LETTERS FROM HOME: JUST ANOTHER WEEKEND IN 'AMERICAN BEAUTY'-LAND

April 27, 2000

Dear Pat,

I'm concerned that I may be becoming Lester Burnham, the rebellious and doomed protagonist of "American Beauty." I wonder where the guy I used to be went.

For instance: Just last week our auto insurance company sent a refund because we have become people of a certain age. They know what they're talking about. I haven't peeled out in years. I am more inclined to curse a speeder than to speed. I drive a van.

But I have fantasized about Volkswagens. Are crushes on cheerleaders not far behind?

When you're young, nobody tells you what it's going to feel like when you suddenly grow a Mr. on your name and feel out of place in drinking establishments that used to be your home away from home. Not that I'd trade home sweet home for that life again, but you begin to wonder if that was the same person you are now.

Until Easter, the Cincinnati kids and the Neosho nieces hadn't seen each other since our marriage 6 1/2 years ago. Danica, graduating from high school this year, was then the age Carly is now. The realization is another reminder that life demands our constant attention.

Soon, Danica will be married and starting a family, Carly will be going off to college. We'll be receiving invitations to join AARP.

We even went bowling while the families were in town.

The bowling alley staff put up bumpers along the lanes to keep the kids from throwing gutter balls. Carly, Kim and Casey, the pre-teens, bowled on that lane. So did DC, shamelessly.

It is generally understood that most people's primary goal when playing recreational sports is to keep from being embarrassed. What does it mean when the embarrassment of bowling on the children's lane is preferable to the embarrassment of throwing gutter balls?

Meanwhile I have been dreaming about strapping on an electric guitar, one with a whammy bar. Our nephew Kyle begged his parents for one last Christmas. His mother was leery, worried it would take time away from his trumpet practice. Every boy should have an electric guitar, I lobbied.

Guitar in hand, Kyle already is practicing with his first band. They will play their first gig soon knowing four songs.

Kyle can play the melody to Carlos Santana's song "Smooth." I gave him Santana's greatest hits CD so he can learn an even better rock 'n' roll melody -- "Europa." That is the song I play in my rock 'n' roll fantasy, the one where the notes melt into the air and the roof seems to lift off the building.

No, that's not the guy I used to be. That's still the guy I am.

On Easter Sunday we picnicked at one of the county parks. Food was abundant, my favorite kind. The family members who can still run played Wiffle ball.

It is a game I have played since childhood. It trains your batting eye and ruins your pitching arm while giving you false hope you have a Major League curve. At this point, I'm pretty sure I'm never going to make it to the Big Leagues. But Lester Burnham knows it's still fun to go for the downs.

DC is attending an end-of-the-year banquet Saturday at the university where she teaches. She's sort of dreading it because they've told her the faculty receives awards.

What kind of awards? I ask.

Funny ones, she says.

Oh, I say, awards based on your quirks.

"Do I have quirks?" DC asks, serious.

No. We're just middle-aged.

Love, Sam