Wednesday, January 19, 2005


The day my son was born, I got to hold him in my arms and have a long father-son talk with him. During the course of this conversation, which was largely about his future, as at that point his past consisted of only about six hours, we spoke of the things he could become. We talked about being a pilot, a baker, a carpenter, an engineer, a musician--and all sorts of jobs, but Franklin's eyes just kept that glazeid-over look that I seem to recall from my college days. He couldn't be a lawyer, I told him, because our kind of people don't aspire to such things. He can't be President of the United States either, because he's foreign born. Frank's ok with that. When I mentioned the possibility of becoming Secretary General of the UN, his eyes popped open as if he'd been called. It was pretty spooky, but I caught it on video. (My brother Pete comments that he's only interested in it for the dirty money. I took the high road.)

I thought it was pretty interesting that those words would sparkle his eyes, especially when Maggie's father said that his astrological data indicated that, if he had been born 1000 years ago, he might have grown up to be a famous general. I began to wonder if souls were being recycled and if this one had had a turn doing something of such nature on a previous spin. Then, I sort of left it and marvelled at his farts for a few weeks.

But today, after his bath, I was struck again by the little things that would calm him down or draw his attention. His head was towled dry and sticking up all over the place, and he wasn't overjoyed at being half-naked in the cool air of the bathroom. However, when I told him that he looked like Jack Nicholson, he affected an air of sophistication as if to say, "I didn't ask." I love this kid!

Maggie requested a Beatles album to play tonight as she was getting the little fella ready for bed. I was looking for the original soundtrack to Yellow Submarine with George Martin's orchestration, but I settled for the Songtrack which was released a few years ago. Franklin smiled and waved his hands. Not quite dancing baby but enough for me.

Anyway, after my earlier success uncovering a possible link to Jack, I thought I'd try it again when he woke up for another round of formula. "Who's your favorite Beatle, Frankie? Is it John Lennon." No response. "Oh you must like George Harrison, then, right Frankie?" Nothing. "Surely not Paul McCartney...." Not so much as a hiccup. So, my son is a Ringo fan. There are worse things to be. He didn't say didn't profess to a life-long appreciation of the musical stylings of Celine Dion.

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