Today is our youngest child’s ninth birthday. Tonight, we’ll have cake, and we’ll probably celebrate again this Thursday, since Willie is just one of the many special blessings we’ve got to be thankful for.
His continued presence brings to mind an incident that occurred back in July of 2007. My recollections of it are still vivid, partly because I wrote about it shortly afterward, but also because I’m quite capable of filling in details I don’t fully recall by simply making them up.
We were staying with friends in Connecticut on the eve of a major family reunion when I was called upon to do an impromptu impression of Sergeant York. (Note to readers not familiar with World War I heroes: look him up!) After dinner had concluded, everyone headed outside to chat while simultaneously watching five adorable children play. Our oldest son was riding bikes with their boy. Our daughter and their daughter were peacefully coexisting as well. Willie was contentedly occupying himself near a wooden jungle gym. The scene was positively idyllic.
Then, without warning, shrieks of terror pierced the tranquility. Willie had inadvertently stumbled upon a nest of yellow jackets and the hive’s angry denizens were swarming around him. Everyone was paralyzed with fear. The situation cried out for a superhero, but seeing no sign of either Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne being nearby, I quickly swung into action myself. Wasting no time on either personal safety or rational thought, I fearlessly swooped into the teeming horde of yellow-and-black-striped devils, scooped up the helpless boy, and with the speed of a steroid-fueled Olympic sprinter ran him into the house, all the while feverishly blowing the still-numerous stinging marauders off the terrified child.
At this point in my modest retelling of this epic saga to friends, colleagues, relatives or strangers I am chatting with in the checkout line, my wife invariably feels the need to interrupt. She maintains that no adult there was “paralyzed by fear.” Her version of the incident is a bit different: She claims the reason she summoned me to save our son from further injury (or what I term “certain and painful death”) was merely that I was the closest one to him at the time. But those clouded recollections are clearly less reliable ones, obviously those of someone too traumatized at the time by the potential enormity of the tragedy I was singlehandedly quelling to have retained any accurate or precise memories of the event. And besides, who wants to let a few boring facts interfere with the embellishment of a good story?
Willie had been stung three times by the time we got inside. When I mention this listeners invariably grimace, then murmur something sympathetic about how the poor little boy must have been feeling. That’s when I stiffen with indignation. “Excuse me,” I’ll say. “I hate to interrupt the pity party, but what about me? Do you know (or even care) how many times I got stung?”
As it happens, I was not stung even once, but the point is that I could have been. Was it my fault the grenade didn’t blow up after I threw myself on top of it?
However, the next day our youngest child’s unadulterated love became a bit unwieldy. We were in the midst of a big Wiffle Ball game, the outcome of which, given the infrequency of our extended family’s get-togethers, could have meant bragging rights for the rest of the decade. At a key moment in the proceedings and with the whole clan looking on, Willie, who had just awakened from his nap, raced out onto the field crying, “Daddy! Daddy!”
Under the baleful glare of my wife, who clearly didn’t fully understand the gravity of the ongoing competition, I picked the boy up. However, every time I attempted to put him down to resume my pitching duties, he began wailing piteously. Reluctantly, I hoisted the young fellow up and traded spots with a cousin who had been patrolling right field. I was standing there holding Willie in the crook of my left arm moments later when someone hit a rocket over my head. While still carrying the wriggling child, I took off like a shot and made a rally-killing, over-the-shoulder, one-handed running grab for the inning’s final out. Trotting triumphantly off the field while still toting my cooing, clinging, 20-month-old bundle, I was greeted with adulation and kudos from nearly all of the spectators. The one notable exception was my spouse, who sniffed, “I’m just glad you didn’t drop our son.”
Wounded by her lack of confidence, I replied, “Honey, I love our boy every bit as much as you do. I’d never drop Willie to catch a silly Wiffle Ball ”“ unless the game was tied.”
— Andy Young teaches in Kennebunk and lives in Cumberland.
Comments are not available on this story.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
