Funny Ha Ha

They are who we thought they were

I once drove a Honda Accord

I once drove a Honda Accord.

Gold with brown interior.

I bought it for 2500 from Dan and Jenn. I test drove it and my brother test drove it as well. I drove carefully to the West Oaks Mall. My brother put it through its paces of the parking lot of said mall if its paces belonged in Indy. Following the test drive, upon my brothers advice and my agreement, I bought it.

But not without the help of my mother.

2500 for a new car. New to me at least. This thing was a piece of crap and an object of pride. I would dart back and forth from work, from LBV to Ocoee via Reams Rd. Back and forth again. Back and forth. On cool fall days, the sunroof would open, and I could feel the breeze above my hair. I could smell the orange groves. Alone, one Sunday, I took a ride back to that same mall and ate chinese food at Panda Express and saw a movie at the theater, but not until after I walked a pace and looked at things and met Bob at whatever store he was working at at the time. Somewhere hippieish, I seem to remember, because I bought sandals there, later on sometime.

I remember my car and the freedom it allowed me within the few square miles it roamed. I remember Checker's and Kristal's. Or if you took a left instead, I remember the Citrus Tower, the relic, the competition to Disney World it was once conceived as.

I remember Florida and a time before Jenn. When my car drove me to Marco, 2 hrs past to how far I thought the Accord could go. Two hours past, because I didn't remember Marco so far away.

I remember pulling into the Surf Club. May no man change the name of that glorious place! I remember walking into the lobby. I remember calling up to the room. Good timing. Dad answered. Said he just got in. Said he'd meet me downstairs. Said Mom was at the beach. We walked down to the surf together, down from the club. Saw Mom in the water up to her knees. I was in sandals and walk up to her, still in the water. She was happy to see me.

The car she helped me buy brought me to her.

She was happy that it did.

I hugged her.

--Vacation, 1997.

Tee hee

A guy sits down in a Cafe' and asks for the hot chile.
The waitress says, "The guy next to you got the last bowl."
He looks over and sees that the guy's finished his meal, but the chili bowl is still full.
He says, "Are you going to eat that?"
The other guy says, "No. Help yourself."
He takes it and starts to eat it. When he gets about half way down, his fork hits something. He looks down sees a dead mouse in it, and he pukes! the chili back into the bowl.
The other guy says, "That's about as far as I got, too."

Dad's retirement

Well, Dad retired yesterday. Some would say that retirement means rest or relaxation. For Jenn and I, it means more babysitting!

I've said before, probably to him, that I'm proud of my father, but thankful as well. His career affected generations of children in a positive way, but his life affected mine in a far more greater way than he probably realizes.

One story, just one:

I was nine or ten years old and it was snowing out. When the snow stopped, I looked out the window. Only one thing was left to do. Wiffle ball in the snow! We played, Dad and I, and towards the end, when we were picking up our bat and ball, I asked him if we could play again.

"Of course," he said.

And while I don't quite remember whether or not we actually did play again, I do remember how much hope two words can muster in a 10 year old.

"Of course," he said, and my heart rose.

I took Liam on a hike today. We played on the cliffs of Liam's Mountain, nee Meriden Mountain.

We looked at the houses and the people below and talked about how small they looked. We saw Hartford, miles away beneath sunny skies, where Mommy works and Daddy goes to school. We talked about things and peed on trees. We were father and son.

On our way to the mall to meet Jenn and Victoria for lunch, Liam asked if we could climb the mountain again.

"Of course," I said.

My father has retired from work, but not from life. He looks forward to more time with his children, his Southington children and his Disney children. He looks forward to more time with Kayla and Liam and Victoria. A whole bunch of living, a whole bunch of relaxing left to do.

So Dad, you've retired. It is time to rest.

And as you rest, know you are loved.

--Matt

Artie's Roast on Howard Stern

Happy Memorial Day!

Fun times at the parade.

You don't remember what you've forgotten until you're reminded of it.

Tonight, I realized that it's been a long time...

...FAT TOM, MSDS, Reefers, Three Bays.

Things you don't think of when your floor isn't tile.

Coming soon

Gonna tell you about the concaron tomorrow...or Saturday...within the next few weeks, I'm gonna tell you about the concaron. Howzat?

In the meantime, here's a pic:

Okay. Everybody smile. Now...you...blink...you in the shirt, look away...Classic.

Fucking Snow.

Words for Gram: 7/11/2006

We climbed a mountain together, my roommate and I. Taking pictures along the way we drove to the top of the High Atlas Mountains in Morocco. And there we saw the footprints of the Sahara beneath the African sun. It was such a wondrous view and such a perfect gift. My roommate had given me this view, this trip to ancient wonders. My roommate gave this gift; my roommate was my Gram.

Such a wonderful gift.

And so now, we are sad, heartbroken really, at was taken away from us. Our mother, our grandmother, our sister our friend has passed away, but we must look past what was taken from us, and instead focus on the gift that was given to us.

She gave me so much. She gave me a backyard in Montclair where I could play wiffle ball with my father. She gave us Green. A backyard hidden from the road where pitch after pitch and hit after hit I knew that I was happy, for I was with my father playing ball on a perfect diamond, happy to be with family, the truest gift of all.

And when the time came, that backyard would be my brother’s and my campsite. It was a yard that housed a tent, a yellow tent, yellow as a banana where Mark and I would take our quarry of lightening bugs placed in mason jars and watch them into the night.

She gave me a cul’d sac that led to a magical park. She gave us a park where my brother and I would play and watch the clouds drift by with my father by my side deciding on their shape and definition.

She gave me an afternoon to play and help garden. She gave my mother and I, us, endless Saturdays, endless summer days to sit beneath the sun, resting. And as we rested, I would sit in my mother’s lap, a chair so perfectly suited for a five-year-old boy.

And she gave me a patio that looked out upon that backyard, where we, all of us, would share stories and laugh and joke and laugh some more until Uncle Greg leaned back in his chair, too far this time, and landed in the pachysandra. Still we laughed some more.

On some nights, we would sit eating peanuts and crackers and cheese, sipping on whiskey sours, and for the kids, Shirley Temples. I would listen to the stories of Africa and Aden and Australia and dreamed of living such a life, of travel and adventure, and to this day, I still dream of such things, for she gave us dreams and she taught us how to pursue them.

Later on in life, she gave me an afternoon with my grandfather. Due to a woman’s group meeting, my grandfather and I were kicked out of the house for a few hours as the women back home supped on finger sandwiches and tea. Grandpa Bill and I went to see a movie and then had lunch at the Circus Drive-In. I’m not sure that there were more than 15 sentences said between the two of us that day and that silence is still one of the fondest memories I’ve had the pleasure to share with a man I admired so greatly.

And so, as I speak of childhood memories, I am reminded that she gave me a foundation on which to become a man. I am reminded that she believed in me and at every step, offered encouragement. She loved my wife, my children, me, just as she loved her husband, her children, and her grandchildren. She taught us all how to love. She taught us all how to give.

And she gave us so much.

She gave us peace, she gave us family, and she gave us a home. She gave us a gift, for her life was a gift that cannot be taken away. She gave us friendship she gave us love, again, she gave us family.

And she gave us heaven, which is where I am sure she now rests.

Going forward, I sometimes try to think of life without her, but I still cannot picture such a scenario. For to do so would mean that we have forgotten days of sun and glory, nights of fireflies and afternoons spent playing in the splendor of life; to do so means that we have forgotten a mountain in Africa and a family in the world.

To do so would mean that we have forgotten Gram’s gift and that gift was she. Frankly, Gram is unforgettable.

We climbed a mountain together, Gram and I, and at the peak we saw the footprints of the Sahara.

Thank you, Gram. Thank you for your gift.

Award winning poetry, (well, okay, honorable mention...)

A Haiku without Nature for a Woman on Tottenham Court Road

Perfume passed by in

London. Awkward, still morning's

chill turns me to you.

Pride and Joy

First blog.

I'm not sure if there will be a second, but we'll see...