Now, about today’s column. It is being written well before today, if that makes sense.

You see, I usually have a number of these little journalistic jottings on hand. A backlog, so to speak. All of which has absolutely nothing to do with the point I hope to make if I will just dispense with this banal prefatory rambling.

Alright. Here is my opening: Real men don’t eat quiche. Bet that really grabbed you. (A bit of levity.)

Then moving right along, my next line is “real men don’t cry.”

I mean, there was a time in our culture when stoic, unemotional, were requisite manly characteristics. You know, as in Hollywood. For men, that is.

The generation that came just before mine really bought into that. Showing a tender side amongst the male populace was construed as, well, some kind of weakness. Most movies, at least through the 50’s, perpetuated this notion.

Today? I’m not really sure if there is just one predominant cultural characteristic. The paradigm has been altered.

And me? Well. Lord knows I’ll tear up at just about anything that touches my inner core of sensitivity. It’s not that I wear my emotions on my sleeve — all the time — but dang close.

I’ll get “eyeball sweat” over memories. And music. And children. And animals. And sad times, and happy times. And the beauty and wonder of God’s creation manifest in nature.

And weddings, funerals, baptisms, graduations. And . . .

Just about anything, given certain circumstances, can move me to tears, or close to it.

Maybe this is a weakness on my part. Maybe I’m too sentimental, too emotional. Maybe.

It’s just who I am.

Oh. I love quiche.

Note — As of the writing of these musings this scribbler isn’t really sure if he’ll turn it in. Too personal? We’ll see.