Watching medicine fail my child, I developed a crackpot theory: Life is something we need to stop correcting. My boy was a pocket universe I could never hope to fathom. Every one of us is an experiment, and we don't even know what the experiment is testing.

My wife would have known how to talk to the doctors. Nobody's perfect, she liked to say. But, man, we all fall short so beautifully.


HE WAS A BOY, so naturally he wanted to see Hillbilly Vegas. Three towns jammed together with two hundred places to order pancakes: What's not to love?

We drove from the cabin, down seventeen winding miles along a stunning river. It took us almost an hour. Robin watched the water, scanning the rapids from the back seat. Wildlife bingo. His new favorite game.

Tall bird! He called out. "What kind?"

He flipped through his field guide. I was afraid he might get car-sick. Heron? He turned back to the river. Half a dozen more curves and he shouted again.

Fox! Fox! I saw him, Dad!

"Gray or red?"

Gray. Oh, man!

"The gray fox climbs persimmon trees to eat the fruit."

No way. He looked it up in his Mammals of the Smokies. The book confirmed me. He groaned and slugged my arm. How do you know all this stuff, anyway?

Skimming his books before he woke up helped me keep one step ahead of him. "Hey. I am a biologist, aren't I?"

Ass ... trobiologist.

His grin tested whether he'd just crossed a terrible line. I gaped, equal parts stunned and amused. His problem was anger, but it almost never turned mean. Honestly, a little meanness might have protected him.

"Whoa, mister. You just missed getting a time-out for the rest of your eighth year on Earth."

His grin firmed, and he returned to scouting the river. But a mile down that winding mountain road, he put his hand on my shoulder. I was just joking, Dad.

I watched the road and told him, "Me, too."

We stood in line for the Ripley's Odditorium. The place unnerved him. Kids his age ran all over, forming bands of improvised mayhem. Their screaming made Robbie wince. Thirty minutes of the horror show and he begged me to leave. He did better with the aquarium, even if the stingray he wanted to sketch wouldn't hold still for its portrait.

After a lunch of french fries and onion rings, we took the lift to the sky platform. He almost vomited all over the glass floor. White- knuckled, jaw clenched, he declared it fantastic. Back in the car, he seemed relieved to have gotten Gatlinburg out of the way.

He was thoughtful on the drive back to the cabin. That would not have been Mom's favorite place on the face of the planet.

"No. Probably not even in her top three."

He laughed. I could get him to laugh, if I chose my moments.

That night was too cloudy for stargazing, but we slept outside again, on our rustic cushions with their parades of elk and bear. Two minutes after Robin snapped off his flashlight I whispered, "Your birthday tomorrow." But he was asleep already. I recited his mother's prayer softly for the both of us, so I could reassure him if he woke up horrified at forgetting.


HE WOKE ME IN THE NIGHT. How many stars did you say there are?

I couldn't be angry. Even yanked from sleep, I was glad he was still stargazing.

"Multiply every grain of sand on Earth by the number of trees. One hundred octillion."

I made him say twenty-nine zeros. Fifteen zeros in, his laughter turned to groans.

"If you were an ancient astronomer, using Roman numerals, you couldn't have written the number down. Not even in your whole lifetime."

How many have planets?