It’s quiet out here tonight.

My son arrived on a sweltering summer Wednesday nineteen years ago. July 13. Merely hearing or writing out that date feels like a complete sentence with verbs, subjects, and so many adjectives. In addition to marking the moment that my entire axis shifted, that date will have some relevancy a bit later in this story.

You may not believe this, but I will say this with objective certainty: my son was a really special kid. He was careful and gentle, and he was loved by a lot of people. For the most part, folks would not know that our boy had any medical issues. He ran. He played. He jumped. He was on a Little League baseball team called the Cubbies and he wore the number four. That number will be relevant later in the story, too. 

Owen’s health was complicated from day one. He endured a lot. At times it was really hard to watch him suffer. Some of those moments still haunt me. He was a trooper in the truest sense. He unexpectedly passed away in August 2014 due to complications that emerged after a series of heart surgeries. He was nine years old.

After he passed away, our family took a trip to a favorite South Carolina beach to spread some of his ashes. My son loved the feeling of sand escaping between his toes and boogie boarding at that particular beach. A lot of memories were made in those waves. So, it made sense to honor him there. We purchased what I can only describe as a biodegradable paper mâché turtle with dimensions roughly the size of an actual juvenile loggerhead turtle. A portion of his ashes were placed in a vessel within the turtle. It was actually quite elegant. While the bulk of our family traveled by airplane to the beach, my brother-in-law and I drove all the way from Pennsylvania to South Carolina with our family vacation supplies and the paper mâché turtle filled with Owen’s ashes by our side. I won’t bore you with the details, but I can share that it was a surreal and sad car ride. 

A few days into the trip we rented a pontoon boat and took the entire family way out into the water. This was the day that we would set the turtle free. Owen’s sibling and his cousins had plucked a number of beautiful pink flowers from a large bush nested against the garage of our rental house and brought them on the boat with us. The day was overcast and mild. For whatever reason, I captained the boat. It was a rather buoyant trip, as the kids loved the novelty of being on an actual boat. After about thirty or so minutes of tooling around the sound, we cut the motor. The abrupt yet welcome silence greeted the soft waves lapping against the hull in a subtle musical movement—a fitting soundtrack for this poignant and heartbreaking ritual. We released the turtle and the pinched flowers, and sunk into a very solemn moment—some of might say ceremony—honoring our boy. That experience is still etched vividly in my mind and will be—forever. 

A few months before this particular trip to the beach, we were gifted an opportunity to visit a nearby beach in South Georgia. The coastline in this area of the country is dotted with islands of various sizes and character. Extended family had invited us to stay at their sleepy and cozy beachfront townhouse at Christmas time. My first experience of beach at winter, this particular trip really allowed me, my wife, and our daughter to begin creating new memories. We built sandcastles in sweaters and collected the best shells across miles of damp and quiet sand littered with windswept reeds and our frigid toe impressions. Tortured and beautiful, the trip invited us to consider that new experiences could be made, despite the ever-present and profound sense of guilt—we were experiencing new things without our son. I have candid pictures from that trip on my bedside dresser. Patina and time do not obscure the bittersweet—not suprisingly.

Our hosts recommended three things for us to do while staying at their home: visit the neighborhood pizza shop, eat at the fantastic brunch and breakfast spot down the way (with the most gentle server named Jackie who still works there), and visit the Georgia Sea Turtle Center, which rehabilitates turtles that have been hit by cars and boat propellers, shocked by freezing water temperatures, or some other calamity. As you can imagine, the sea turtle rescue facility became even more symbolically important to us after we dispersed Owen’s ashes in that pontoon boat later that year. 

That beach has become an annual destination for us—a place to heal, to reflect, and to continue making memories. Each year we have visited the center to “adopt a turtle” that they are rehabilitating. Donations like ours help them pay for the medical and convalescing care that the turtles need. The first year we adopted Rufus, the next was Belle, and then other ones that I frankly cannot remember. 

As previously noted, July 13 of this year would have been my son’s 19th birthday. A few days before his birthday, we were at the South Georgia beach for our family vacation. We visited the sea turtle center. We spent a really good bit of time at the facility, taking pictures and looking through a lot of the exhibits they had on-hand. As we were finishing up, we decided to try to adopt a sea turtle. This year the center had a new opportunity, one where you could adopt an actual nest of loggerhead turtles. As folks may know, loggerhead mother turtles land on the beaches of Georgia, South Carolina, and Florida to lay their eggs—typically just above the high tide mark. The areas are monitored by sea turtle rescue facilities and volunteers, and the nests are catalogued, numbered, and typically cordoned off to prevent people from getting too close. We agreed that this option would be a great way to celebrate the memory of Owen near his birthday. And, so, we adopted a nest.

As I noted earlier, Owen’s little league number was four. And, that number has become both sentimental and symbolic over the past decade. His friends have honored his memory by wearing the number. The local high school baseball team retired it for a few years.  We have purchased plenty of sports memorabilia over the years exclusively because it included the number. Suffice it to say, four has figured large in our lives. So, it was a welcome surprise when we learned that the nest we were adopting was nest number #4. 

The adoption process allowed us, the adopting family, to receive periodic updates on the hatching. A week or so after returning home, we received an email from the sea turtle center. Nest #4, our adopted collection of darling baby loggerheads, hatched on July 13.  Happy Birthday, sweet boy. 

Owen wore the #4 when he played for the Cubbies in 2013. That’s the year that we became life-long friends with the Haas family–Scott, Hadley, Declan, and Bennett. Scott served as coach for the Cubbies, and Bennett and Owen were classmates and teammates. After Owen passed away, the Haas family made certain that Owen would be celebrated. Everything from hosting bake sales to support Owen’s memorial fund, to commissioning commemorative patches with Owen’s name on little league jerseys, to organing the best wiffleball classic on the planet every Labor Day to honor our boy–the Haas’ have been there for it all. We have grieved together. This past week provided me with a poignant reminder of how powerful that shared experience continues to be.

A little context: last year would have been Owen’s freshman year of high school. Several of his Cubbie teammates (including both of the Haas boys) were still playing baseball together as part of the high school team, and Scott and Hadley had become very active with the Baseball boosters program. As a tribute to their friend (and with support from the Haas family), the baseball team–led by the amazing Coach Dean Owrey–“retired” Owen’s number for the four years he would have been in high school. Obviously, we were floored by this gesture and so incredibly grateful that our son would be celebrated this way.

Last week, the team hosted the annual game to honor Owen. Some of the highlights follow:

Before the game Coach Owrey met Olivia and me at home plate for a photo with Owen’s #4 jersey, and then presented us with a baseball signed by the QV team, which was displayed in a beautiful wooden case.

Each of the teams lined the field as Bennett Haas bravely and solemnly read a beautiful passage about Owen.

The text from the passage was included in the game program.

I’ve spent the last several days trying to decide what to write here. It has been unusually difficult. Here’s what I can say: grief is tough. Period. And, there are a few things that I’ve learned about grief over the past seven and 1/2 years. One of those things relates to leaning in: the weight of grief is more manageable when it is shared. I cannot adequately capture how grateful we are to have the Haas family in our lives. They continue to lean in and share in the grieving process.

And, to the Quaker Valley Baseball community: thank you for continuing to honor the memory of our boy.

Thinking about this boy today. Memorial Day Parade, 2010. He rode it the entire way. I miss the parade. I miss him.

I do not have any new words today. Just a quiet reminder: practice being gentle.

I promised myself last week that I would start writing again.

I have marked this day before. I’ll do it again.

Six years ago today was the last day that our family was together. After we huddled on our porch steps with peeling paint on that sweltering evening, our daughter bounced across the street and spent the night at our closest friends home, while we packed and prepared for an early morning arrival at Children’s Hospital.

That night is etched. Details. Details. I’ll never forget honoring that moment as she crossed the street. Anxiety and fear–masked by a compulsive and protective refrain. It’s routine. We’ve done this before. We’ll be fine.

I look out my window tonight. A quiet and vaguely familiar street—with a pandemic veil and fog exacerbating the disconnect. So much change.

The world has changed. This street has changed. My grief has changed.

Lulu is now twelve. She still bounces.

Ready or not…

I happened to hear a radio show the other day where they were talking about vulnerability. This rather sharp psychologist in the most straightforward way suggested that “putting yourself out there without being able to control the outcome” is the essence of vulnerability. That idea resonates with me tonight.

Four years ago I stood before 600 or so friends and family during my son’s memorial celebration and shared some thoughts about my boy. At one point I talked about the love of music that he and I shared. I framed it as a lesson he’d taught me–that music is a kind of universal language that can connect people, and create and color every human emotion–including grief.

In the weeks and months following his death I found myself drawn to that lesson as I began (albeit quite reluctantly) practicing my love of music again–picking up the various instruments situated around the house and noodling. Soon I found some utility in that: writing words/ideas/music was becoming like a journal of sorts–marking time, documenting the process. The awful and anguished process told through songs.

A little bit later I got the idea that these songs kinda stitched a story, and that maybe it might make sense to figure out a way to share that story. On a whim I approached this incredible guitarist and producer, Ryan Neitznick, in a parking lot one night and asked if he might be interested in joining a conspiracy to help tell that story. He agreed (because he’s got a heart of gold), and soon brought a third conspirator and co-producer, John Michael Rectenwald, into the mix.

Together, they brought their shared genius, intense care and concern, and, ultimately, three dimensions to the vision I had originally developed. They spent countless hours working to appreciate the themes, reference materials, and tone I was hoping to convey. They leaned in so selflessly. No words would or could adequately capture my gratitude for their unconditional approach to the project. Honestly.

Special thanks to these immensely talented contributors:

Devin Mascilli (percussions), Ryan Neiznick (guitars, vocals), Jason Rafalak (bass), Nick Spagnolo (percussions), John Michael Rectenwald (vocals), Noah Rectenwald (bassoon, vocals)

And, so, here it is. I share it filled with vulnerability. Nine tracks. It’s called “all these stars over me.”

Spotify

Apple Music

Amazon

Or, if all else fails, you can listen to each track for free on this site here.

It’s always there. It’s always present.