Ryan Dennis

It was the usual rite of a rural upbringing, and the time had come for my father and me to take part in it ourselves. When I was 11, he took me to the end of the cornfield, set up a hubcap and had me shoot at it.

Of all the things a place can be known for – famous bands, art museums, sports teams – the small town of Geel, Belgium, is world-renowned for its mentally impaired residents. In the center of the village stands St. Dymphna’s church, supposedly containing the saint’s remains.

“I would like a wurst,” I said in German.

The vendor’s face immediately changed. She now scowled. She pointed at the register and held up two fingers. I gave her a two-euro coin. She didn’t say thank you.

If there ever was a movie that captured the American spirit, it was Rocky. A no-name working class guy from the streets of Philadelphia goes up against the heavyweight boxing champion of the world.

I had started the milking early on Christmas morning so the family wouldn’t have to wait long to open presents. On the way to the parlor, I passed the sick pen. 1225 sat in the dim light, her eyes sunken and her chin in the straw.

It’s the price one pays for having friends. This year I got weddinged.

It happens to many people: You hit that age when all of your friends are getting married, and suddenly your calendar is filled with nothing but ceremonies and receptions.