And we’re getting to know the neighbors in our apartment complex.
There’s the young couple that graduated with my cousins from Sioux City East.
And a Mormon couple who cook outside on the deck.
There’s a strange single guy we simply call “CIA” because we know he’s a spy.
And then there’s the family in the corner with three kids who become our best friends.
The oldest girl, who is six, comes over to our apartment daily. Rather than knock on the door, she stands at the screen door, points a demanding finger, and announces her intention: “In!”
And we let her, often followed by brother and sister, in to share afternoon cookies or a slurp of soda.
When she falls out of her bunk bed, and breaks her arm, I draw a Snoopy on the cast.
During the Fourth of July, she sits on Gina’s lap.
Fast forward 17 years.
The little girl is getting married, and she invites our not-quite two year-old son to be her ring bearer.
It’s a Scottish themed wedding, and Wyatt gets to wear a kilt.
Great-grandma Hattie is of Irish descent, so we secure the McFarlane tartan.
The boy accomplishes his task in grand fashion and we never tire of saying we’ve finally discovered what real men wear beneath their kilts: Pull-Ups!
Fast forward 12 years.
The married girl, who no longer lives in Laramie, has kids of her own.
The oldest is soon closing in on the age that his mom was when we met her.
And our son is in high school and—if he gets married at the same age she did—could conceivably ask our friend’s daughter to be a flower girl in his wedding.
And the wheel of life goes on.
And the generations pass.
Around and around.