Bliss

The problem with growing up is it tends to dull the imagination. The once boundless mind is progressively netted and tethered to our best guess at reality. The giant, gray realm of what may possibly be so is slowly divided into the blacks and whites of what is and what isn't. There are no super powers it turns out. No heroes, no magic, no mystery, no unexplored realms to explore or things to be discovered. The Tooth Fairy dies fairly early. The Easter Bunny becomes a silly notion not too long after. Santa survives for a whole but one day too becomes an embarrassing figure you used to believe in. And even science, the last frontier, starts to slowly plod along at a plainly predictable rate. In such a world it is perhaps remarkable the imagination survives at all, but it does in part, I think, thanks to nature's little miracles. And in this case: the firefly.

I'd admittedly almost forgotten they exist. I had gotten so used to the various stinging and poking bugs of South Texas and the unfortunate fruit fly holocaust I had to visit upon my own apartment, that my recollection of summers in the Ozarks began to fade. My move to New Hampshire, however, has thankfully brought all the memories back -- and with half the humidity. There's something magical about seeing the brief flicker of lightening floating lightly in the trees. Although they're often too small and few in number to be all that much to really, truly look at their mere presence pulls the dusty drape off the imagination switch in our brains and briefly makes one's mind young again. Free to dream about whatever it is you please to dream about. Tempered a bit by reality yes, but the passive day dream confined to times of listless boredom is replaced by the active, excited dream fashioned from one's own active imagination. The world, for a moment, doesn't seem so old any more. All because of a simple bug with a glowing green bottom. For these guys alone I gotta say New Hampshire's pretty great.

Between the fireflies, black bears running wild, deep green mountain forests, and small colonial towns I am beginning to believe maybe I have entered some realm of Old World make believe. What's next? A mossy glen full of hatted gnomes? Routine travel by hot air balloon and gyrocopter?










Oh snap, they're already doing it! Here's to hoping for a dark haired gypsy maiden. Or at the very least a not unpleasant looking divorcee with a friendly disposition.

One Million Tiny Fireworks

Developmentally it's been said we doctors are a little slow. Life's milestones are delayed. We marry later, start families later, buy houses later, and start wearing our pants above our belly buttons all a little bit later. The continuous cycling of school and training, long work hours, and general social isolation all serve to make us a little retarded maturationally* speaking. Thus whereas most thirty year olds are living upstanding lives as industrious citizens by generally shirking all responsibility we are avoiding responsibility altogether by garnering ever greater levels of debt and inflated senses of self-worth. I have just gotten through my teenage years myself, thank you very much, and am confident that hanging out late all night in college is totally going to rule.**

Physically, however, the opposite is true. We old. Nothing brings about an early bed time better than incessant call. Our backs are stooped, we have no idea what day it is, and sometimes I find myself gumming my food even though I know I still have a full complement of teeth. This is never more evident than on New Year's Eve every December. Last year we spent a subdued evening watching the ball drop in New York at 11:00 followed by bed, and this year we spent a subdued evening watching the ball drop in New York at 11:00 followed by bed. We even had a mashed desert (banana custard and Nilla wafers) and a lively game of Bananagrams. Paul fell asleep on the couch at like 09:30 and the Yorkies refused to wear their party hats. Sometimes I don't know what to make of all this medicine business. Thankfully in a few years all I will remember is how young Ryan Seacrest used to look. Unfortunately I'll probably also forget my complete domination of Bananagrams.


Rapidly advancing senility aside, the real reason I want to write? Fireworks. Given the opportunity to return to my apartment at 11:30 I was once again able to witness the cities fireworks from the comfort of my dorm room. Although the video is unfortunately not entirely clear -- or steady, damn you Parkinson's -- there was exploding color and fire from horizon to horizon. Near 180 degrees of my own personal fireworks sampler.

Happy New Years to all my family and friends at the VFW!

*Yes, this is a word. No, don't look it up.

**Totally.