It was good that Norah and I found each other. We were alike in feeling quietly superior to everyone else. We were similar in our early shifting for ourselves. Most of the boys and many of the girls thought we were gay. We weren’t. But what we got from our friendship was more than worth that reputation.

Norah had a twin brother. It was as if she and Keith were two halves of some big thing. He was as stupid and mean as she was intelligent and nice. He was as prone to violent anger as she was to patient wit. He was grossly favored by their alcoholic father, and unfairly indulged by their reticent mother, simply because he was male. It’s no wonder Norah raised herself.

We used to spend the night at her house because her parents were older than mine and less observant. We stole shots of whiskey from her dad and menthol cigarettes from her mother. We disliked both but we agreed that no childhood would be complete without trying them, several times. We were always careful.

On the other hand, we rather enjoyed sneaking out. We would wait for Norah’s parents to retire, which was never later than 10. Sometime between then and midnight we’d slip through Norah’s door to the porch and then wander the roads of her small town, ducking behind bushes when the one patrol car cruised by. We owned those quiet streets then. I remember lying down on the middle of the asphalt sometimes, mouths up to the tree-framed starshine, straining to discover the meaning of life.

Norah and I are still close. The thing is, we did begin to figure it out then, and we’ve each spent the ensuing 45 years walking our separate but equivalent paths by it. I even reproduced, after somewhat scientifically selecting the boyfriend with what seemed to be the best genes. I got a girl and a boy, and I raised them to be awake instead of among. They’re a little bit lonely, because they don’t have many peers. But they know how to think, they live to learn, and they can be embarrassed with grace.

Norah didn’t have babies. By the time she found a suitable man, both of them were too old. She went into pastoral counseling. Her father peeled away from her to an alcoholic death, her mother to a gentle institutionalized dementia, her brother to a succession of angry marriages and disgruntled jobs, while Norah studied and sought ways to wake others.

I keep blabbing the reveille. Writing it in prose and verse, blurting it, murmuring it, tilting with it like Quixote at the windmills.

My daughter asked me recently, “Why is it so important for people to be right?” As we chatted on the subject we realized it might be because of the way we raise kids. Parents lavish the praise on the toddler who gets anything correct: oh, what a genius! will you look at that! I’ll bet this child will grow up to be…

What would it be like if we praised the babies for the process instead of the answer? Imagine a world without endings…

Grownups are so stupid.