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There Goes a Young American
The sun sets on my 20s.
A reflexive rejection of what has come before fits uneasily with conservatism, concerned as it is with historical reverence. Indeed, in the 1955 mission statement of National Review (for whose website I am submissions editor), one of William F. Buckley’s main complaints about contemporary America was that, rather than embrace its past, it was “tormented by its tradition of fixed postulates having to do with the meaning of existence, with the relationship of the state to the individual, of the individual to his neighbor, so clearly enunciated in the enabling documents of our Republic.” (Buckley was 29 when he wrote these words.)
When we are children, we delight in running around, making forts out of huge cardboard boxes, and playing hide-and-seek. In ourteen-age years, some of us struggle with puberty and hate the world and prefer to drive a car than ride our bicycles. And then there are all those years when we simply pursue our lives, either investing our time and energy in the routine demands of living and in staying well and healthy—or not.
As a kid I recall adults – my parents, my grandparents, others – every now and then talk and complain about how time flies by or some similar sentiment. When they made these statements and complaints, they weren’t talking about how quickly their workday went by or how rapidly tonight’s dinner party came and went. Instead, the context of these statements generally referred to longer time frames – how quickly the last week or the last month or six months flew by.
