Happy Birthday, Beloved Son
October 10, 1963 was a very good year, a very good date, a good time to be born. That is exactly the date that our youngest child, our younger son, came into this world.
There is something about being the youngest child in the family, a child with several siblings. The youngest will always be just that, and somehow he or she will always remain, in their parents' memory the baby of the family. The youngest child is a blessing, a precious child, a child upon whom his parents lavish the most unreserved attention, the most generous outpouring of love and emotional support.
Or so it seems. Although things are not necessarily always as they seem. Loving parents never stint on lavishing their appreciation, love and support upon all their children, be they first-born or middle-child, or in any order whatever. They are one's beloved flesh and kin.
Still, the baby of the family is somehow always that; the youngest, the most cherished. Parents, having already had the experience of raising earlier children are more relaxed, less stressed and worried about the welfare of their infant when they have already at least once undergone the process.
They are freer then to enjoy the child, absent the worries that come with first-time child-rearing experiences. Even the last-born child's siblings view him differently, acknowledging his relative youth compared to their head-start. Brothers and sisters too regard their youngest sibling as somehow special to and within the family.
As for us, we recall the little sleepy-head, the baby nuzzling at his mother's breast, the miracle of discovery as seen through the perceptions of a budding personality. What you see truly is what you get, for it's been our experience that a child's character, while it is developed over time, already demonstrates its make-up well before time and experience have had their place.
He was, as an infant, a placid and happy child, an active child. I remember marvelling at his strong muscular legs carrying him along to whatever struck his fancy at any given time. This child had a mind of his own, but yet was not a stubborn child. And it wasn't long before we understood that he considered all the presented elements of an argument before coming to his own conclusion.
When he was yet a young boy we all understood that he had an inborn sense of personal justice. His older brother one day named him "the vicar". It was an apt analogy, and the younger brother has never deviated from that predilection to recognize justice and fairness and his personal obligation to uphold their place in the extended social fabric.
He was born with an indelible sense of delight in nature. His father sketched a picture of him at nine or ten years of age, hoisting a butterfly net, waiting for one of those delicate creatures to fling itself happily into his net for closer observation. He amassed a wonderful collection of butterflies, pinning them neatly onto boards with carefully-printed descriptions.
Then he realized fully that he was taking the lives of these incandescent creatures to further his knowledge and he devised other means by which he could study the quick and the live. He brought home tiny dace and placed them into an aquarium in his bedroom, and he caught young-of-the-season bass, soon discovering one would make quick work of the other.
He brought home one day a huge black waterbug, notorious for their rapacity; gave it a temporary home in a large bucket, placed it carefully away for further study, then raced frantically around the kitchen an hour later, attempting to retrieve the recalcitrant specimen while his mother frantically refereed.
When he was older he and I often would strap on snowshoes of a winter evening and tread out into the greenbelt surrounding our home, marvelling at the available light, the snow contours, the awkwardness presented by the absence of shadows, the fun of flinging ourselves into the wide-strided glide over the moon-bright snowpack.
When he was older yet he and his father would carefully assemble outdoor gear and drive off to Algonquin park for a week-end of canoe-camping, then bring back the tall tales of the horrendously long portages, the fun in carrying the canoe over same, then doubling back for food and other backpacks - and his growing proficiency in tying the foodpack high in trees out of reach of bears.
I still have the prize he received when he was a student at middle school. The plaque is inscribed with his name, the name of his school: Emily Carr, and his science project - a microscope he fashioned from polished glass and a carefully worked wood body. Years later he began to fashion his own block and moulding planes, hardening the metal in the fireplace - and he constructed furniture of surpassing skill and beauty which we live with in pride today.
Completing high school, he received a Governor-General's award for excellence.
He put himself through university; first his BA in Toronto, then each time between his MA(University of Guelph) and his PHD(University of British Columbia) receiving grants in the sums of $40,000 from NSERC to achieve his goal. He was resolved be be financially independent.
In between we spent countless priceless hours with him when we were able to, canoeing, camping, hiking, alpine camping, canoe-camping. We hiked and canoed in Ontario and Tennessee, in Georgia and North Carolina, in Quebec and in British Columbia. He hauled us through nine days of rain at the Bowron Lakes and it was incredible beyond belief. As was the elevation and the tapestry of nature camping high on Long Peak, not far from Vancouver.
His wonderfully shaped and patterned pottery bedeck our living and family rooms and our kitchen. We have teapots, casseroles, vases, platters, breakfast sets, jugs and all manner of incidental pieces in various colour washes and delicately painted scenes that he has produced through his fascination with clay. His sister and his brother, his neice and his friends have been gifted right royally with his pottery pieces.
His professional life as a scientist and adventurer has taken him to Ireland and France, to Sweden and to Italy, and throughout the United States. His love of nature and her wilderness areas ensure that he is never far from his beloved mountain terrain. He has paddled his ocean-going kayak off the coast of British Columbia, and has clambered over mountains from the Great Smokies to the Coastal Mountains of B.C., the Rockies in Alberta, the mountains in Italy.
He lives his life well.
posted by Pieface @ Tuesday, October 10, 2006
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