The Fire Tribe

Abraham,
We are recently returned from your first trip to Rhode Island, to visit your families and to see the ocean. As always, these trips are overwhelming for me. Everyone wants and deserves our time and now, with you as the star attraction, it's even harder to slip away. But it's worth it, to see you with my Dad and other grandparents, your great-grandparents and your cousins- so many strands in your wire. We stayed three blocks from the ocean and were still able to find time to walk the beach and play in the waves.

The faded remnants of Tropical Storm Ernesto chased us up the coast and brought heavy surf and turbulent winds. You loved watching the white pines in the backyard being whipped by the wind. Inspired by the stormy weather symphony, you became quite adept at playing the windchime on the front porch of the cottage. Mom still took you for walks, bundled against her to keep warm.

In the evenings, we would wander down to the beach and play in the waves. We would dangle your feet in the churning wash of breaking waves and then toss you straight up in the air. You would laugh and point at the waves. Again and again, until all we could see of the ocean was white lines rolling in the dark. We walked home slowly, reluctant to release these moments to history.

I crouched down next to you to take this picture so you could always remember what the waves rolling in looked like when you were so small.

You can barely see anything in the next picture, but it is probably my favorite of the trip. It was great to visit with everyone, to ride out the summer at the coast, to see a million stone walls winding along the landscape. But my greatest treasure was being with you the first time you saw the sea, playing on the beach at dusk with my tribe, immersed in glorious blue.

It's a big beautiful world. I'm happy to see it fresh with you.

Pa-

Abraham,
Last weekend we hung up a piece of big paper and made our first mural. I got things started with a couple of your favorites, birds and bunnies. Then the whole family scribbled. As is usually the case with you these days, everything went into the mouth, hence the blue mustache.

We've had a full weekend of critters. Friday evening we discovered a hummingbird bee- a moth really- in Barbara's garden, flitting around the flowers. A baby cardinal almost landed on your head, testing out its fresh wings.

On Saturday a very sickly old dog turned up staggering in the road in front of our house. She was impossibly thin and unsteady on her feet. She started brightening though, as soon as we gave her some water and food. Deaf and with glassy eyes, she sat sadly in the yard, relaxed enough to have me stroke her dirty coat. You watched her intently. I didn't let you too close, because I guessed she was just old and frail, but didn't want to risk that she was rabid or otherwise dangerous. No one was available to deal with her, and so she slept in the backyard. Later in the evening, we gave her some more food and you and I took our walk. A tiny screech owl swooped over our heads and landed in the mimosa tree. We stood under the tree and watched its fluffy silhouette. It was gone when we came back out with the flashlight but we heard it singing as it made its nightly rounds.

Today I buried the stray dog. Even though it was still willing to eat, it clearly wasn't doing well and shortly after lunch it started fading fast. I sat with her, my hand resting on her ribs, feeling as her breath came hard and fast and then slow and easy. And slower and slower, until I was sure each breath was her last. Then she exhaled and drew no more air. She stretched out, convulsed and for two minutes I felt amazing electricity glittering under her thin skin. Then she was gone. I buried her down in the fallow garden at the bottom of the yard. Tonight on our walk, you and I wished her safe passage.

Every single living moment seems more precious since you appeared in my life.

Pa-

Abe,
Last week we visited the Nature Center again. We decided to get a membership and you can look forward to many more visits to the otters and the fat bunny who sits lazily in a shady spot in his pen.

There is a special exhibition going on right now. In a makeshift quonset hut draped with fabric mesh, hundreds of butterflies cavort amongst a jungle of flowers. At the entrance they spray your hands with sugar water, to encourage butterflies to land on you. There were lots of monarchs, radiant orange and black. I told you about when I was a kid and your great grandmother got me started on raising monarchs. The caterpillars lived in huge pickles jars that I would refresh daily with milkweed leaves. I watched the pearlescent chrysalides impatiently, ready for the butterflies to emerge. When they did, they were bedraggled looking things, wet and crumpled. Over the course of an hour they would unfold until their wings were ten times their original size, velvet-rich and ready for flight. I'd launch them off the back step and watch them float around the backyard until they drifted over the house and out of sight.

In the butterfly tent there was a seven year old boy who sat patiently made scientifically accurate sketches of the caterpillars on display. To no one in particular he announced, “It's amazing to see what they become.” He didn't know he was talking about himself too. It was like a silver bullet to my heart.

Fly on,
Pa-

Abraham,
Your new look- fresh from the shower- is a perfect blend of Johnny Cash and early Clash. You're my country-punk-rock-a-billy star. Pans, bell-like bowls and a damned loud popcorn tin are your drumset. Plastic spoons are your sticks. The whole world- quite literally- is your crowd.

You crawl forwards now and will trundle from room to room to play hide-and-go-seek. Your favorite new toy is a brightly colored flyer from a Mexican chain restuarant called Don Pablo's. You love ice chips and frozen peaches, our family's summer time staples. Tonight I built towers out of your board books which you delighted in tearing down.

Rock on,
Pa-

Abraham,
Our fondness for all things creeping and crawling is well known around the neighborhood. Barbara recently brought us the first cicada shell of the year. Today, as you and I tried to launch ourselves into orbit from a swinging hammock, we heard the first cicadas giving voice. Yesterday, as we wandered by Barbara's little pond, she came out excited to share her latest treasure, a baby box turtle, no bigger than a half dollar. He had scrawny legs and a big attitude; he was not scared of us at all. He seemed intrigued by you and would only retreat into his shell when your explorations got too vigorous. We kept him for the evening, but he wasn't impressed with our menu of blueberries, spinach, peaches and mashed ants. Tonight you and I set him free in our meager herb garden. I think that we will see him again.

Today you witnessed your first World Cup. Italy righteously defeated France in the final after an epic battle. The great Zizou lost his cool late in the game, violently and petulantly tarnishing an otherwise stellar career. You were much more sporting that he was; you hung on gamely as the match lasted over two hours, missing most of your afternoon nap in the process. You played with your friend Tao and his cat Silo. I scared you a couple of times with my outbursts as Thierry Henry danced gracefully with the ball before tamely delivering it to Italy's goalkeeper Buffon. You were one of the estimated one billion people watching the game today. Your Mom and I watched our first World Cup in open air markets and in television sales showrooms in Thailand. Now it is another thread that helps me understand how amazing and beautfiul the world really is.

Thanks for sharing that with me.

Pa-

Abraham,
Last night, after the thunderstorms rumbled us up from naps and jolted the corn and beans back to life in the garden, we took our evening walk. The lightning storms inspired the fireflies into amazing performances. Right at dusk they launch from the grass, rising like embers from a fire, shooting stars heading home. You and your Mom tended to the jar as I went galloping around the yard, snagging fireflies out of mid-air. I think you were more amused by my eccentric behavior than the bugs we caught. After a few minutes of careful observation, we set them free, to resume their nightly treetop trajectories.

Through you, I am connected to this moment, to this moment as I remember it from my own bug-chasing childhood and to this moment again tomorrow, when we'll go wandering though the yard again, looking for whatever treasures find us.

Good night,
Pa-

Abraham,
Over Memorial Day weekend your Grandma T came to visit. She had only met you once before, over Thanksgiving, when you had just had your surgery. I can't understand how times moves; those moments are etched in my memory as if burned there by acid, but it feels like a lifetime ago. This visit you were in great spirits and good health. You played with your Grandma and had private conversations. Visits to the Arboretum and Farmer's Market were hugely disappointing compared to the time we spent lolling on the front porch. The Carolina wrens nesting the eaves were busy collecting spiders and bugs for their babies. Sometimes they would fly under our chairs or sit in the dogwoods and sing to us. I remember a time not so long ago when three day weekends were hard on me. I'm not known for my relaxation skills. But now, the longer and lazier the day, the happier I am. All the more time to be family.

Pa-

Abraham,
I am too long away from these pages. Sometimes life gets in the way of reporting on life. Everyday is full of life and color. You have two teeth now and crawl backwards, though your primary mode of transport is to skooch along on your backside. You are having a love affair of sorts with a neighbor's black lab, an energetic and fickle beast. She is not the most graceful thing on four feet and your rendezvouses generally end in tears. She runs off unconcerned and you can't wait for her to come back, to knock you over again and again. I admire that about you. You take knocks everyday as you explore the world. Bumps are the inevitable side effect of curiosity. You let us know and then you get over it. You are so pure and clean in that regard; sing it and move on. Lovely.

We have been too busy growing a boy to grow a garden, even though we have a small plot plowed at the bottom of the yard. At long last, you and I planted a handful of sweet basil plants. You sat on a blanket and chewed on a plastic orange juicer as I dug in the dirt. They are now another stop on our nightly perambulations around the yard. Just before bed you and I walk down to Barbara's tiny pond and watch the lazy water fountain. Then we walk through her garden. You like to remove one flower or leaf from each plant to taste. I am practiced at slipping flower shreds out of your tight fists. We tour textures, like the dogwood trees gnarled bark and the rough mountain stone of our chimney and the chrome toolboxes of my loaner pickup. I don't know why, but you get very excited when you see the mailbox. You open it and will pull the contents out. I have to be careful that you don't eat the bills. Our circuit of the yard finishes back at Barbara's tiny pond. One very wet evening a couple of weeks ago, we found a chorus of gray treefrogs in the pond, singing to each other with springtime's urgency. Our nightly walks are the closest thing to prayer I have ever known. Gratitude rushes through me like electricity.

Pa-