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Dear Ezra,

It's been a while since I wrote to you in this very public of forums, kiddo.

I'm not sure how you'll view these "letters" as you get older — probably with a degree of pride and then, as you hit your teenage years and realize that Dad is basically laying out every poopy diaper and childhood quirk for the public to read, probably with a bit of embarrassment and disdain.

For a while, I thought these letters were a bit self-indulgent, but again, the good people of Blount County never cease to amaze me with their curiosity and their kindness. I've received such an overwhelming and positive response, such an outpouring of empathy and love, for both you and these words to you that my gratitude for living and working in this place has grown exponentially.

It's hard to believe that 18 months have passed since you first came into the world. I look at you now, toddling around on your chubby little legs, getting a little more sure-footed every day, and marvel at how much you've grown. Eighteen months isn't a long time by most standards, but when you're watching your son grow from a helpless, 7-pound infant who can barely keep his eyes open into an inquisitive, mischievous toddler, it might as well be 18 years.

I keep meaning to write down a list of your little habits and quirks and adventures so I can tell you about them later (preferably when you're 16 and bringing home a girlfriend for the first time).

You love going outside; even when you're exhausted from a full day of play, you'll toddle to the back door and pull on the knob, whining and pointing toward the great outdoors that lies beyond it. You love dogs — lately, you've been maneuvering behind Axl, my old rat terrier whose breath smells like a compost pile, and rocking slowly back and forth on your heels, like a cheetah about to pounce on a gazelle. Your eyes will burn with impish glee, and then you'll throw yourself onto him, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him over on his side, giggling the whole time. Axl, God love him, just tolerates it, looking to me with pleading eyes.

You're obsessed with ceiling fans. If a restaurant or a building or the homes of friends has one, you point to it like Richard Dreyfuss walking toward the light in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," a look of wonder and awe on your face. Although you've mastered quite a few words, "fan" is not among them. You just point and say, "ahhhhh." A ceiling fan is an "ahhhh" to you. And if we're shopping and happen to make a turn down the home improvement aisle, where ceiling fans of every shape and size sit in boxes, you'd think you were Catholic and seeing the Virgin Mary appear before your worshipful eyes.

There's so much more I want to remember, so much more I want to share with everyone who meets you. Most of it, I'm sure, is simply the pride and love of a father. I never thought I'd be the guy who bores relatives and friends and strangers alike with pictures and details of my kid's life, but I think I'm turning into that guy. (Whenever someone asks about you, I whip out my cell phone to show them your picture.)

But you know, son, maybe that's OK. I love you, and in this hard old world, a kid needs all the love and protection and encouragement and nurture he can get.

Rest assured, you've got it, from your parents and grandparents and friends, all the way down to strangers who have never seen you but feel connected to you just the same.

I would say you're a blessed child, but I think it's the rest of us who are truly blessed — by your laughter, your love, your beautiful and shining spirit that never ceases to bring a smile to anyone you meet.

Love,

Dad

Steve Wildsmith is the Weekend editor for The Daily Times. Contact him at steve.wildsmith@thedailytimes.com or at 981-1144.