Matriculation

Matriculation. It’s not a word you hear everyday, unless you were my father’s son. My dad has a love for words that few will ever embrace and even fewer will understand. He tries to avoid the ubiquitous and instead uses words that convey a precise meaning, even though no one is really sure what that meaning is because of his atypical word choice.

Matriculation was one of his favorites as we were growing up. Technically the word is defined as the act of enrolling in a college or university, however, my dad often used the word to mean that we were enrolling in the next grade level. When we were younger he would celebrate the close of each academic year by getting me and my brothers a matriculation gift.

The first such gift we ever received was a small blue tent. Perhaps small is not the right word. Miniscule - now that’s a word that would make Dad proud. How the three of us ever fit inside that thing is a mystery to me to this day.

Over the years, matriculation gifts became a sort of summer kick off routine. The next year he got us an inflatable three-man raft. Another time he took us to one of those hole-in-the-wall mall shops that sold framed posters. I picked out the Porsche 911 posed in front of a purple sunset.

When I graduated from eighth grade (or matriculated to ninth) my parents made a deal with me. If I could pull off straight A’s they would buy me a new mountain bike. I almost had it. One lonely B blocked that plan. Even though I hadn’t met my goal, my dad agreed to pay for half the bike. I worked around the house for the first few months of that summer to earn my half of the money and finally bought the bike just before our annual camping trip.

Since it was 1990, and colors were meant to be bright, I adorned the bike’s black frame with fluorescent green accessories. By the time I was done, it was a real looker. That bike was with me all through high school and most of college. I say most of college, because shortly after I got married during my senior year, my bike was stolen.

Fortunately, I was just about ready to matriculate out of college (which is a misuse of the word, but it serves my purpose, so deal with it). That meant that I was ready for another gift. What could be better than a new bike? I must have had straight A’s that year, because this time Mom and Dad didn’t make me pay for half. With input (but no money) from my new wife, they presented me with a brand new bike on graduation day. It was an even nicer bike than the first and it served me well for the first ten years of marriage.

Last night, it ended. The ten years of fun with the bike, that is, not the marriage. One small mistake and my second bike was gone. I must have forgotten to push the button on the garage door opener when I got home because the door was wide open when I woke up this morning. It was a crime of opportunity, a temptation too great to resist. I wasn’t angry when I realized what had happened. I think I was more sad. Sad not only for the loss of a gift, but sad that people like that live in this world. Sad that I had to teach my kids about burglary at such a young age. Sad that my home wasn’t the safe haven it had once been.

As with every dark event in life, there is a bright side. For me that bright side lies deep within my family’s understanding of the word, “matriculation.” You see, I just finished graduate school. So, Mom and Dad, if you are reading this...