STEVE MARBLE -- Notebook

The afternoon sun hung in the eucalyptus trees as the school’s auto shop

teacher delivered his words of wisdom to the Class of 2000.

“Remember,” he said, “change your oil and your oil filter every 3,000

miles.”

The school choir swelled into full voice on that note and the students --

wearing their caps and gowns and tennis shoes and platform heels and

smiles -- strolled across the campus quad while I pondered the

significance of changing your oil every 3,000 miles.

Baccalaureate is a small drumroll before graduation, a moment for speech

and song. It’s not a requirement and, hence, attendance is spotty. One

assumes that if not for the strong will of many a mom, nobody would

attend this somewhat forgotten rite of passage.

“You are kidding?”

That was my son’s first thought when I broke the good news that he’d be

attending baccalaureate and that, no, board shorts were not the attire of

the day and, yeah, that funky cap with the blue-and-gold tassel would be

sitting neatly atop his head, thank you very much.

“Nobody goes to that.”

I told him that was hard to believe. Nobody?

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I’m going to be, like, the only person

there.”

The road to graduation is a collision of emotions. There’s relief.

There’s pride. There’s melancholy. There’s laughter. There’s tension.

There’s joy.

The cap and gown -- for the moment tossed across a chair in my son’s room

as casually as a pair of jeans -- is a symbol with various meanings. My

wife and I see it as accomplishment. To my son, though, it is the uniform

of freedom, a goofy little outfit you wear as briefly as possible before

you charge headlong into summer and begin the lazy, unspoiled countdown

to college.

Like parents across the country, I can’t believe I’ve reached this point.

I feel old. I feel young. It seems like just yesterday I was sitting in a

tiny plastic chair in his kindergarten class, listening to the teacher

talk about shapes and colors. On the other hand, it’s hard to remember

what life was like before children. It’s been that long.

The reminders of this passage are suddenly everywhere, much of it -- for

whatever reason -- heaped in the garage. The pile of discarded backpacks

(every last one black). An old Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles lunch pail

that has been sitting on a shelf for the better part of a decade. A box

of old papers and art projects that seemed meaningful at the time. A

collection of baseballs signed by Little League teammates. A poster of

the high school football team back when he was on the freshman squad. A

painted blue-and-white bird he made in wood shop in the seventh grade. A

Mother’s Day card he made when he was small, the “D” -- as it will be

forever -- backward.

He graduates tomorrow, and in the fall he goes off to college. And just

like that, our job is done -- except for footing the tuition and

providing some good food and a washing machine when he comes home on

breaks.

I suppose you look for some powerful message at a time like this. But for

the moment, all I hear is the auto shop teacher reminding the Class of

2000 that it is wise to change your oil every 3,000 miles.

Maybe there’s a metaphor in there, a greater meaning, the secret to life,

even. Or maybe it’s just what it is -- a reminder to take care of things.

And at this moment, perhaps that’s all the advice a person might need.

* STEVE MARBLE is the managing editor of Times Community News. He can be

reached at o7 [email protected] .