Matt Got Older

Captain Quirk

Yesterday was my nephew Dawson's 15th birthday. While that number gives me the dry heaves, it's also a testament to my memory that I'm able to recall things from 15 years ago with utmost clarity. He was my first godchild of many to come. Tim was a novelty because he was my first niece/nephew type person, so he had broken me in on the baby lovins front, but Dawson came with his own brand of untamed cuteness in an entirely too small package. He wasn't born prematurely, but may as well have been. He lost a pound from the time of his birth to when he was allowed to come home two days later. For those of us without kid experience, that's about a Load.5, metrically speaking. We were worried.

Regardless of how small and fragile he was, I was able to hold him while my mom entertained Tim in the hallway and my sister underwent some ghastly (no doubt) procedure behind drawn curtain. So, it was just him and me. I could feel his tiny spine in my left palm as I turned him to look at me. He was so light and pale that I wanted to pack him away inside my coat to make sure he was warm enough, regardless of his little hospital issue baby blanket burrito and beanie. When I told him that we had been waiting for him and we loved him, he opened his eyes. His giant eyes. I know that kids that young have no control over their smiling equipment just yet, but I would absolutely swear that he did. He smiled crookedly and with intent. Apparently he'd been waiting for us too.

I'm close with each of my nephews and nieces in our own ways, and I love them deeply and without reservation, but this one. Well, this one. Let's just say I'm glad he came to the party and brought the sass punch...

Happy Christmas Decoration Eve

I walked in my friends' home last night and saw they had already decorated for the holidays, and I felt the butterflies in my tummy because it's not December 3rd yet.

In a family of four kids, my parents tried their best to preserve the identity of each child and make sure they felt special and cared for individually. My brother Russ was born on December 2, so Mom and Dad would adamantly disallow any Christmas decorations to be up in the house or out in the yard until December 3rd. Until that day we were welcome to submit our wish lists to Santa and talk about what we wanted, even underscore our points with pictures we cut out from magazines, but under no circumstances were we allowed to put anything that was red, green, silver, gold, gold-plated, or in any way jingled and/or jangled in a manner fit for a holiday spectacle where the general public could see until the day after we celebrated Russ' birthday. Not the night of the 2nd. The morning of the 3rd.

Once our family started decorating, we also had mandated placements and decorations that were not up for deviation. Mom would arrange the cardboard cutouts of the Christmas ice skaters on the double closet doors in the main hallway, Matt and Russ would decorate the main pine tree in the front yard. I would put up the plastic stained glass cutouts on the big front window, and then we would all bring up the Christmas books and puzzles Mom kept on the ping pong table that served as the year-round groaning beast of burden for her holiday hoard.

Overnight, with a little help from the kids, Mom turned our ordinary house into a magical wonderland that was sure to make Santa blush. I lived for that time of year. I think Mom did too. She was so busy taking care of everyone else all year, whether they were her kids or her parents or siblings or husband, that I think this was a time she could call her own. She takes care with everything she does and Christmas calls for meticulous methods. She taught me how to hang tinsel one strand at a time to make the tree look like we harnessed a moment of winter and brought it inside to enjoy for ourselves. She could tell you every ornament she hangs on her miniature tree and where to find it. She not only believes in Santa, she makes sure others know he is real, too.

I still keep this tradition every year, though I've lived on my own for quite some time now. Even in the dorms when I was in undergrad, I explained it to my roommate who was completely understanding of this hold the 3rd still had on me and we waited until that day to set up our little tree and Christmas lights around the room we called home.

I haven't mentioned the family tree yet. I'll save that for another time. In the meantime, I'm going to make my wish list and wait with quiet anticipation until after we've wished Russ a very happy birthday to hang our stockings by the chimney with care.

Birthday, Observed

Dad was born on October 26, 1926. Let me tell you a few things I learned about and from my dad.

He loved mincemeat pies and rutabaga. Both "foods" make me sad. Mincemeat is the kind of mixture you would conjure up at the middle school lunchroom table and then dare your weakest willed friend to eat it for a dollar--but they have to finish the whole thing. Rutabaga, on the other hand, tasted alright if you could get beyond the stench of cooking it. The wreak of that vegetable breaking down to baby food consistency used to wake us up on Thanksgiving with all the pleasure of the Harvest Clown sitting on our chests and stealing our breath.

Dad could draw Popeye in less than a minute. And not some crappy stick figure holding a cylinder shape with "spinach" written across it. No way. His Popeyes were publishable quality.

He was like the Pied Piper of Hartland without all the death. I'm pretty sure he liked little kids, but holy God did they love him. If there was a kid under 5 in a two mile radius of him, their little kid radar went off and they honed in on him. Some broke into a flat out run to get to him. Once they got to him, their reactions ranged from standing in silent awe to doing a Kerry Strugg vault straight up into his arms. However they reacted to him, he always had the same reaction. He'd look at them over his glasses and make his forehead wrinkle until they were giggggggling little balls of adoring jell-o.

He wore a black ambassador hat with a red and gold feather pin for dressing up, steppin' out occasions like church or weddings.

I saw him visibly mad once in my whole life.

He taught Driver's Education as a little extra income. I don't know how he taught the students he hadn't help make, but I can tell you that our first and only ride together before I earned my license ended with this direction: "brake. Brake. Brake! BRAKE! USE THE GODDAMN BRAKES!" My siblings tell similar stories.

He served in WWII. When "Saving Private Ryan" came out, I kept offering to take him, but he continually declined. He went to see it by himself and told me about it a couple months after the fact.

He had a belly laugh that started in his toes until he would roar with it. Tears would stream from his eyes and he'd almost stop breathing he was laughing so hard. Certain comedians could get him going, but usually it would be our neighbors who stopped in with tales about their kids or grandkids' shenanigans that would set him off the most.

He hated raspberries. We used to have raspberry bushes in the big garden. I'd spend hours in the summer out there gathering them. He could barely stand the sight of them, but tolerated it for us. To a point. The summer after I went to college, he plowed them under with the tractor. He claimed it was an "accident" and didn't see them, but for 18 years, he'd managed to avoid a bush calamity, so I was skeptical. Entertained, but skeptical.

He was raised on a farm in the middle of the Depression in rural Tennessee. His attachment to farm animals was that of caring for them so that they were comfortable until they were edible. He took the same approach to our pets, minus the eating them part. Feed them, pet them if they happened to come near your open palm, never hurt them, and be merciful. His mercy wasn't necessarily my mercy. We had a cat named Hennessy (after the cognac) who was an outside kitty. She developed a horrid infection on her head that we cleaned and treated to no avail. One morning, Dad told me to tell Hennessy that I loved her. I did and then went to school. I came home and went looking for her out by the barn. No Hennessy. I went to change her water and the bowls were gone.

Dad was sitting outside reading the paper and I asked him, "Dad, have you seen Hennessy?"

"Yes."

"Where was she?"

"Out behind the barn."

"I just looked there. When was that?"

"This morning. When I shot her. She's buried back there if you want to go see."

Like he was telling me what he had for breakfast. I don't even think he looked up from the paper. But that's the way he approached animal death. He'd rather take care of them himself, someone who loved them, than some stranger, as he perceived it. He respected our vet while the pets were alive (his brother and son were both vets), but when it came to the end, that was his job.

Dad loved peppermints. Brachs peppermints, not the horrid imitations restaurants hand out when they run out of fortune cookies. He believed they could cure everything from tummy aches to hurt feelings. For the most part, I think he was right, though I know my brother disagrees with me. He thinks they're unsatisfying stand-ins for dessert, but what does he know? He's just a nationally honored chef. Hack.

Today would have been Dad's 82nd birthday, so don your ambassador, pop a Brachs, and join me in a toast to the Pied Piper himself.

Oh, Brother

And so it came to pass in the house of David on the 22nd of October, a second son was born.




His fashion sense was second to only his style icon brother.




The Force was strong with this one.




As a reward for his majesty, his parents brought him a pet to love.



He groomed it.




And read to it.




And took it for walks.




But the boy could not stay in the house of David forever, and took a lovely wife.




Matthew and Janel begat Emma. The Force has an heir.





Matthew and Janel begat Lily. The fashion empire lives on.




And so it is with great joy we link hands and dance the Birthday dance of the ages for the second son come every 22nd of October.