Several years ago, I was inspired by an article written by Tim O’Brien, a renowned writer, published in Life magazine. It was titled “A Letter to My Son” and expressed O’Brien’s views on the birth of his son, Timmy, late in life (for him).

O’Brien is perhaps best known for his 1978 novel “Going After Cacciato,” for which he won a National Book Award. The New York Times said of the book: “Calling ‘Going After Cacciato’ a novel about war is like calling ‘Moby Dick’ a novel about whales.” I was a voracious reader of Vietnam War-era tomes, and “Cacciato” was an excellent look at the war from a veteran’s perspective (O’Brien served in Vietnam).

I had kept the copy of Life that contained his “Letter to my Son”, thinking that it was something that I would like to be able to share with my son at some point, or with the grandchildren. Keep in mind, please, that Caleb Alexander Akerley hadn’t even been conceived yet, let alone born. Now that I’m in the habit of putting my thoughts in print (online), I’m inspired to write my own letter, this time to my 4-year-old Caleb. So here goes:

Dear Caleb:

First of all, let me tell you something you already know pretty well. I love you madly. You are, to me, the sweetest, brightest, most loving person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

You are, indeed, a miracle baby. Her mother was vulnerable during her pregnancy with you and suffered from fibroid tumors; she will eventually end up on bed rest for the last three months or more of her gestation. We regularly went to St. Francis Hospital for stress tests to make sure she was healthy. Let me tell you: not only were you healthy in the womb, but you performed far beyond expectations.

We have been speaking to you with excellence since we first learned that you were on the way. Let me be honest about this: not sure if you were a man or a woman, we started to think of you as Stephanie (your mother wanted to name her daughter after her grandmother). Trust me, there was no disappointment when we found out we were having a boy. Don’t forget that “boy” rhymes with “joy.”

A man named Tim O’Brien wrote a letter a long time ago to his young son and told him that he was a little worried about his age at the time his son was born. He was 58 years old when his son Timmy was born and he didn’t know if he would be able to enjoy all of Timmy’s growing up period. I’m in a similar situation. When you were born I was 56 years old; but I have been convinced for a long time that I will live to a great age and, moreover, will be in good shape during my later years.

I’m not worried that I won’t be able to play with you when you’re a teenager. My plan is for you to join me at my usual Wednesday night game at New Britain when you’re a little older. I look forward to coaching you in any sport you want to play. I already know you like basketball, soccer, football, baseball and more, but I’m not ruling anything else out for you. The world is truly your oyster. Grab it.

Tim O’Brien cited his hopes in his letter to Timmy. Let me reflect on some of mine. I look forward to seeing you get married one day, and I hope your children join the family. O’Brien told us how he had learned “that a grown man can find pleasure in” a squeal… a smile, in the miraculous pronunciation of the word “dad.” For me, I’m ecstatic when you come downstairs in the morning when you wake up and say, “I love you, daddy.” For you, these words are automatic. I don’t think you know, at this point, how powerful they are. You can reduce me to virtual nothing with that sentence.

You have learned a lot in your 4 years. When I hear you rhyming, singing a new song of your own composition, I get excited beyond comprehension. When you say, as you did this weekend, “Mommy, you didn’t dry my hair right,” I reckon there are millions of adults who can’t use an adverb at all, much less correctly. Your gifts seem to surpass even my deepest aspirations for you when we awaited your birth. We don’t even have to be on top of you while you eat; to make sure you are getting your vitamins. Almost everything that has appeared on your plate, you have eaten without hesitation.

You amaze me, you excite me, you make my day, you are a wonderful boy, educated, somewhat boisterous, joker, investigator, curious, rhyming, singer, drummer, pianist, amazed, charismatic, affectionate, handsome, cute (I know you hate that!), and you’re funny. You have one of the best senses of humor I’ve ever met.

To quote O’Brien again, “I’d trade every syllable of my life’s work for an extra 5 or 10 years with you.” That’s so true of me, Caleb. Obviously, I don’t long for the day when I have to leave you behind on this earth. The “main duty of a father is to be present,” according to his letter, and at some point in your life, I will no longer be there. My prayer is that you can savor all the moments we have shared together, and that I have trained you well, to be the man you are capable of being.

We like to say that our departed relatives are “up there, watching us.” Clearly, this is not something we know to be true; but if it is true, then you can be sure that I will be watching your every step, brimming with pride that my son is reaping the success that was his destiny from the beginning.

There are not enough words in my copious vocabulary to describe my love for you. I guess that’s all there is to say.

I love you Caleb.

Potato