp, blue Saturday with nary an obligation--was so important to me.

Following my heady weekend at Yale, there was nothing spectacular or noteworthy about this Saturday. Just a week ago, I was, without a doubt, the dumbest person in the room,--not to mention the least nattily dressed--surrounded by people whose lives are naturally lived on a grand scale. I suppose there were moments when I found myself wishing I were one of them, making significant contributions to vast swaths of lands and peoples.

But mostly, I kept thinking about how much I missed my family and home.

When I read the obituaries--which I read faithfully every day--I continually am drawn to those in which a small life, well lived, is celebrated. Sure, I might find myself temporarily jealous of that person who was a titan of industry, someone whose accolades eventually require more ink at the press. But, mostly, I am heartened by those who made a wicked lasagna and whose garden fed their contented family and friends, year after year after year.

It's possible that my longing to have a small life well lived is simply my intellectual "uncle," one in which I've given up the golden dreams of Making A Difference on a Grand Scale. If so, well, I've made my peace with that.

I wonder if the desire to be grounded is a Midwestern phenomena. I wonder if small lives well lived are most appreciated where mountains and seashores are figments of one's imagination or exclamation points in once-in-a-lifetime vacations. If so, then I think the Midwest is onto something. Something rich and deep that requires a keen eye to fully appreciate it.

True, there is nothing sexy about being grounded. Then again, I can think of no better way to live a rich life, than with both feet on the ground.