So I had made it a personal goal to finish my formal education by the time I turned 30. Until I was 29 this appeared eminently doable, at which point it suddenly seemed near-impossible. Yet, degree-finishing intricacies notwithstanding, I am happy to announce that, exactly eight days before I reached the three-decade mark, the University of Chicago judged my dissertation fully defensible, and I am now a Doctor of Philosophy. (Oddly, the only course I’ve ever actually taken in philosophy was about 10 years ago, at Maple Woods Community College, Gladstone, Missouri.)

This news seems to be a relief to almost everyone I know, particularly my long-suffering wife/clarinetist-in-residence, the adorable tykes who refuse to call me “Dr. Dad”, and the entire administrative staff of the University of Chicago Division of Humanities. A perceptive colleague even pointed out that my benevolent employer, Augustana College, was so pleased with the news that they shut down the school for two weeks to celebrate (we also have the earliest, and longest, Spring Break on record).

The best news is that I’m now able, without the shadow of a single looming academic requirement, to move forward on a whole host of exciting projects, including new pieces for