Our second child, son Christopher, was born April 24th, 1972. The bond between his Mother and I had begun to fray. How those moods come into play is hard to say. Sometimes old pictures betray.

Chris had a strong cry, did not escape notice. As he grew he often crawled into bed with us, needed that extra reassurance. Then during days he was daring and independent. Braces on his shoes till he was one year old did not stop him from learning to walk. And patches on alternating eyes till he was five did not keep him from learning to ride his bike at age four, batting an air filled ball back and forth with me across the back yard with the handle of a croquette mallet. He was very coordinated, could bat as either a left-hander or a right-hander.

His eyes? I remember how the former military doctor had answered questions very disdainfully as if we were stupid for being fearful. We agreed with some reluctance to the surgery date, and appeared faithfully in Shodair’s corridors. Chris was crying. He was under 2 years old and highly apprehensive. The head nurse asked me to fill out a form. I read it very carefully. It said, in the event that something went wrong and Chris became blind, or his eyes were more crossed after the operation than before or that he developed asthma from the anesthetic, that we would not hold the doctor or hospital accountable. Blind? This operation could leave him blind? I was angry. My wife told me to hurry up and sign. Okay, I’d sign, but first I’d alter the wording of the "Contract" a bit! I blackened out whole sentences then in very clear printing, I wrote something of this sort – "If my son goes blind, you are going to be held accountable. If you cannot guarantee my son’s safety and good health, then neither will I guarantee yours!" I signed my name, politely handed the clipboard back to the nurse, and she led us to Chris’s room, where we were to prepare him for the operation. Chris was sniffling, his nose was running, as I tried to reassure and comfort him. It wasn’t long before the nurse reappeared at the door, and told us Chris had a cold and the doctor did not want to operate under those conditions. Chris did not have a cold. He had been crying unrelentingly, almost fiercely, but he did not have a cold. We put Chris’s coat back on, smiled our goodbye, and never saw that doctor again. We visited at least 4 other doctors, one in Butte, one in Bozeman, one in Missoula, and one in Great Falls over the course of the next Three years. Chris very faithfully allowed us to patch his eyes, first one, then the other, and he maintained good vision in both eyes. That he was so coordinated seemed to us nothing short of miraculous. Finally we settled on the Great Falls doctor – Doctor Edwin, and at age five, Chris had his eyes operated on. His grandfather, Hal, accompanied us to the hospital. His eyes were red for a time thereafter, but not long, and the operation was declared a resounding success.

He was precocious, reading early and easily. And he was agile and daring, climbing trees, going over bicycle jumps.

I remember watching him over and over race through puddles on his bicycle, and watching him build dams in snow melt and rain rivers that ran down the sides of our street.