Movin' On

"Knock it off," whispered E.'s wife.

"What?" E. whispered back.

"You and Snag are giving the finger to a fifth grader. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"It's A.'s kid. He thinks it's funny."

"Everybody's watching."

"There wouldn't be much point otherwise," I said, quietly.

"Leave her alone," my Lovely Bride hissed. "She just had surgery."

"I wish I had pain medication," I mused.

"You're going to need it when we get home," the Lovely Bride added before turning her attention back to the stage where our kids were parading back and forth accepting awards.

I was back from my fishing trip, a dozen walleye and twice as many beers happier than before I left. Home just in time for the fifth grade awards ceremony. The last hurrah before the kids leave for middle school.

Somehow my youngest fell in with a good group of kids a few years ago. They probably felt sorry for him. Anyway, now he and his friends were collecting the rewards of years of grueling effort, a real sweat shop to hear them tell it.

Certificates for Academic Achievement. Physical fitness. School Safety Patrol. Perfect Attendance. An award named after a deceased teacher remembered for his kindness. Another named after a deceased teacher remembered for her love of sports and music.

E. and I made faces at them as they crossed the stage, his wife yelled at us, and the kids giggled. Finally the whole class sang "What A Wonderful World," the parents wiped away a few tears, and we congregated by the cookies.

"Nice," I told T.'s son. He'd won a bunch of awards. He played baseball and basketball with my kid. His dad and I coached their soccer team for a few years.

"Way to go," E. told M.'s daughter. She'd won a bunch of awards. She played baseball with my kid. E. and her dad coached together for a few years.

"Well done," H. told E.'s kid. He'd won a bunch of awards. He played baseball with my kid. E.'s dad coached him in baseball for a couple years.

"Great job," everyone told A.'s kid. He played baseball and basketball and soccer with my kid. We've all coached him in something at some point.

"Way to go," O. told my kid. Inexplicably, he'd won a bunch of awards too. He'd played baseball and basketball and soccer with O.'s kid and half the kids in the class. I'd coached almost as many in one thing or another.

Other kids came by, children of our friends or friends of our children, or both. We congratulated them and took their pictures and shook their hands. They milled around for a little while, in the school they'd never look at again in the same way. The school we'd never look at again in the same way. The parents wiped away a few more tears and we hugged each other, even though we'd be seeing each other again that evening or this weekend.

That night E. sent me a text message. "A good day."

"Yes it was," I replied.