Faunus

Woe unto the man who robs my house.
More specifically my brothers room, Faunus, as he shall be called here. As I clack away on a set of white plastic squares, Faunus is sitting outside wrapped in quilts, tending to a tiny fire he made with the help of his flint and steel, a tool he has begun to carry everywhere on his person. It wonders me that this should seem shocking and even dangerous to the average parent. Thankfully, I live under the peaceful reign of quite out of the ordinary parents, which suits me just fine as I become more and more dissatisfied with the ordinary.
And the ordinary is this: the conception that 'now' we know so much more then they did 'then'. Of course this is preposterous. Despite our college graduates and our pre-school reading programs we have stopped learning things and are now content with learning about things. Let us say, perhaps, that I wish to learn about a crow. Such a simple creature would appear a rather easy obstacle to hurdle, and yet present this idea to a hundred biology teachers and only a handful would even bring me within a hundred yards of the squawking creature, let alone actually try to catch it or watch it feed. I tap away happily on this keyboard and yet couldn't even tell you what a hard drive looks like. Put in this perspective our education seems perhaps at more jeopardy than it ever has before!
While the rest of the neighborhood fretted and worried with the power down, Faunus laughed, and then frowned when we received it again. He was far too caught up in his education, with emergency candles burning and a fire to keep us warm to worry about the thousands of emails we might be missing. In the long run, its the boy spending this frigid night outside that I will want covering my back when the going gets tough.
I can picture the robber now, creeping into the room, reaching for the desk only to be met by a well aimed hatcher to the temple. Don't tell me you learn how to do that at Harvard.