Family Way.

Gray.

Gray, gray, gray, gray, gray, gray, and gray. And cold. Cold and gray on the way in to work, cold and gray to and from class, cold and gray at tonight's Greensboro Home Opener. I am wearing two flannel shirts, one atop the other. Fleece hat. Wee dish of Nilla Wafers. Wee whiskey. Home from the cold gray ballgame. They say sun tomorrow. They said that yesterday. And the day before. I am coming to understand with a kind of primal, intense knowing the term 'stationary front.'

I have said many times that I would not lament the gray, the cold, the rain, the mist, the fog, the drizzle. I will not lament those things. But if, friends, the sun should somehow be out, ah, tomorrow, well then, you can bet your bottom dollar that I won't lament that either.

In procreative news, I am now an uncle. Here it is cold and gray. In Bloomington, Indiana, site of the birth of He Who Shall Be He, it is apparently 75 and sunny. Let there be life.

Oh, Horatio. They've given you an old, odd name, and I am a fan of old names: Not enough Victors and Yoricks and Beulahs any more, sez I. But they've given you a tough middle school, to be sure, and tough beginnings of semesters. They've given you playground troubles. Occasional girl (or perhaps boy?) troubles. May you, though, overcome those of us foolish enough to be fans of old names. May you run fast and jump high. May you be a better man than I am. May you stay up late and not question the name of your brother's first child. May you hope for the best against what all else. May you simply be a person able to say: good luck, good luck, good luck, good luck, good luck.