In which Thomas leads an expotition to Antartica

Casually Thomas informs me of his plans for departure. My nearly eight-year-old son who hopes for a jack-knife, a fishing pole, and a harmonica for his upcoming birthday; my first born child who writes stories with characters named Frid because Fred, well, that name is "too common;" my eldest son whose offering of glasses of water to his siblings and parents after a family walk in the stifling heat (never mind that the water was hot) wounded his mother's heart because of the purity of his love: He will be leaving at dawn, my deft explorer, bound south, far, far south, determined to reach Antarctica. His vintage, brown suitcase rescued out of the depths of the closet he shares with his sister is clutched in his hand, meticulously packed with a plethora of items deemed crucial for such a venture. "Could I sneak a peak?" I cannot resist an exploration of my own. He obliges. The suitcase is crammed with his favorite stuffed bear, Baby Owen, and his blanket, of course. Also enclosed is a book about baseball greats like Roberto Clemente, Hank Aaron, and Jackie Robinson; a new book Mudball about the shortest hit home run; a Magic Treehouse book about knights; a St. Nicholas coloring book that I haven't seen in years; an etch-a-sketch; his father's old, leather wallet; a Spider-Man kaleidoscope; and a Korean flag. I kiss him on the head and on the cheek as I tuck him into bed. Be safe my young wanderer. And come home soon.