Brand New

That's our grandson, born June 18 to Sarah and Richard in Saskatoon.

Name: Axel Brimley Schiess. Now there's a great name, people.

Tonight I will begin the task of finding when and in what way I can go up there to set my eyes on him. Pictures are nice but not quite adequate, you know, and I'll need to hold him a while, get to know him, sing him an old lullaby.

Paul and Toos

I had a chat with Toos this week as we gathered in her son's home. It's been two months since Paul died. I asked how she's doing and was not surprised at her answer. The first thing she said was not actually a word, just a sound, something close to a moan, though briefer, and her face made the meaning absolutely clear. The next thing, in her Dutch accent, "It's two months, and it's harder now than it was at first."

Not that her family has neglected her, not that her friends have sneaked away. They haven't. Not that she has no happy memories. She has. Not that she can't ever laugh or smile. She can. Just that he's gone.

She said, "I think we should have two tries at it."

I'm not sure how that would work, but I know what she really means. She means, "Paul was sick. I knew he would die, and I thought I would be fine, but this is harder than I thought it would be. I've had enough of it. Paul needs to come home now."

I believe people expect this thing to get easier with the passage of time. But it can take a long time before that begins to happen, like years, and still, you think about him every day. Still you look for him in the house. Still you cry at random moments. The way Toos said she does.

Wayne, Did You Hear This?

I don’t write about all my grandchildren. I think I should, but I don’t. So I probably haven’t written anything about Aaron until now. And it’s not that Aaron has had nothing to brag about before now. I mean, they all have plenty to brag about, because they’re all smart and good looking. How could they not be?

Aaron, Andrew and Michelle’s second of three sons. Younger brother of Jacob the genius. Older brother of Nick the handsome. Aaron is 11, a wiry little blond kid, kind of quiet, and cute as anything. This year he took second in the spelling bee, for one thing to brag about, and I have the picture to prove it. And he plays basketball on the school team and trombone in the school band.

But Sunday night in my kitchen Aaron did something remarkable, something that had/has all of his grown-up relatives—parents, grandmother, aunts, uncles—marveling. And, I must add, envious to forest green. Here it is.

His dad said, “Mom [that’s me], sing a note. Any note.”

“Okay,” I said, and then obliged by singing a note I thought to be E, maybe F.

Andrew said, “Aaron, what note is that?”

“Hmmm,” Aaron thought a second, and only a second, “E-flat.”

Andrew went into the living room and played an E-flat on the piano. Spot on, as they say.

The group response was a loud and heart-felt Wow!

Then, just to be sure this was no one-time happy accident, someone played a random note on the piano. Lola and I said, “C. Middle C.”

“No,” said Aaron. “B.” B it was.

Loud praise and wonder from the assembled group.

Then Andrew said, “Aaron, could you sing an A-flat?”

Aaron, “I could.” And he sang a note.

You already know. Spot on again.

So how come? We all want to know how come he can do that (and we can’t), because in this family perfect pitch, and that’s what it is, is a very big huge deal.

Andrew told me today, “I asked him how he does it, because I want to know.”

I said, “He doesn’t know how.”

Andrew, “That’s what he told me. He doesn’t know how, he just knows.”