There was a message on our answering machine Tuesday from BG. By the way, BG is how I refer to The Boy's father herein. For simplicity. It stands for Big Greg, which was appropriate when The Boy was younger but now it's just silly because The Boy grew so he now towers over all his parents. Especially his dad. But we still call him Big Greg. Habit and such. Plus Old Greg just doesn't roll off the tongue quite the same and doesn't sound very nice.
He wanted to let us know The Boy was in the Virginian-Pilot, a newspaper with circulation in the Hampton Roads-Norfolk-Virginia Beach area. BG's father had seen it and called him. It was something about the dance production he appeared in recently, associated with his summer job. We don't get the Pilot up here in Northern Virginia. I'm going to go to the library and hope they have it. Which they probably do. Meanwhile I combed their on-line edition and couldn't find it. Boo hoo. I need those simple pleasures, don't ya know? And I don't even know what it is. A picture? A sentence? Both? I am pathetic, aren't I?
I'm again confronted with the reality of The Boy being gone. Wendy and I were used to being there for all of his performances and activities. I've got clippings of all newspaper articles and mentions along with every show program and poster. And pictures of course. During his first year in college, we traveled down to see him in a few things and I have mementoes from those. But we didn't get to see him in everything he did. Nor every performance. We had to adjust. It's not all bad, I guess.
But now he's out there in the real world, albeit in a limited way. And I won't necessarily know about every mention made or picture published. It makes me sad but I can't really put into words why.
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