Noah Stewart Schiess, His Day

Today is Noah's birthday. He's 10. Noah is a handsome blond boy whose glasses lend a look of scholarly seriousness, not that he is all seriousness. He likes play, no doubt about it, and has lots of friends to play with.

Noah's speech is precise and deliberate, as if he has a sense that he is imparting wisdom, something very important for his listener. Well, I believe that is his sense.

He is a boy who likes to know things. I expect he is almost, if not completely, an expert on World War II tanks and airplanes and other weaponry and munitions. He knows a lot about bugs, too.

His dad is my son Wayne Charles, named for his father Wayne Gordon. As we spoke by telephone the other day, my son said he misses his dad, no surprise there, but not only for himself. He misses him for his three boys. He'd like it if those boys could just sit with Grandpa Schiess and talk a while. We'd all like that.

He had, said my son, a way of finding a unique quality in each of those boys. They don't remember that. But Wayne remembers. A boy like Noah could use a sit down with his Grandpa Schiess. That could be an interesting exchange of wisdoms.

Happy Birthday, Noah.