Strawberry fields. Forever?

Last night in our home, it rained testosterone. And look what sprung up all over the floor this morning: boys. Big boys. Where did they come from? Where did they go? No, I’m not singing The Cotton Eyed Joe, here. The littler versions of the same boys, I mean.

You see, it was not so very long ago that this same group of boys, now with a couple of more recent additions, was running around our house and our yard playing with the dog and their Nerf guns. Now they are “in the arena”, playing big boy basketball while others watch, flirting with girls, and giving chase to the neighborhood after dark, but still on foot, thankfully.

Let me take you down,
‘Cause I’m going to Strawberry Fields
Nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
Strawberry Fields forever

These lyrics were made famous long ago by another group of boys, become men, known then as The Beatles. While their song is widely believed to have dealt with drugs, not so this go round, which is one of my points.

You see, speaking of strawberry fields, our eldest, a girl, once upon a time loved to pic wild strawberrys with her Pa-pa at his farm. One day we went to visit when they were no longer in season, and I heard her tiny little voice utter “they gone; they were mine”.

But, sadly, and not, they never really were hers. They grew but for a season. They same is true for our eldest, the boys to men still asleep at this mid morning moment on floors all over my house, and our youngest, doing the same from the sanctity of her bedroom.

I had a conversation with some co-workers at Old Alma Mater earlier this week about different groups of young men, and how our society does not have some of the adventure filled defined rites of passage for males that others do, and so our young men often gather and manufacture a few such memories on their own. In the end, our role may very well be to play “Marshall” and keep them from getting into trouble along the way, while allowing varying degrees of adventure and independence as they experience male bonding and learn to make their way in a bigger world, and in allowing just such in a more controlled environ, avoiding the lure of the delusions of The Beatles, and more.

But, be not deceived, the Marshall, and his Frau, made sure to lock up the Magnificent 7 before the night grew cold, and no gun play (or cigarettes, or even toilet paper) were involved, even gun play of the Nerf variety. 😦

Yes, it rained testosterone in our home last night, and I’m watching the growing by-product pop up even as we speak. 🙂

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