Miles – Page 2 – Jeffrey Griffin

EOG

God…

As you know, todayeth beginneth the End-Of-Gradeth testing for a great many elementary children and teachers in Winston-Salem.

I don’t care.

I do, but I don’t.

Not really.

OK, maybe a little bit. But, not a lot.

An EOG is a how-you-fared-and-what-you-remembered-and-how-accurately-you-clicked-on-the-right-button-on-a-Chromebook-while-not-using-a-mouse moment on one day of your life.

One moment.

One day.

A lifetime.

Do your best and let it rest.

A perfect score won’t guarantee happiness and contentment and corporate adoration.

A poor showing won’t condemn a child to reliance on government subsidies and a lifetime of shoulda-coulda-woulda regret.

Teachers work, every day.

Teachers teach, every day.

Teachers throw seeds, every day.

Let’s have a little perspective.

If you could…

If you would…

I know you’re busy dealing with the whole Israel and Palestine can’t get along thing.

Black folk and white folk fighting the same fight over and over and over again.

Where to send the sharks when sunburned and overweight people invade the oceans this weekend.

How to punish the No Left Turn violators in the carpool line at Vienna Elementary.

You’re busy. I get it.

But… let the children and the teachers not worry about a test.

I’m much more concerned that Sophia brush and floss each night. And morning.

I’m much more concerned that Miles says “please” and “thank you.”

I’m much more concerned that teachers are valued and appreciated.

An EOG should be a school wide celebration of the year-long work that has been Extraordinary, Outstanding and Grrrrrrrrrreat!

No worrying. Spread the word.

And, really, please do something about the sharks.

Amen.

Misty

Much has been on my mind. Much.

Life has been a ginormous-engantic blur since the January 6 Capitol insurrection.

I’ve skipped through days and nights with every notion of putting pen to monitor. “Roads are paved,” or whatever they say about good intentions.

Nothing like treading water in a hurricane.

Valentine’s Day. It happened. I tried. Honestly. It wasn’t spectacular and I felt badly for the poor execution. I pride myself on holidays. Surprises. Adventures. My family deserved better. I was distracted.

It’s been two years. My mama died February 14.

It’s more difficult now than it was then. That’s surprising. Unexpected.

For the most part, I stepped over the sadness and the memories.

Heart-shaped pancakes. Candy. Sparkling grape juice. A visit from our Valentine fairy, Ethel the Love Lady. Heart-shaped pizza. WONDER WOMAN 84 and movie-theatre popcorn. More candy. We rescheduled dinner and settled for the Sunday special at Taco Bell. So much for shrimp cocktails and stuffed chicken breasts with fettuccine.

No flowers. No teddy bears. No jewelry. No balloons. (For the record, I don’t have the battle-tested temperament for the balloon line at Dollar Tree I used to have.)

Vikki and Sophia and Miles didn’t have the day I wanted them to have. Right or wrong, that’s how I felt. Distracted, indeed.

Before Margaret held court in room 150 at North Forsyth or marked handbell music at Maple Springs, she sang.

My mama was a singer. An extraordinary voice.

One night in my youth, I was watching television. A lady was singing. I was kinda-sorta listening in the way only a teenager can fully understand.

“Mama! That lady sounds like you. What’s up with that?”

“Why do you say that?”

I was watching the screen.

“Look, look. See? She does that same thing you do. That Elvis lip-snarl thing at the corner of her mouth. That’s exactly what you do.”

My mama smiled.

It was true. Whenever Margaret sang, really sang, she would throw her head back and the corner of her mouth would curl up a bit. Her hand would cross in front and grasp at what I imagined to be an invisible martini glass or menthol cigarette. I don’t know. Maybe it was a lightning bolt. Whatever it was, it worked.

“That’s Sarah Vaughan. I wanted to sound like her. Do you like her?”

“That woman can sing! I love it.”

Today, I am playing a recording of Sarah Vaughan singing MISTY for my school children.

Valentine’s Day is finished. Maybe.

You are loved.

60 Seconds

If asked, my school children will likely tell you “it costs nothing to be kind” is my go-to phrase. It rolls off the tongue. I treasure the thought. I say it all the time, probably too often for some ears.

Every teacher has a signature phrase. For Olon Shuler, it was “only in America.” For Grey Cartwright, it was a rambling sermon about “this red pen will cut you down faster that any samurai sword ever could.” For my mother, it was “drama is life-life is drama.”

I’ve also been known to utter, “You’ve over-cookin’ my grits, son.”

And, “It’s not rocket surgery.”

And the always mystifying, “You’re treading on thin water.”

But the big one for me? “It costs nothing to be kind.”

Now you know what I believe. Now you know how I aim to live. Kindness. Random acts or intentional moments. Either way, it matters. The world, for all practical purposes, is a small place and I’m a big believer in trying to get along while helping the man next door.

It doesn’t seem like too much to expect. Or ask.

On more than one occasion I’ve asked Sophia and Miles, “would y’all rather be angry for one minute or happy for sixty seconds?” They invariably choose the sixty seconds. Smart children. Perhaps, even, wise.

Imagine my surprise this week when I shared some good news about some kids I know pretty well. I expected the adults in my life to surrender sixty seconds and say “well done. I’m proud of you.” Maybe a pat on the head or an encouraging smile. But that did not happen. The sharing was problematic. The expectation was too much. Sixty seconds was too much to give. Sixty seconds was too much too share. So much for the man next door.

It costs nothing to be kind.

Maybe I’m wrong. It might cost sixty seconds. Maybe.

For some, that was too much to ask.

You reap what you sow, you reap what you sow.

2+2 = Orange

By all accounts, I was a low-maintenance child. Go ahead, ask my mama. I amused myself for hours in the gym or sitting at her desk or playing in Uncle Larry’s room. Lots of invisible friends and an imagination that would not stop.

I recreated scenes from movies and plays, performing each role as if I were before an audience of kings and queens. I imagined a thousand ball games with each dribble and every touchdown. Good times.

Of course, as children can and will, I pondered many things…

How do cows from the mountains walk normally when they are in the barn at the fair? (Because everybody knows mountain cows have two long legs and two short legs.)

Why does God live at the funeral home? (Because Aunt Sally went to live with God and we went to see her at the funeral home. Therefore, God must live at the funeral home.)

And, when they made up words, if somebody had decided that “orange” was a better number than “four,” then today, 2+2 might not equal “four” but, instead, “orange.”

Just sayin’. My mother never dealt with the orange question. I should ask again.

I thought about a lot of things. I still think about a lot of things.

My children ask an incredible amount of questions. There are moments when I feel like Sophia and Miles are more closely related to Albert Einstein than their mother or their father. Sometimes, my patience grows thin.

They ponder many things, those two. And I try to remember the enormous patience found in my mother and my Uncle Larry and the many souls that crossed my path.

By all accounts, they are low-maintenance children. Go ahead, ask their mama.

I’m preparing for the orange question. Good times.

Away

Spring and summer have rolled into one gigantic boulder (think “Raiders Of the Lost Ark”) smashing almost every family adventure planned in the dark and cold of winter.

I’m disappointed.

The Ark Encounter in Kentucky. The Louisville Slugger factory. Waverly Hills Sanatorium. Churchill Downs.

Washington. U.S. Capital. The White House and the Pentagon. Mount Vernon. The Smithsonian. National Cathedral.

Chicago. Navy Pier. Millennium Park. Art Institute Of Chicago.

Williamsburg. Jamestown. Monticello.

Back home… The NASCAR Museum. The Downton Abbey exhibition at Biltmore. The day trips and local adventures.

All gone. With good reason, but… gone.

The pool is nice, but how many days can you spend in the water? I’m tired of cooking. I’m over virtual everything. We slept through THE MUPPETS at the drive-in movie.

Waiting and more waiting. College athletics. School as a teacher. School as a parent. We haven’t been to church in months.

My wife is a flight attendant. The airline industry is about as unstable as anything can be.

Our family handles everything better than I do. I worry. I’m frustrated. I’m irritated. They carry on.

There is also much for which we are thankful. Our house is a home. We’re able to go to work. The dinner table is not empty.

The goodness of life and the evanescent uncertainty of trials and tribulations are not lost in the heat and humidity of summer.

We spent last week at the beach. Yes, the beaches are open.

We go to the beach. Neon lights nowhere in sight. The beach. At least fifty yards between us and the next family. The beach. Sea shells. The beach. No life guards. The beach. Dolphins frolicking not too far from the shore. The beach. Sand castles.

A beach where everybody behaves. As best anybody can tell, it is life as normal, except we wore face masks at the grocery store. No big deal.

My heart and mind needed the time away from not being able to get away.

I believe the beach is a magical place. I have no desire to live at the beach. I don’t want the constant responsibility of home maintenance between waves of sun, sand and surf. I like my stuff and I shudder at the notion of our treasures sitting at the bottom of the ocean should a hurricane wash everything away. I cherish the visit, but I’m always ready to come home.

Our children believe in magic. They believe in fairies. They willingly commit to the notions that others label as impossible and unreasonable and outlandish.

They believe in the power of the unseen. God. Wind. Santa Claus.

We find four-leaf clovers. We watch shooting stars. Sophia and Miles believe.

Most years, we find more than our share of sea shells. At low tide, Sophia was exploring a sand bar and discovered a beautiful conch shell. Normally, all the shells we gather belong to the family. I told Sophia, “You found it. It’s yours. I think you should keep it in your room.” She was delighted.

I could tell Miles was disappointed. “I thought all the shells we find belong to the family…”

“Well, normally that’s right. But, Sophia found it by herself and I think it’s only fair if she keeps it in her room.”

Lord, how I hoped Miles would find a conch shell. I got up early and walked the beach. Lots of beautifulness, but no conch shells.

The last day. Sophia was riding waves. Vikki and I were playing in the sand. Miles was practicing his cornhole toss.

I could feel the footsteps behind us.

“Daddy! Did you put this under my chair?”

I didn’t flinch. “What, Miles? I didn’t put anything under your chair.”

He splashed between us and demanded to know. “Well, I was playing cornhole and I went to sit down. This was sitting under my chair. It wasn’t there before. Did you do it?”

A conch shell. Smaller than what Sophia found, but a conch shell.

“Miles! I knew you would find one. You can’t give up. You have to believe.”

He splashed out to Sophia to share the discovery with his sister.

Vikki looked at me. “Alright, how did you get that under his chair without him knowing?”

“I didn’t.”

It’s true. I had nothing to do with that conch shell. The beach is a magical place. Believe.

The moment was more than anything we could have found in Kentucky or Washington or Chicago or Virginia.

The goodness of life is ever-present. Especially in the unseen. Believe.

Not My Child

This is not anything I wanted to write. Ever.

I like Facebook. It’s fun, but my life doesn’t revolve around anybody’s social media updates. A lot of things scroll by on my timeline. Cute. Funny. Sweet. Wholesome. Occasionally, and mildly, inappropriate. A great many things, I dismiss.

Last week. I got a friend request from Raegen Sieck.

Here’s the deal about Facebook friends… I seldom decline. If we have lots of mutual friends, I accept. If not, I look at the profile. Advertisements for high-tech sunglasses and seductive photographs of scantily-clad women are bell ringers. Nope. No thanks. Decline. Decline. Decline.

Vikki Griffin is more selective. She researches every friend request before making a decision. Thus, she has fewer than 300 and I am well over 4,000.

Emily Ruebel, and several more from the Vienna Elementary family, were mutual friends on Raegen Sieck’s Facebook profile. Fine. Great. Wonderful. Accept.

It was time for supper. There are no electronics at the Griffin dinner table. I didn’t give another thought to my newest online friends.

Later that night, I started reading. Raegen Sieck’s posts were surreal.

The Sieck’s oldest child is Lucy, a kindergartner at Vienna. Hold on, Lucy is now a first-grader at Vienna.

Lucy has been diagnosed with an inoperable and incurable brain tumor.

What. The. Hell. Really?

Come on, God. Now, I’m just pissed. A little kid?

The community held a parade. I didn’t tell Sophia and Miles because I’m weak. I can’t wrap my head around trying to explain the situation to our completely healthy son and daughter.

People are buying Lucy Love t-shirts. I’m not. They’re not available in my size.

The Sieck family is off to somewhere for a clinical trial that might save Lucy’s life.

In the midst of everything happening in the world, I have not been able to find a way to tell Sophia and Miles.

I’m overcome with thoughts of a child I have never met while I argue with Sophia about the importance folding laundry.

Miles got a new pair of shoes. The very next day, he came home with muddy shoes. Covered. I couldn’t say much because I was so happy our boy was outside playing instead of dealing with a brain tumor.

For the last week, almost every thought has been prefaced with a singular notion, “not my child.”

I cannot imagine. Just like every other parent in the history of ever, “not my child. Please. Anything but this. I’ll trade places.”

God, I’m sorry for getting angry. I know you’re busy. Murder. Riots. The virus. Storms of every kind.

If you would take a moment and heal Lucy Sieck, that would be great. You like miracles. Now would be an excellent time to remind the world. Just saying.

She’s not my child, but she is somebody’s child.

“Jesus replied, ‘Why do you say, if you can? Anything is possible for someone who has faith!’” – Mark 9:23

George Floyd

Never in my life did I say to my mother, “I’m gonna go play with my black friends.” Or white friends. Or red friends. Or yellow friends. They were my friends. That’s all. Friends.

We were visiting my grandmother in Thomasville. Belk. Downtown T-Ville. I was a child. Something was happening outside. A crowd was beginning to gather.

My mother took me by the hand and we ventured out to the sidewalk. The KKK was marching and handing out flyers. White robes and flags and everything. I sensed it was not the same kind of moment I experienced while waiting for Santa Claus to pass during the Thomasville Christmas parade.

My mother was angry. She stepped off the sidewalk and claimed a position in the middle of East Main Street. I heard my grandmother.

“Margaret, don’t.”

The people in the white robes walked on either side of my mama. She called for me.

“Jeffrey, come here.”

I went. An exceptionally large man in a robe and hood stopped smack dab in front of us. He glared at my mother.

“Lady, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of the way.”

I squeezed my mama’s hand a little bit tighter. Margaret Griffin was six feet, one and a half inches tall. She took a deep breath and grew to at least ten feet tall. She looked down at the exceptionally large man.

“Nope. I want my son to get a close look at what stupid looks like.”

They stood toe-to-toe and face-to-face for what seemed like an hour. I vaguely recall hearing my grandmother on the sidewalk.

“Margaret, please come back.”

We didn’t move for a good, long while. The man finally walked around us. We went home.

I heard something about George somebody and police brutality. In all honesty, I was hoping it would turn out to be the story of a drugged-out bad guy fighting with police and one of the boys in blue had no choice but to use deadly force. Those things happen. It’s sad for everybody, but, at least, understandable.”

I read lots of news stories. I watched the mayor’s statement. I saw the rising wave of discontent on social media. I found the video and I watched it by myself.

I don’t ignore the role of race and the impact of racism in our living room nor my classroom. I talk about it all the time.

Many young black men have sat in my classroom. They are my students. I speak to them as adults, but I worry about them like they are my children. The teaching and the preaching never stop.

“You matter. Your opinions have value. You have a voice in the conversation. There are some wonderful teachers. There are some terrible teachers. You know it and I know it. We’ve all been in both kinds of classes. Some doctors are brilliant. Some doctors are cold and stupid. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. Lots of police officers risk their lives everyday. To help people like you. There are also some policeman who hate you because you don’t look like them. I wish I could tell you I’m making this up, but you know I’m not. This is our world. My life experience is not your life experience. A 50 year-old white man cannot possibly understand the comings and goings of a 17 year-old black teenager. That’s a two-way street, for those of you paying attention.

But, know this. You are one of my children. We can disagree. We can argue. Sometimes I’ll be right and sometimes you’ll be right. Above everything else, you are loved. And if that’s the only thing you learn this year, it’s been a good year. I want you to do more and I expect you to do more. You are loved. Are there any questions?”

It’s normally pretty quiet the rest of the day.

So, I watched the final moments of George Floyd. The man was in custody, the resistance long over. I don’t know what else to call it, except murder. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a mistake.

Call it what it is. Don’t defend the indefensible. Don’t ordain evil. Call for justice. Demand action.

Setting fire to police stations and looting department stores solves nothing. Those are the actions of criminals.

Plant your feet in the middle of East Main Street and get a good look at what stupid looks like. Actually, we’re way past stupid. Get a good look at what mean looks like. Or evil. Whatever word lights the flame in your heart.

Be heard. Make a difference.

Miles is playing with friends on the back porch this morning. Four boys. Two white. One black. One Hispanic. They’re all on their knees. Racing and crashing Matchbox cars.

Friends. That’s all.

Memorial Day

Today, our nation observes Memorial Day. It’s not Veteran’s Day. Memorial Day. There’s a distinction.

I want Sophia and Miles to recognize that today is more than “the official start of summer.” I’ve heard that phrase enough times in the last 24 hours to make me throw up. Enough.

Pools are opening. Fine. Great. Wonderful. We’re going to the pool this afternoon.

Massive sales at all the car dealerships. Shocking news. Shocking.

Furniture stores are offering no interest for 60 months. Nothing commemorates death in combat like a new love seat.

The world is ready for a party. I’m not sure that’s the most appropriate way to proceed. I’m in a somber mood.

Veteran’s Day should be a gigantic pep rally. Parades. Fireworks. Concerts. It’s a celebration for the living.

This Memorial Day, and every Memorial Day, shouldn’t we pause to honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice?

“The greatest way to show love for friends is to die for them.” – John 15:13

I was up early today. Vikki was not far behind. Sophia and Miles, always ready for the next adventure, got up without any moaning or groaning.

We headed for the Carolina Field Of Honor in Kernersville.

We paused before each monument honoring the five branches of service. The children read the inscriptions at the base of the flag poles out loud. We rubbed our hands over the shred of steel pulled from the rubble of the September 11^th terrorist attacks.

We got their attention.

“This is not about your grandfather Dave. This is not about your grandfather Richard. This is not about your Uncle David. Your grandfathers were in the Coast Guard and the Army. Your uncle served in the Air Force. This is not about them.

This day is about the men and women who died so you can be free to live your life. Do you understand?”

The ride home was relatively quiet.

Miles headed outside with his Spiderman glove, cowboy hat and cap gun. He stopped at the door and looked back.

“Daddy, do you think I’d be a good soldier?”

“Yes. I hope you don’t have too, but, yes.”

30 Years Late – Part 4 of 4

The headache subsided. Finally. I tried to get on with life.

I got a job at the hospital in Lexington. It was not anything complicated. They let me read love poems on the intercom on Valentine’s Day.

John Cashion was the President of the hospital. He eventually landed in a bit of trouble with the powers-that-be, but he was always kind to me. I ventured into his office one day during lunch and he invited me to return for more conversation. He was always encouraging.

“Jeffrey, go back to school. You could go for business or leadership or health care administration. You would do well.”

Nice words, but I was done with school.

Mike Fenley hired me to work at WSJS radio. He, too, was invariably kind. And patient. He never pushed me to finish school, but I always felt a sense of obligation to do so. I didn’t want to disappoint anymore people.

Vikki and I got married. She went to travel school and earned her certification. My wife is licensed by the Federal Aviation Administration. She has a career. Vikki is a grownup. She finished.

Vikki was flying every week. Sophia and Miles were not on the scene. I was bored. I took a few classes at High Point University. American History Parts I and II as well as a course with a professor that did not speak English. “Jesus and the Gospels.” It was entertaining, but I didn’t learn much I didn’t already know.

It seemed like everybody I knew had long been done with the collegiate experience. They had jobs and families and houses and life insurance policies.

I had an Ebay account and a choir robe at church.

I read the scores to ball games and introduced players.

Vikki and I talked. We decided I should take some online classes at Forsyth Tech. That was charming. And disappointing.

Gathering transcripts. Taking placement tests with kids 25 years younger than me. Discussing my life plan with an admissions counselor that was incapable, or unwilling, to make eye contact.

I had to register face-to-face for my first session of online classes. I asked if there was any possibility of receiving course credit for professional experience.

“What course did you have in mind?”

“Well… Public Speaking 101 comes to mind.”

“Oh no, we couldn’t do that. Besides, that teacher is very good. He can teach you how to prepare to speak in front of large groups.”

“Okey dokey. I was wondering, that’s all.”

“You don’t understand… he has spoken in front of more than a thousand people. You will learn a lot.”

I felt Vikki’s hand on my arm.

I smiled and tried to end the conversation. “I understand. Thank you.”

“You couldn’t possibly understand. Public speaking is difficult, but there is no reason to be nervous. He’ll teach you how to do it.”

“You’ve made that clear. Are we going to register for the class or would you prefer to read my resume?”

Vikki paid the tuition and I wandered outside. I wanted to quit before the first class began. I called Emmett. We’re friends. Emmett threatened me. So, I logged in and went to class.

I’ve watched hundreds of kids leave my classroom and come home a few years later with a degree in hand. I’m happy for them. Really. It also stings. They have done what I never did.

I confess. It’s indescribably disappointing to inquire about an opportunity teaching music or drama and hear, “You’re not qualified. You have no experience. You have no degree. Absolutely not.” It’s especially hurtful when the person on the other side of the desk, or the other end of the telephone, simply isn’t aware. They’re checking the boxes on a form. They don’t care.

I cry easily.

“Jeffrey, don’t take it personally.”

Really? How should I take it? What’s more important, the piece of paper or the talent and the commitment?

It’s not particularly easy to kowtow and fetch for a boss that is young enough to be my child and earning five times the yearly salary on my W-2.

I find a lot of jobs for which I can’t apply. It happens time and time again. The website scans my resume and that’s all there is to that. No degree, no apply.

It’s hard. The responsibility is mine. I fully and completely, without any excuses, accept the consequences of my actions.

The Teaching Fellows. I failed my mama. And North Forsyth. And Dr. Brown.

Mars Hill. I failed Phil Stroud. And Bobbi Jean Harrill.

School Of the Arts. I failed Bill Beck. And Chris Ralph. And Leslie Cobb.

More than anything… I never ever wanted to embarrass Vikki or Sophia or Miles.

Or disappoint John and Mike and Emmett.

Or offer excuses to people who make the world a better place, like Susi and Beau and Donald and Oliver and Jamie.

Everybody else did it and I couldn’t even tag along for the ride. I did not, or could not, finish what I began. What a terrible example for our children. All the friends and all the teachers and all the believers in the world can’t help you if you don’t try to help yourself.

I’ve learned at least that much. It’s not too late to try to do the right thing.

Get up early. Stay up late. Do what needs to be done. It’s taken a couple years.

Miles, Sophia, Vikki and I got in the car Monday evening and drove to Forsyth Tech for the drive-through graduation.

It was neat and rainy and everybody was shrouded in masks. The people were nice. We didn’t get out of the car.

It was bittersweet. I’m not done, but it’s a start.

Jeffrey Griffin. Associate in Arts. With Honors.

Funny, I don’t feel particularly honorable. I feel late. 30 years late.

Our Gang

I was not an outside kid. I did not spend a lot of time traipsing through the woods. That doesn’t mean I was vitamin D deficient. I ventured into the sunlight.

I loved football and the occasional trip to the playground. Nannie and I played two-person baseball in her backyard. I won countless championships with nine ghost players beneath the basketball goal in the parking lot at Maple Springs UMC. Mama and I were always welcome at Uncle Larry’s pool.

I did not live in front of the television. Pac Man was not the dictator of my free time.

Don’t feel badly. My childhood wasn’t lacking.

For the most part, I was on stage. Practice. Rehearsal. Repeat. I’m not sorry. I learned a LOT.

I prefer the inside. Folks unfamiliar with theatre, music and dance may not understand.

We weren’t huddled in a corner with a Ouija board. We weren’t lighting candles and smoking cigarettes.

It was a good thing.

I said all that to say this…

I’m not a huge fan of the outdoors. It’s hot. (Unless it’s cloudy and snowing, it’s hot.) Bugs and critters. Hiking. I don’t want to eat outside. Picnics are not romantic. I know nothing about camping, except the possibility of getting eaten by a bear is exponentially higher than it is if you stay inside.

Here and now. The virus. Shelter in place. I can deal with this. It’s not so easy for Sophia and Miles.

Our children are outside people.

Bicycles. Basketball. Soccer. Runs. Hikes. Exploring the woods. All that stuff.

I do not want our children to do-over my childhood experience. They cannot live my life, nor Vikki’s life, again.

Sophia has to live her life. Find her own passion. Discover her gifts. Make friends. Create memories.

Miles has to live his life. Find his own passion. Discover his gifts. Make friends. Create memories.

Well… our bouncing baby boy and girl are forging friendships in the neighborhood. Good for them. We’re delighted.

In the midst of these unprecedented times, good things are happening.

Families are cooking and eating together. We’re learning how to play board games we didn’t have the time to play before. People are using athletic equipment that’s been sitting in the garage far too long.

Sophia and Miles are out of the house for hours.

Last night, during our nightly walk around the neighborhood, I watched “the gang.”

There are seven. It’s kinda like the United Nations. Diversity at its finest.

Four boys. Three girls. Two Hispanic, two African-American and three Caucasian kids. Four houses.

Bicycles. Scooters. Easy-Rollers. Hoverboards. Roller blades. Roller skates. A unicycle.

Age-wise, they’re all within a few years of each other. They look after one another. They exchanged Easter cookies and cupcakes.

They are moments of “The Boys vs. The Girls,” but there is no finger pointing. There is no “We vs. Them.”

A trampoline in one yard. A primitive club house in another. A soccer goal and a basketball goal. Sidewalk chalk. They share walkie-talkies.

We don’t remind them to stay apart. They monitor themselves. They play in cycles. When two retreat for lunch, the others shift to a different location and the adventures continue.

Everything is outside. No video games. Imagination and freedom and respect and responsibility.

It’s the kind of behavior for which all parents hope and pray.

I wish the adults in the world would follow their example.

It’s not hard.

Our kids are in a gang. Our gang. And we couldn’t be prouder.