The Fire Tribe

Abe,
We traveled together to Rhode Island so I could attend my Pepere's funeral. It was our first trip together and we did well. On the flights north, you flirted with a volleyball player from California. She was sweet and lovely and couldn't keep her eyes off you. You showed her how to draw colorful lines with a ruler.

You spent many hours playing bongos, dulcimer and violin with Grandma Cynthia, while I attended wakes and such. You met dozens of cousins and aunts and uncles at the luncheon after the funeral. A well-timed walk in the hall netted you two little cars from attendees of a Hot Wheels convention. You set up on a small patch of marble floor and became the north star of a constellation of your family who zoomed cars with you. I liked hearing them talk to you, about toys and times different from the heavy days we'd all just had. When it came time to leave, you initiated group hugs that had as many as seven or eight of our family all clustered together, holding tight. I am humbled by your pure heart.

That night we took a canoe ride with Grandpa Eel and Grandma Carol. We explored the quiet corners of a salt pond near Wickford. We saw green and spider crabs, bait fish, swans and herons. You let hermit crabs walk on your hand and announced that they tickle. After the sun set we shined bright lights into the water and watched the sea creatures as they hustled to and fro. I have been wanting to take you on one of these nocturnal rides for a long time now. I wish I could raise this family at the edge of the ocean. To me it's the most alive place on Earth; there's always something amazing going on.

I loved the canoe ride, but the highlight to me was bedtime. We would lay down, heads close together and I would hold books about Olivia, a very willful little pig, over us like umbrellas. I would read stories you until the books sagged in my hands and we closed our eyes and drifted into well-earned sleep. Such a sweet, peaceful place to be at the end of such busy, emotional days.

Thank you for coming with me.

Pa-

My Sons,
I have a memory that no one else has. I am two and a half, slumped exhausted over my Pepere's shoulders. I am sipping orange juice from a blue cup. We are in a room I don't know or understand. That's all; that's my first memory of this life. The room is in a hospital. My mother is in surgery, perilously close to slipping away from us. A despondent woman decided to end her life in a car wreck. We were parked in front of an ice cream parlor when she found us. My Mom threw herself across me when she saw it coming. I was fine. My Dad got thrown around but my Mom took the brunt of it. I feel fortunate that all I recall are the strong arms of my Pepere, holding me tight, strong against the fear.

I thought a lot about that memory when I lifted my Pepere, my father's father, your Great-Grandfather, to deliver him back to the earth. He died a week ago, riven by cancer, but strong and clear to the last. He died with his family close, sad to leave them, but ready to meet God.

Pepere understood the world through words. He told stories and wrote essays. Our last engaged conversation was a discourse on a novel his father, Alberic Amedee, wrote in the 1940's. Pepere was my strongest connection to my songline, of how we came to be these people in this place. I wanted to take his memory essays and make a book of them but we ran out of time. Perhaps I still will, so that there's another link in your chain. I would like you to hear his stories in his words, so you can add to them and make them your stories.

I miss him terribly.

Pa-

15 July 2001, at a brunch the day after your Mom and I were married

My Sons,
We went to the farmer's Market today, Alessandro's first real outing. You nestled close to your Momma's chest and slept through most of it. Your big brother carried a big blue umbrella and ate several lamb sausage samples on toothpicks. I couldn't take any pictures because my arms were full of bags. For dinner tonight we had chard, cucumbers, beets and tomatoes we got at the market.

In the afternoon, Abraham pretended to be the freaky drummer statue from downtown. I threw coins in your hat and you would lurch to life, drum a few beats before lapsing back into frozen silence. Just before bed, you and I rigged up hoses and boards, trying to make odd, sprawling machines that would launch marbles airborne into plastic cups or activate cardboard windmills. We hatched a plan to create a marble machine that reached all the way to Barbara's garden, but by then it was bedtime. Soon.

Pa-