You see, it’s been a while. Our family nest, empty briefly, has been re-occupied. And the new keeper of the TV remote rarely ventures into the realm of our national networks. Certainly not PBS. And C-SPAN? What’s C-SPAN?

And while you’re at it, could you tell me if you saw what I’m told was a typical Ken Burns masterpiece on PBS recently. I know it had something to do with Franklin Roosevelt. Could you please send me the link?

Let me ask you something: Is Brian Williams still the anchor of the “NBC Nightly News”?

We are an all-ESPN, all-the-time family now. If you want to know about Tom Brady’s soaring passing statistics, or college football’s best running back, or how Bruins’ goalie Tuukka Rask is performing this season, I’m your man.


Truthfully, I’ve seen more of Chris Berman in recent weeks than I have of my own sainted mother.

I can tell you who Jon Stewart had on “The Daily Show” the other night. I am also up to date on something called “Tosh.0” — which, truth be told, is my new guilty pleasure, a Comedy Central show hosted by Daniel Tosh, a hilariously vulgar imp.

When we dropped our oldest kid off at college eight years ago, the dean of students herded us into a large auditorium and talked about a date — four years hence — when graduation would have come and gone. He told the students: “You’ll drive away from commencement with your degree. Your parents will drive away filled with pride. They’ll pull into their driveway. And you’ll keep going — and then pull into your own driveway.’’

For the most part, it’s worked out that way. Our kids got their degrees. They got good jobs. And then moved out. Except for our youngest. He’s back.


There are television ads from time to time that play off this notion of parents feigning sadness as their kid drives off to school. The car barely gets around the corner and then the mom and dad are jumping for joy and measuring the kid’s bedroom for a new den or spiffy home office.

And I have to admit, I did not hate the empty nest for the brief time we had it. But I never completely loved it either. Give me the hubbub. Give me the amoeba-like circle of friends. Give me the drama and the laughter and the sink full of dirty dishes and the overflowing hampers of dirty clothes.

I can deal with it.

Because with it comes this fully formed young adult we worked all our married lives to shape.

The young guy is funny and polite and he’s handy in ways that I’m not. He can fix a leaky faucet, mend a broken door, and brings electronic expertise foreign to some Baby Boomers like me.

And lately, he’s surprising me. I can’t remember the last time he’s fought me for any section of the Globe and, yet, he can carry on a conversation about the mess in the Middle East or the prospects for a Hillary Clinton presidency. That omnipresent, glowing laptop I suspect is his portal to more information than I get each morning from the paper you’re reading and the New York Times.

I hope he stays a while.

Because on some chilly late-season Saturdays I have a ready-made golf partner for the nearby par-3 course designed for duffers like us. And on some Sundays, when the second NFL game is teed up, I’m sitting next to a young guy who knows the defensive formations and the weaknesses of each quarterback. Fantasy football, you know. Sometimes he even asks me to join him for a tall glass of cold beer.


So I can wait quite a while for the nest to empty again. I’m not dying to learn who’s sitting in NBC’s anchor chair. Jon Stewart is filling in and doing just fine.

For now, the household hums again with the rhythm and swagger of youth. And I’m enjoying it, knowing full well how fleeting this all is.

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