On Being A Dad

So this past week has been especially trying. Thank you for all of the condolences on this blog. My family appreciated it. Much more could be said about my recent trip up to Maine following Grammie's passing. Like the first trip to Grammie's house. The conversations with Grandpa. There's a lot I've still got tied up inside, still knotted and unkempt. But those are tasks and memories and thoughts for myself alone.

What I will share with you involves Isaac. He made the trip with me. Just he and his Dad. Flying up early Wednesday and coming home yesterday. The Mrs. was also able to be there, coming later and leaving a day earlier. So, for a time, it was just Isaac and I.

Normally in these situations Isaac looks to his Mom as his protector and comforter in a strange place with unfamiliar faces. But with her not always there, I fell into this role for the first time. Hearing his cries for me. Having him curl up in my arms when he was tired. Me being the one whom he expected to make him laugh. It's marked a change in our relationship. Not that I'm not fully involved in Isaac's life, but, let's be honest, the Mrs., his Mom, is his lifeblood. The connection between the two of them is amazing to watch. And this week, a very difficult week, Isaac and I shared that connection as strongly as we ever had. I told the Mrs. I felt like a Dad this week for the first time.

This morning, laying in bed, the Mrs. brought Isaac in and placed him between us. He laid there for few moments, before rolling over and curling up next to me, cuddling in my arms. He had never done that before. And it makes life around you easier, in those moments.

On Comings and Goings

For years I've made trips back home. Back to my grandparents' homes in the ever-growing beachfront that is Old Orchard Beach, ME. Back to see the most important thing in my life: my family. And OOB has been a rendezvous point for my immediate family. For my brother and sisters and parents. A point where we can sit in the shade of pine trees and traces of sea breezes and reminisce and remember and remember what we've forgotten.

For Isaac, it was his first trip back to this idyllic location. His first conversations about torque wrenches and the sharpening of lawn mower blades. His first, covert attempt to ruin the cranberry sauce. His first discussions over national league pitchers. His first taste of rhubarb. His first looks upon my nana, my grandpa, my grammie and my grandpa.

Isaac handled it well. Laughing at his second cousin. Falling asleep in his great-grandmothers arms. Staying an evening with his nana and grandpa while the Mrs. and I ate pizza and fried dough and held each other on the darkened beach around the pier. Responding to coos and ahhs and "Mr. Isaac's" that seemed to fill his every waking moment. And fighting sleep whenever he could because he didn't want to miss an instant of this experience.

But I'm not sure he realized he's gone. That that experience, his first, is over. But it was not lost on me, on the Mrs., on the family who clamoured over and around him. His coming was marked with joy. A happiness I've never seen in the eyes of those most dear to my heart. And it echoed louder as we left. Isaac is a blessed child. Blessed with the love of so many.

The hardest part of coming is going. But more so, the hardest part is staying away. Staying away from instant coffee (well, maybe not instant coffee). From the raw rhubarb growing out back. Staying away from the tangible and unrelenting love of my grandparents.

That's the thing about coming and about going. It's about not staying away.

On A Trip To Maine

Taking my son on a trip to Maine...

We're excited. He's grown so much in the past week. Already he's starting to crawl. Well, really he just raises his backside in the air and pushes with his feet, trying to crawl. He ends up pivoting around in a circle because he hasn't figured out how to reach out with his left hand. It's pretty funny and at the same time truly amazing.

I find myself unfamiliar with the position of my family this weekend. With the exception of my parents, no one has met him yet. And even my folks only met him in his first few hours of life. Now he is filled with so much life. Not knowing Isaac is something I can't comprehend. Isaac's infused with so much vivacity that I'm sure after this weekend, we all have something in common.

It's also one of the first opportunities I'll have with Isaac to share a part of me with him. Not that he'll remember it, but I will. I'll show him the ocean. The Pier. His family. Nana and Grammie's house I spent summers in. He'll hear Grandpy's stories and probably get directions to somewhere too. While he may not get any Strawberry Rhubarb pie this weekend, he'll hear about why it's so good. He'll meet someone who looks just like his dad and someone who speaks another language entirely.

Oh, Mom and Dad, Nana and Grandpa, Grammie and Grandpa, know this: I'm not changing diapers this weekend. Not a one.

On Accents

She answered the phone and, for a moment, I thought I was talking to my grandmother. Her voice was disjunct, cacophonic and rythmic. She spoke with a striking Maine accent. Imagine my surprise, living in Columbus, in the parts of the country where everyone sounds alike -- where there is nothing distinct in their voices. Nothing that hints of experiences or of places and times other than the present. And as she told me I'd have to "Come down here to the store", I grabbed Isaac and headed over to the Man Store (read: Lowe's or Home Depot) to finish ordering my carpet for the new house, but mainly to meet this woman.

I spotted her immediately. Staring at a computer screen in the flooring section. A little old lady surrounded by laminate floorings and carpet samples. Looking a little worn out by the years. Slightly hunched at the shoulders. Once blonde hair graying in just about every area. But a smile that reminds me of my childhood and a voice that, as she began to speak, became the narrator of my past.

Dispensing with the carpet business, I struck up a conversation with her. Asking her where in Maine she was from. She smiled, pondering aloud how I knew she was from Maine. I replied with a smile. I'm from Maine. That was all she needed to know before she launched into her story. And it was a wonderful story. Featuring details of her looming retirement sprinkled with her history living in the Portland area some 25 years ago. Living there long before the Maine Mall was a glint in anyone's eye. When Congress Street was filled with little shops. When time was much different than it is now.

It had been awhile since she had lived in Maine. I complimented her on her lovely accent. How reminiscent it was for me. How it brought me back to trips to Nana's house and to Grammie's house in the summers at Old Orchard Beach. And how it warmed my heart to know in just a few days I would hear the voices, that, just like hers, were near and dear to my heart.

To the untrained ear it sounds English. In fact, she even told me that many people in this area assume she's from England. Maine isn't even an option to them. But the people from Maine, she said, know she's from Maine. From there. Not from here. The ingredients in the elixir were there.

That's the Maine voice. A voice filled with experiences. Filled with summer afternoons and cold winter nights. With days spent looking at an ocean, and hours grieving over the tragedies of the ever-rescinding tide of life that pulls those things away. Of catching and cooking lobsters. Of the silences of listening to baseball games. Of spending Saturdays at yard sales. Of Sunday's at church and those afternoons at picnics in the churchyards. Of bitter cold mornings shoveling snow. Of the rustle of fall leaves cascading through a yard. It's a hardened voice. Filled with rich layers. A voice you can't nail down or imitate. An accent that is only picked up by experience. It's the voice of life.

As she told me how she hoped to get home for the fall this year to visit with her daughter and take a trip to the White Mountains, in the colloquialisms of that glorious accent she had me hanging on each word, each a needle poke, repairing a worn and too oft-forgotten tapestry of my past.

Towering over us were carpets, area rugs and just about everything a person can use to make a home their home. But a home is about the accents.

A home is in the voices.

As I told her what a pleasure it had been to talk with her she said she hoped we'd run into each other.

"Hopefully we will," I said.

"And maybe we can share some pier fries."

"With vinegar. From Bill's."

She smiled and said nothing more.