I overheard a dad talking to his son on the phone. I couldn’t hear the son’s end of the conversation, but I can imagine. Here’s what I heard…

The dad: Well, it isn’t going to get easier. I took 18 hours, sometimes 21 hours each semester, and I made it through.

Pause.

The dad: No, I didn’t work.

The tone of the conversation softened a bit at that point.

This got me thinking about paths in life. We all take a different path, yet our ultimate destination is the same — death.

Okay, let’s dial it back a few notches on the depressometer.

Before that whole not breathing thing, there’s adult life. Based on just a snapshot of any neighborhood, with folks of similar income and their 1.5 kids (or is it 2.5?), you have no idea of the path each took to get there. That’s one beautiful part of living in a free country.

I was fortunate enough to complete college on the four year plan without paying for a penny of it myself. I guess I should give myself a little credit, as I did endure at least one summer of courses while waiting tables.

I could have avoided summer study had I not started my freshman year as a pre-dental major. Once I had Zoology under my belt, I had to take Botany to complete my biology component. It seems there was some reason I couldn’t just take General Biology, but it escapes me.

So did Botany.

I garnered a “C” in that microscope-driven catastrophe. Apparently I should have spent a LOT more time in the lab learning to recognize more than just one specimen of any given cell.

Zoology came much more naturally to me, thanks in large part to my lifelong friend C’s presence in the same class. He and I pushed each other and often scored tops on the exams as a result.

Oh yeah. Paths.

That friend lived with his mother during college and for several years after, gradually building a career in a field that often requires a bit of the “starving artist” routine. He was (and is) one of the smartest people I know and, although he had his own problems, functioned just fine in the real world and has lived on his own for many years.

Me? I got married, finished earning my English degree and then struggled in an unrewarding job by day and helped my wife clean office buildings at night.

Then I re-discovered my love for making computers do things. Laid in seventh grade at the beginning of the Apple IIe’s heyday, like a 13-year cicada my computer bug stayed underground, to emerge and leave behind only a hint of its former self.

It wavered, however, when a cicada killer wasp called journalism came threatening. It escaped relatively unscathed.

Now, C and I are happy people doing professional work. Besides attending the same schools from age 5 through 23, our paths couldn’t have been much different.

On a third path were many of our friends, who worked very hard at menial jobs during college just to pay for school, rent, and food. Most in this camp plodded along to a six- or seven-year undergraduate degree due to their nearly full-time workload.

I’m sure some resented me and others of my ilk. If they did, they were polite enough never to say it. I never felt bad about it, and still don’t. My parents were able to provide me the path of least resistance to an education, and for that I’ll be forever grateful.

The minute I announced I was getting married the summer after my junior year, I was summarily booted off my path.

“You know this means you’re on your own,” Dad said.

He meant exactly that. After my fourth year of college, the Bank of Dad officially closed.

Our few years in dumpy rental units and two years in a trailer park putting creditors on hold notwithstanding, we made it just fine. We never took government assistance and never had bad credit. Did we bounce a few checks accidentally? Eh, could be. That’s the deepest cut, because we were charged a fee when it was clear we didn’t have enough money in the first place. Our otherwise impeccable record meant the bank saved us from the merchants’ vengeful clutches.

We’re doing our best to ensure Ben has the same opportunities I had, and we’ll help him learn from our mistakes. I’m not sure the latter does much good before the child reaches age 25 or so, but it’s worth a shot.

Paths. We all have them, and regardless of our start, ultimately we all must navigate them on our own.