[dropcap]I[/dropcap] got caught in the rain today. While I waited out the storm in my truck, I decided to pass the time. Writing longhand. I’d forgotten how much fun it was.

When I was a boy, I wrote everything by hand. Which is nothing special. If you’re my age or older, you did the same thing. Every day of your school-life. I remember number-one pencils, and the big callous on the middle finger of my right hand.

And cursive, I remember that too.

I wrote stories.

I used to write tales about the high-seas. My swashbuckling heroes always saved the day and got the girl. And I made myself a promise. I would live out my fictional stories in real life, when I was older. I was going to travel the world by boat, drink dark beer in exotic ports, and have real adventures.

That never happened.

The most exotic port I’ve been to is Freeport, Florida.

I’m not that little writer anymore, I don’t dream like that either. Somewhere along the way, I stopped writing my adventure tales by hand. I can’t recall when. Or why. It’s hard to pinpoint when this first-baseman quit wearing his mitt just to watch baseball on television. Hell, I guess I grew up.

It didn’t happen all at once.

But somehow, it happened.