This summer I read the biographies of the tragic 27 Club: Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. I remarked to a friend my sad impression that in their short, confused and furious lives, none of those people ever enjoyed a week’s happiness.
“Well, what about the time they spent on stage?” my friend asked. “That was probably usually pretty good.”
And yeah, I realized, I hadn’t counted that time. And I should have. Because on stage, they must have at least occasionally felt a little something like this photo, taken of my daughter this year, playing college soccer.
I often repeat what a dour man told me on a golf course, a month before Scout was born: “You’ll never be any happier than your least happy child.”
I realized he was right when he said it. But Scout turned out to be my only child, and I can tell you it’s also true that when I look at this photograph, I’m made just as happy as my child, at her happiest.