Several years ago, I was inspired by an article written by Tim O’Brien, a renowned writer, published in Life magazine. It was titled “A Letter to My Son” and expressed O’Brien’s views on the birth of his son, Timmy, late in life (for him).
O’Brien is perhaps best known for his 1978 novel “Going After Cacciato,” for which he won a National Book Award. The New York Times said of the book: “To call ‘Going After Cacciato’ a novel about war is like calling ‘Moby Dick’ a novel about whales.” I was a voracious reader of Vietnam War-era tomes, and “Cacciato” was an excellent look at the war from a veteran’s perspective (O’Brien served in Vietnam).
I had kept the copy of Life that contained his “Letter to My Son”, thinking it was something I would like to be able to share with my son at some point, or with the grandchildren. Please note that Caleb Alexander Akerley had not even been conceived yet, let alone born. Now that I’m in the habit of putting my thoughts in print (online), I’m inspired to write my own letter, this time to my 4-year-old Caleb. So here it goes:
Dear Caleb,
First of all, let me tell you something that you already know quite well. I love you madly. You are, to me, the sweetest, brightest, most caring person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.
You are indeed a miracle baby. Her mother was vulnerable in her pregnancy with you and suffered from fibroid tumors; she will eventually end up on bed rest for the last three months or so of her gestation. We regularly went to St. Francis Hospital for stress tests to make sure he was healthy. Let me tell you: not only were you healthy in the womb, but you performed far beyond expectations.
We have been speaking excellently to you since we first learned you were on your way. Let me be honest about this: Not sure if you were male or female, we started thinking of you as Stephanie (your mother wanted to name her daughter after her grandmother). Believe me, there was no disappointment when we found out we were having a boy. Don’t forget that “boy” rhymes with “joy.”
A man named Tim O’Brien wrote a letter a long time ago to his young son and told him that he was a little worried about his age at the time his son was born. He was 58 years old when his son Timmy was born and he didn’t know if he would be able to enjoy all of Timmy’s growing up period. I’m in a similar situation. When you were born I was 56 years old; but I have been convinced for a long time that I will live to a ripe old age and, moreover, be in good shape during my later years.
I’m not worried I won’t be able to play with you when you’re a teenager. My plan is for you to join me at my regular Wednesday night game in New Britain when you’re a little older. I look forward to coaching you in whatever sport you want to practice. I already know you like basketball, football, soccer, baseball and more, but I’m not ruling anything else out for you. The world is truly your oyster. Grab it.
Tim O’Brien cited his longing in his letter to Timmy. Let me reflect on some of mine. I long to see you get married one day, and I hope your children join the family. O’Brien told us how he had learned “that a grown man can find pleasure in” a squeak…a smile, in the miraculous pronunciation of the word “Dad.” For me, I’m ecstatic when you walk downstairs in the morning when you wake up and say, “I love you, daddy.” For you, these words are automatic. I don’t think you know, at this point, how powerful they are. You can reduce me to virtual nothingness with that phrase.
You have learned a lot in your 4 years. When I hear you rhyming, singing a new song of your own composition, I get emotional beyond understanding. When you say, as you did this weekend, “Mommy, you didn’t dry my hair right,” I consider there are millions of adults who can’t use an adverb at all, let alone correctly. Your gifts seem to surpass even my deepest aspirations for you as we awaited your birth. We don’t even have to be on top of you while you eat; to make sure you are getting your vitamins. Almost everything that has appeared on your plate, you have eaten without hesitation.
You amaze me, you excite me, you make my day, you are a wonderful boy, polite, somewhat boisterous, joker, investigator, curious, rhymer, singer, drummer, pianist, amazed, charismatic, affectionate, handsome, cute (I know you hate that!), and you’re funny. You have one of the best senses of humor I have ever met.
To quote O’Brien again, “I’d trade every syllable of my life’s work for an extra 5 or 10 years with you.” That’s so true for me, Caleb. Obviously, I don’t long for the day when I have to leave you behind on this earth. The “first duty of a father is to be present,” according to his letter, and at some point in your life, I will no longer be present. My prayer is that you can savor all the moments we have shared together, and that I have instructed you well, so that you will be the man that you are capable of being.
We like to say that our deceased relatives are “up there, watching us.” Clearly, this is not something we know to be true; but if it is true, then you can be sure that I will be watching you every step of the way, brimming with pride that my son is achieving the success that was his destiny from the start.
There are not enough words in my copious vocabulary to describe my love for you. I guess that’s all there is to say.
I love you Caleb.
Potato