Seventeen

Strangely, one of the things you miss most during the pandemic is strangers.  Not being able to strike up a conversation with someone you don’t know represents a real loss.  

Consequently, it’s delightful to run into a loquacious new acquaintance on the east, (not west, as I mistakenly described it) side of one of our fair city’s toniest neighborhoods, and hear her complain proudly about her 17 year-old son, all the while holding on to the leash of her dog, Gary, who seemed to enjoy sniffing out a gaggle of aromas new to himself, as well.

Seventeen was something of a watershed year for yours truly: I took my first philosophy class and was wowed by Descartes’ Discourse on Method.  I had my first serious girlfriend which resulted in, sometime in the summer of that year, the loss of my so-called innocence at last.  I started journaling with regularity, a practice that has continued to this day and which, to no small degree, helped set the course of whatever it is one might call my career.  And, of course, I rode a bike—a Raleigh Record, to be precise—all of the city of Pittsburgh, which also, in its own way, has helped define a good chunk of my life, such as it is, to this day, as well.

Come to think of it, many of the best parts of my life today are the same as were back in those halcyon days of 1974; venturing through alleys and tossing beer cans to neighbors, smoking weed and admiring the view, chatting up strangers in city parks, reading and thinking about philosophy, loving one’s loved ones, and, of course, tooling around the city on a bike with friends and by oneself, turning the pedals and seeing what rolls up.

The son of our garrulous new acquaintance probably doesn’t know how good he has it, but if he keeps going through 2066, he’ll have it as good as me.