Author Archives: Matthew

About Matthew

A father, son, husband, and fairly rad dude.

Cranky Old Man: Music these days.

I enjoy music.  Not many people do.  This comment will no doubt be the source of much angst.  But I hold that within the realm of this post, I am the only one correct.  My opinion counts for much more with me because it is mine.

The problem:  People say they like music but do not really.  Most people do two things:  They constantly have music playing.  It keeps on going no matter what.  It relegated to the background, ignored.  Occasionally it will be forced to the forefront by an individual who loves a certain song.  We are forced to be quiet so they can hear it, or sing along.

Those people do seem to enjoy music quite a lot.  But the actual music doesn’t seem to matter that much.  It becomes noise all too often.

Other people use music as veneer.  It is so loud that nothing else can be done.  The sound fills in all the cracks of silence and thought and doesn’t allow real appreciation.

Real Written Word

Lifeguard training started today, so I am dog tired.  We swam a lot, pretended to drown, and did general lifeguard stuff.  It was intense.  But all in preparation for the children.
Today, I am planning a trip Up North with Sam at the end of June.  It is hard.  Really, we should have planned it long ago, as we are now searching for hotels.  And we have very specific dates of hotel-stay; we are campers by nature.  For some strange reason, there is no campground on Mackinac Island.  The confuses me greatly, but whatever I suppose.

And I sit and stare at my journal.  It is a fancy Moleskine which I like okay.  My favorite journal was my last one, a black affair that said “Notes” on the front.  It was normal.  Moleskine seems to scream at other people “I am Fancy!  Look at my MOLESKINE?  Hey, Elmore Leonard, did you see I’m writing in a MOLESKINE?

What is the point?

I do like the ribbon and the band.  It is obviously popular for a reason, so poking fun is not needed.  But the last entry?  May 1st.  Two sentences.  Before that?  March 3rd.  Journalling is hard work, I guess.  I do enjoy it, but I wonder why I seem to forget about it so often.  I have filled one journal in my day, a feat I found impressive.  The damn things just seem to float around for days sometimes without my spying it.  But there are things my head would like to put on paper or keyboard that I’m not willing to put here.

They are thoughts that don’t belong here for the world to be bored by, ideas I don’t want taken from my mental coinpurse, and general stress relief.

So, journalling.  Should I not update here with witty observations, I shall keep the written word ongoing in my own handwriting.  Which is also hard.  Handwriting has become a lost skill.  I find myself forgetting the way to write letters.  I spent five minutes trying a cursive “J” the other day.  It kept coming out as an ampersand.

This is somewhat odd as I do write many letters and cards to people.  These are rarely creative endeavors.  My grandparents aren’t interested in visual imagery, just how the family is.  So that is that.

ALSO:  Should you find yourself interested in minutae of Sam and Mine’s life, we have a blogarino:  It updates rarely now, but come Baby Time, it will rock.

No Weddings and a Funeral

Grandma’s funeral was on Saturday.  It started at eleven and was, as these things often are, a bit too long.  But it was very nice.  Nic and I were pallbearers along with my cousins and the guy who lives across the street from Grandpa.  The casket was not as heavy as I thought it might be.

Among other things, I heard the story of how Grandpa and Grandma met.  It was a nice little story.  They met at a square dance and she caught his eye.  A few weeks later, he saw her at a show at the auditorium and asked to take her home.  He had heard everyone call Great-Grandma “Ma,” so he said “Ma.  Can I take Ruthetta home.”  That was that.

Grandma sat in the middle of the house when we visited.  She was an empress to the family.  You could goof around all you wanted with Grandpa, but to upset Grandma was worse than murder.  I don’t recall anyone ever doing it.  She made sure the house was clean.  More importantly, she made sure the house was welcoming.  There are few places I have been as welcoming as my Grandparent’s house.  Little was off-limits to us growing up, we were free to explore the woods and fields in the back.

Most of my family was there.  The only cousin missing was Gail, and she had just been there a few weeks ago.  She lives in Panama with her husband, so it was a big thing for her to be able to make it up at all.  I know she would love to have seen us all.

I will miss Grandma.  And that’s the end of my feeling.  She died in the best circumstances, having lived a full life.  Grandpa held her hand when she went.  We had all said we loved her.  She is free of pain now, whatever has happened.

I will miss Grandma.

In Which: A Book is Closed

My grandmother has passed away.

This is a bit of a big thing.  I have had the good fortune to reach age twenty-five with all my grandparents in fairly good health.  Grandma Grimm has been in failing health for the past few years, so this comes as no surprise.  Still, it is a shock to have it happen.

Ruthetta Grimm, called Willie by Grandpa Grimm, has always been a mythic figure.  You couldn’t do much in my youth to anger Grandpa, but woe unto he who angered Grandma.  I never did.  All I saw was a sweet woman who made amazing pecan pie.  But there was the imagined Grandma, the one you never wanted to see.

I last saw her a few weeks ago.  I wanted her to meet Sam and know we were getting married.  She held Sam’s hand and mine.  For a long time, I was alone with her.  Grandma held my hand, too weak to sit up.  We just sat in silence.  Grandma and I have never talked much – I was never articulate enough to carry on a conversation when she was in health.  But it was nice to sit with her.  I let her know I loved her and kissed her forehead.

I did all I needed to with Grandma.  Her death is sad, but she is done suffering.  She touched a lot minds and hearts.  My mother learned to cook from her.  Mom taught my sister and me.  She is alive whenever Sarah makes a pie, even just a little.

So, Grandma’s book is closed.  But there’s one Hell of an epilogue to her story.

The History Of Madam Curie

Madam Curie was a dog.  Not the chemist, the dog.  My dog.  She was a shaggy black mutt with the intelligence of a dolphin.  If I had asked her to kick a football, I think she could have.  This was her talent.

I don’t remember what age I started begging for a dog.  My mom would probably state it was out of the womb, but that would be silly.  We had a dog then, undeniably mom’s.  A giant Irish Setter named Shaun.  If I think hard I can remember him and how I would try to ride him.  I was not very old when he died.  The unfortunate result of a car.

After this, we had a dog named Bear.  I don’t remember when we got him or when he left, because he was insane.  At the time I claimed he was always nice to me.  That is, he didn’t bark at me as much as the rest of the family.  My belief in this was firm.  Bear was taken to the animal shelter because he bit a neighbor girl.  That’s what mom told me, and I have no wish to disbelieve her.

It was several years later when I finally convince mom to let us get a puppy.  My sister had a friend whose dog had some mutts for free and mom took us over.  I have no idea if I had been demonstrating responsibility or she just wanted to shut me up.  It was a normal house just a few streets away.  The puppies were enclosed in one of those fences people by for the inside of the home.

The choices were down to a girl and a boy.  I chose the girl.  Very much into science at the time I named her “Curie,” which just about everyone heard as “Carrie.”

“No,” I would reply.  “Cure-ee.  Like Madam Curie.”  They would look at me like I was crazy.

Curie was crated.  My mom insisted this was the way to go and I have never seen a disadvantage.  I insisted the crate be kept in my bedroom which did have disadvantages.  Curie was a puppy and did not like being kept in a kennel at night.  Her first night brought mom to my room, both of us awake.  Mom was her typical motherly self, wondering what was wrong with Curie.

“Oh, you want to play” Mom said.  Curie nibbled at her hands.

Looking back, there were many things I would do differently now.  A hot water bottle would have helped a lot.  The crate would have been in the basement right away – its eventual home.  I would have played with her much more right away.

We played a lot.  Her favorite game was “run away from Matthew when he needs to catch the bus.”  I usually won that one, never missing the bus playing it.  It typically ended with a flying tackle.  She did run into my leg once, which caused much whimpering on her part.  During the course of her life I taught her tricks.  She could sit, rollover, lay down, jump in the air, and speak.  The latter was asked as “say please.”  Curie often asked for food politely at the table.

It was one morning while playing the game that she had her first seizure.  My sister, Sarah, and I had never seen something like that.  Curie’s generally bright eyes glazed over and she fell to the floor.  I ran to call Mom, incoherent at what was going on.  All Mom remembers us saying was that Curie was dying.  The seizure ended and as she came out of her stupor, she seemed distant.  It took a few minutes for her to be “Curie” again.

I was late to school that day.

It turned out Curie had epilepsy.  It wasn’t very bad at first.  Every so often she would fall over and seize.  We never knew when it would happen.  For a young boy, dogs can be the closest family member, so it was very harrowing for me.  I did what may have been typical – I withdrew.  I wasn’t capable of dealing with the situation at the time and played with her less.  She got worse – something was wrong with her liver.

I was at summer camp.  The meal was lunch or dinner, I don’t remember which, but I looked up and saw my parents.  They did not look happy.  I knew what was going on.

“Curie’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Not yet.”

Mom and Dad had driven two hours to give me the chance to come home and say goodbye.  The next day was the day Curie would be put to sleep.  I thought on it not very long and decided to stay at camp.  They seemed happy enough with my decision – I didn’t want to have to see my once brilliant dog reduced to skin and bones, barely able to lift her head.

Part of me will always regret not going home to say goodbye.

Final April Poem and Thoughts

From Poetic Asides:

The End

And when the end rolls around
We shall be found ready.
It will surprise us
but not frighten us
for we shall look back
on life
well spent.
Every door opened
at least looked into,
every ring grabbed
every life touched
and we will be happy
with life.

The prompt was a finish.  The idea now is to finally edit these poems.  But do I want to?  I really don’t.  I did this mainly to exercise my creativity everyday.  What this challenge has done is more than that.  I have written far more this April than I have for a long time.  I have worked on different projects.  So often, I wrap myself up in one thing and then forget.  I am now working on four different projects, all of which I feel have legs.

At least, that’s what my scientific polls tell me.  They consist of Christofski or Sam hearing my idea.  They usually say “that’s cool.”  It’s very scientific.

What I have also done is update this website everyday.  Most of the days consist of my silly poems, but others – oh others are so much more.  I am reaching a point where I am constructing essays for people to read.  I am wondering how to improve them.  Things are being done that are realizing my writing dream.

And that is pretty damn cool.

Here’s to April.  I hope the flowers of May are just as sweet.

Root Beer

The other night, I bought a root beer.  This is a simple act for many, but I try not to drink a lot of soda.  It makes it far more special when I finally drink it.  My taste buds were close to overpowered by the sweetness.  Ordinary root beer was not on the menu, I wanted something special.  Real sugar was what I wanted, not high-fructose corn syrup.

If you have been living in a hole, this stuff is bad for you!  Worse than actual sugar.

This is not a rant on the evils of HFCS, but a thought on my family’s root beer habits.

It amazed me how sweet the root beer was.  The past few times I’ve had one, it has seemed somewhat off.  As a child, I drank root beer as if it were water.  My mother could not keep it long in the house as I would guzzle it quickly.  The drinking habit slowed down later in life.  What I discovered a few months ago was the love my brother and I share for this beverage.  It is also matched by my nephew.

My brother is my half-brother.  My mother is his step-mother.  From what I reckon, she was the opposite of an “evil” step-mother.  She was very loving toward my brother, supplying him with root beer.  When my nephew visits, he is given this same drink as well.

I thought of all this as I left Food Pyramid the other night with my root beer.  I also had six kinds of ginger ale for Sam.  She has been throwing up lately and wanted ginger ale, but I wasn’t sure what kind to get her.  She has yet to drink any – soda is something she doesn’t like.  Including root beer.

Which makes me wonder – a rather silly wonder – if my children will share my love for root beer when they are young.  Will this root beer cycle begin anew?  It is a mystery to me.

When I was growing up, root beer seemed to be the main beverage for my friends and me.  We all drank it.  These days, many kids I meet do not even like it.  I am not shocked or appalled, but it is surprising.  The younger youth today are very different from my younger youth and friends.  Everyone seems to be allergic to peanuts and hates root beer.

I wish I had a point to all this, but I don’t.  I just found it to be an interesting memory.  Sitting around on a hot day drinking ice cold root beer.  My feet were filthy, and I didn’t have a shirt on.  I miss those easy breezy days.  And I’m really not that old.

April Poem #27


This is he.
I suppose I would.
That much?
I would have to talk to my wife.
I guess so.
No I don’t want to give you that.
No, I won’t.
Well, then we are at an impasse.
You, too.
Good bye.