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From Randy Williams, Editor and Transition Guy:

Autumn is here, and the first signs of winter are starting to appear. A big Nor'easter (that's how the locals refer to a storm -- apparently they are unduly influenced by the fact that Herman Melville wrote "Moby Dick" in this part of Massachusetts) blew out of Boston a few weeks ago, knocking most of the color out of the trees and bringing a premature end to prime leaf-peeping season. And it had been so lovely -- ol' Maw Nature had created an elegant patchwork quilt of reds, oranges, and yellows in the surrounding mountains and hills. Then, this past Sunday, I was startled to see snow flurries lazily drifting earthward as I walked to the store for a gallon of milk and a fifty-pound bag of coffee (MUST MEET DEADLINES!!!). I could almost physically feel the pace of life slowing down around me in the chilly air, and I had an alarmingly vivid mental image of myself waddling into work bundled in so many layers of clothing that I resembled the Michelin Man. I suddenly realized that this is a major period of transition for me. I am trying not only to steel my nerve for my first encounter with the legendary New England cold, but also to cope with some big changes in my identity.

No, I'm not getting a sex-change operation or converting to Scientology. Nothing quite that drastic. Last time I checked, I was still male, 34 years old, 6'3", single, straight, and notoriously cranky before I've had a hot shower and a steaming mug of joe in the morning. But I am in transition nonetheless. We talk a lot about the "transition generation" here at Tripod. That's largely an attempt on our part to get around the odious "Gen X" label we all abhor. But the fact remains that this generation, whatever it is called, is generally considered to be made up of 18- to 34-year-olds. Since I am already on the far end of that curve, I recently spent some time wondering if I might not be facing some sort of "Menudo factor" that would influence my ability to do my best work for Tripod. You remember Menudo, don't you? They were a group of Latino teenagers who had a (briefly) popular singing act in the '80s; when the members reached the age of 18, they were pushed out of the band in favor of fresh young faces.

And I wondered if, when next May rolls around and I turn 35, I would suddenly and unequivocally lose touch with our core audience. Would I begin a long, graceless slide into old fogeydom in my mid-thirties? Would I start wearing polyester Sans-A-Belt slacks (with the "patented adjustable waistband!") and going to the Cape on weekends to poke around the dunes with a metal detector while cursing the "damn kids" and muttering about the good old days? Would I become irrelevant? It was not that I was afraid that those higher in the Tripod food chain would toss me out like last week's chum; to the contrary, I had a niggling moment of doubt about my own ability to relate to the problems today's youth face each day.

Which is silly, of course. Any attempt to segregate ourselves -- whether along generational lines or any other pointless and arbitrary criteria -- serves only to ignore the basic truth that we are in this together. Ours is a strange, wonderful, scary time to be alive -- and it belongs to all of us.

It is true that Tripod gets a huge number of hits from that all-important 18-to-34 demographic every day. But just as meaningful is the considerable number of our regular readers and members who are longer in the tooth. These people are great about sharing the benefit of their wisdom and experience with others in this Web site's surveys and dilemmas. And it is vitally important that we learn to communicate about shared problems rather than point fingers and assign blame. I see that happening here, and I think that I may even be able to help bridge the gap. As long as we are all -- Tripod staff and readers alike -- able to keep a free exchange of good ideas going, a few more grey hairs in the old goatee shouldn't have any negative effects on my job performance.

And yet, it is not only the transition from "boyish" to "well-preserved for his age" that has me thinking about transitions. I recently flew South for the first time since finishing my degree (I was a "returning adult" student) and hiring on in Billsville. Life below the Manson-Nixon line was exactly as I remembered it, yet completely different. There was a new nephew to meet (three-month old Alex), grandparents to visit, old friends to track down. It was both exhilarating and frustrating -- there didn't seem to be time enough to see everyone or do all the things I had so carefully planned. The prospect of being so far away from my family -- and from the life I had so carefully carved out for myself in the bosom of Beulah land -- seemed more daunting than ever, and I dreaded having to say "goodbye" to everyone again.

But a funny thing happened. I was reunited with my girlfriend of three years, only to discover that we didn't seem to quite know each other any more. After a few days of trying to understand our strange inability to feel comfortable together, we called it quits, hugged goodbye, and vowed to stay in touch. And I spent that night -- well into the wee hours of morning -- walking the streets of Montevallo alone, following the gracefully winding red brick streets of my beloved alma mater, drifting past funky and decrepit houses in the student ghetto that held many memories for me. Different people live there now. New memories are being born. I felt like a ghost revisiting the physical world after passing on to another plane. This was no longer my life, but I needed to make my peace with it before returning to the place I belong.

Strangest of all, I felt a lot less sad about all of that than I might have expected. Oh, it was a bittersweet visit, to be sure -- but a necessary one. None of us can face tomorrow if we are too tightly tethered to yesterday. I returned to Williamstown and to Tripod with renewed energy and sense of purpose. I even finally bit the bullet and bought Massachusetts license plates for my car. It felt a little weird removing my old Alabama tag, like I was giving up a part of who I am. I once saw an elderly couple on Spring Street point and stare in amazement at the "Heart of Dixie" slogan on that tag, and I suppose that I had felt a perverse thrill at being such an outsider in the bucolic Berkshires. But the truth is, I'm not an outsider any more. This is home. And I am blessed to live in one of the most gorgeous spots on Earth, to be surrounded by a group of witty, dynamic, bright, fundamentally decent colleagues and friends -- both during my time here and on my frequent business trips to New York City. One transition completed.

So as winter approaches, I have decided to make my New Year's resolutions a bit early. I vow to keep my curiosity and intellect alive by staying connected to the world at large; to never let a little ache in my joints detract from my eagerness to travel new roads; and to never confuse embracing change and maturity with abandoning a child-like sense of wonder. The future is still ours to invent and explore together. I hope to see you there; we can share some steaming cups of joe, discuss ideas, and compare trousers. Mine won't be Sans-A-Belt -- that's a promise.

Keep fighting the good fight,
Randy (11/15/96)

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Read more "Letters from Tripod" in the archive.

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