Karleton Fyfe’s mother had to be bedridden for the six months before he was born; he seemed to be in a hurry to get into the world.
There was so much to be excited about. Take the birth of his own son. He and his wife made it a group project. They sent family and close friends a video titled “It’s a …” showing them going for the sonogram, and at the end opening an envelope in which the doctor had written “boy.” When Jackson turned 1, they asked the same group to write something and seal it for him to open when he turned 18.
Then, because Mr. Fyfe heard that the terrible 2’s were caused by frustration at not being able to communicate, he taught his son sign language. “He was really living it,” said Tristin Laughter a longtime friend of the couple.
Mr. Fyfe, 31, really lived everything, applying the same boyishness and determination whether he was mastering Steve Martin routines or the curveball as a kid, or tackling projects as a senior analyst at John Hancock — the job for which he was traveling on American Airlines Flight 11.
