Liam’s Great Adventure

With my daughter’s permission and my grandson, Liam, in tow, I recently flew off to Maine for an August vacation.  My daughter will never know how much joy, this one little boy brings to my heart.

Liam is an eternally happy little boy.  In his whole life there has not been many times I remember him without a smile on his face.  He’s a rugged boy; a polite boy; a loving boy.  Donning his UK baseball cap, he’s Opie Taylor and Beaver Cleaver all wrapped up in one.  As I pen these words, Liam is four years old and the world is a buried treasure chest just waiting for his discovery.

So, on Saturday, August 14, 2010, Liam and I passed through security at Standiford Field International Airport, in Louisville, Kentucky, for a half-day of flying to Portland, Maine.  He had never flown before and I was uncertain how he’d react to being belted to his seat for an extended period.  I’ve seen kids, older than him, stir up enough trouble on planes, only to have their parents threatened with being put off the flight.  As I buckled him in for his first flight, I could only cross my fingers and hope he’d be okay with having to sit still.  With his little LL Bean backpack filled with snacks and treats, and his iPod Touch charged and loaded with his favorite video games, we set sail on two perfect flights to our destination.   I couldn’t have asked for a better behaved travel-mate.   And although we’d spent half the day in airports and on planes, when we finally landed in Portland, later that afternoon, Liam was still smiling and ready for more adventure.

During his week in New England, Liam practiced the art of having fun, with passion.  He walked, jumped and ran through Millinocket, Maine like a whirlwind.  No pebble was safe from his gaze as pitched them, one after the other, into the Penobscot River.  One group of women campers even let him experience kayaking on the downstream side of some of the most awesome rapids in North America.  In the midst of frogs and small fish, he swam in Jerry’s Pond with my wife, whom he affectionately calls Nonna—which is Italian for grandmother.  He blew bubbles, sprayed everything in sight with his water pistol and even had a couple of up-close experiences with several horses.  We explored, picked wild blackberries and had fun with several cats.  He jumped on a trampoline with Rhylie, a relative from the other side of his family, and fell asleep on his great grandmother’s lap.  He ate pizza and ice-cream and drank unsweetened tea with Splenda.  He sat through Despicable Me, in Bangor, and never once made a peep.  At night, when bed-time came, he went willingly, never whimpering or complaining.  And each morning he awoke, with his big toothy grin, ready to get on with the day.

On the day we were to fly home, the alarm pulled us from sleep at 4:00 AM.  As always, Liam was ready to go.  He dressed, shouldered his backpack and climbed into Nonna’s car for the ride to the Portland airport.  Due to a mechanical failure, the airline pushed our plane’s original departure time of 6:00 AM, back to 1:30 PM.  As I stood in line for over an hour, waiting to make arrangements to fly on that later flight, Liam sat quietly, by himself, playing with his iPod.  He never moved until I finished with the re-ticketing for our new flights.  In the end, it took nearly eighteen hours to get back to Louisville and my car.  During that whole, disastrous day, my grandson never once complained, dozed or lagged behind as we trudged through three airports.

When eventually we made it back to my car and I had him strapped into his seat for the ride home . . . without a care in the world, sleep found him at last.  There was nothing left to do, nothing left to see.  The little boy had spent every ounce of himself and had nothing left to give.

The next morning, at work, I sat down at my desk and began the process of catching up.  As I drew in a refreshing breath and reminisced on the week I’d just spent with my grandson, I only hoped his memories would be good ones.  Then, as I got back into the swing of what I do almost every day, I realized I was back at work and I could rest.

The Passing of a King

The end could not have been less regal.  Stripped of his health, this once powerful king drew his last breath, alone, without the comforting presence of consoling witnesses, outside the reach of those that loved him or those that served him.  Taken by an unseen and unknown enemy, this sleek warrior slipped from this life, not on the battlefield, but in a sterile sanctuary meant for the aged and infirmed.  In the end his fierce roar was not heard, and his once imposing majesty held no sway on the Black Hand that pulled him from this life.

He reigned, in this life, a short, thirteen years.  But those thirteen years were enough to spawn his legend.   Those that loved him, will miss him, but it’s his growing legend that all will remember. 

As I walk the lonely corridors of his abode—left empty by his passing—it’s impossible to miss the signs of his life as I move from room to room.  I find myself conversing with him, out of habit, even though I know he’s gone.  What an imprint he made on me during his life, and I didn’t even realize it until he was gone.

Have I mourned him?  I’d be lying if I said no.  Would you call him a king?  If you had known him in life, you’d be hard-pressed to deny him his status as the king of his kind. 

King Spaz, cat of all cats, good-bye.