Time flies. I was thinking about my son's graduation ceremony the other day. He

and his classmates gathered in front of family for a solemn procession, wearing the traditional caps worn by graduates for decades.

Well, almost. The caps they wore were made from brightly colored construction paper, perched precariously on their heads, as they made their way to the stage to receive their kindergarten diplomas. That was eighteen years ago.

Last week, we gathered once again. This time hundreds of people assembled to watch another group of graduates that included my son. Wearing the official cap and gown of his university, he completed another phase of his education.

Brad graduated with honors in English. His thesis was about the Shakespearean characters who interact with the audiences during the plays. It's a topic that has brought him to the point where he is ready to take on life in the sixteenth century.

There are those who don't think much of an arts degree in English. It's been said that one of the important lessons that English majors must learn is to say, "Do you want fries with that?" I suppose if you stop there that may be true. Brad will return to school in the fall in the Faculty of Education to become a teacher.

As I watched the proceedings, I thought back on a number of the educational highlights that had brought Brad to this point in his life. A couple that I wrote about at the time bear repeating.

This son showed us early on that he had the ability to write stories that would be memorable to all read them. When he was in the sixth grade, he wrote a story about aliens attacking the Earth. I doubt that his teacher will ever forget hat story. I know I won't.

Brad wrote the story on the computer in my office. He availed himself of the feature that checked the spelling, before printing it and turning it in to his teacher. I learned then that it would probably be a good idea to proofread anything he wrote on the computer.

Diane and I were called in to the school by a very distressed teacher, who was offended by the language he had used in that particular story. She had a copy for each of us to read with the offending words circled in bright pink highlighting ink.

She didn't appreciate it, when I read his story and proudly proclaimed, "That's my boy!"

He wanted to say that the aliens were attacking earthlings with their eight-foot long tentacles. Unfortunately, he allowed the computer program to correct his spelling in such a way that they were using another anatomical feature to beat the defenseless residents of our home planet into submission. To this day I can't get the image of those aliens and their eight-foot testicles out of my mind.

I'll bet that teacher can't either.

Brad was also the one who was willing to try new experiences in the quest for education. He once tricked me into thinking I was taking him to an introductory driving lesson shortly after his sixteenth birthday. Instead of steering a Chevrolet, he had made the arrangements to steer a Cessna in an introductory flying lesson. I was none the wiser until we arrived at the flight school. I was just afraid I would have to accompany him.

There were times when I wondered if we would ever get him to this point in life. I think I am due a lot more credit for the achievement than I am getting. I played a number of important roles in his education. I was his alarm clock, when the electric one beside his bed was not loud enough to wake him in the mornings. When waking took too long, I was the chauffeur who drove him the entire three blocks from our house to the school.

As I watched Brad receive his degree, I was understandably proud, and not just because he was the only graduate to jump and click his heels in the air after shaking hands with the chancellor of the university.

That's my boy.

2006, Gordon Kirkland