My master’s work is at an end. I’ve written the last paper, attended the last class, and received my cap, hood, and master’s gown. The faculty have accepted my thesis; it needs only their signatures. Just three final exams and convocation remain.

I’m anticipating the master’s degree less eagerly than I did my bachelor’s degree. The reason is in part that the master’s is a second degree, in part that undergraduates are lionized with honors ribbons and commencement awards, but mostly that a more profound change—marriage—has eclipsed this next degree. I don’t regret the difference at all. “Better is the end of a thing than the beginning thereof,” but better still the beginning of a marriage than the end of a degree. I shall quietly prepare for graduation by memorizing the university hymn, and I shall quietly celebrate by updating my c.v. This commencement reminds me how I graduated from high school: one day in the spring, my father said that I could be finished with my studies. After six years, it’s as if the history faculty will soon say, “You can be done, for now.”

But only for now. Unless providence directs otherwise, I am committed to academia. In a year I hope to begin PhD studies. In the short term, I have work to do revising papers in hope of publication. I also have several contracts with historical encyclopedias, and one book review to write. I’ve been educated as a historian, so I look forward to trying my hand at the trade.