Give Thanks

Happy Thanksgiving. I am unable to express the sentiment, so the video below will do.

About a month ago, Aimee and I were taking care of Stella on a Saturday morning, watching Sundance channel. As our program ended another began. It was a documentary about an Icelandic band, traveling home to provide free concerts for locals in remote locations. As the documentary started, we weren't paying attention at all. It began with music, with a voice I thought belonged to a woman. I actually said aloud, "this music is good!" We got hooked on the first song. After agreeing to watch it, we went downstairs to the HD TV. The documentary blended in scenes from Iceland, including a lot of the local folk. With Stella asleep (before we learned she was sleep averse), we proceeded to watch the whole movie in stunned silence. It was beautiful. So, here is a song, performed by Sigur Ros, at a small community center in some tiny town. The music is soothing and shows locals of every age. As you watch (if you watch), think of the things for which you are thankful.

Email from Wife

Aimee emailed me this picture today.

The only text the message contained said "not Stella," in case I was not able to distinguish this upon viewing the image.

The Hot Hand

I imagine that since my parents are now grandparents, that I am reminded of my own grandparents. Recently, I remembered the story of the Hot Hand. The owner of the Hot Hand is my mother's father, Ambrose Clifford. Ambrose was around until I reached 14 years of age. I only knew my grandfather as a frail, delicate man with white wisps of hair. I can remember his voice at this moment as if he had just said something five minutes ago: it was a throaty whisper, so quiet that a young kid needed to strain to understand. This is usually how my conversations went with him when I was seven years old:

Him: You studying hahd? (with Boston Accent...so soft, I could barely hear him)


Me: Uhhhh..what?

Him: With more effort, yet less volume, a bit frustrated: You studying hhhaahhhd???

Me (even more confused): Duu...huh?

This would evolve further until his facial expression read "What the frig is wrong with this kid?"

Then, his wife Mary (my grandmother, whos voice could drown out war sirens), would get in my face and yell/say ....

"Maaathew..your Grandfathah is talking to you! He wants to know if you ah study-ing, HAAAAHD! ANSAH him!"

Me traumatized: oh..yeh-yes...

(of course I wasn't studying hard)

Anyway, Ambrose was not afraid to bust out The Hot Hand when he thought I was getting out of line. Keep in mind, I was a shy enough kid that I didn't even talk much, let alone get out of line. I guess maybe if I pleaded for some sort of food, The Hot Hand would come into play.

I would be sitting in the backseat of the car and say something like: "Can I have an ice cream?"

Answer: No.

Me: Ahhhh...why not?

Now, I did not scream, throw a tantrum, cause a ruckus or even whine (I think). I just asked a follow up question. A follow up question, I imagine, was a serious violation. Either my mother or grandmother would warn me: "You better be careful or Grandpa will get out the hot hand."

As I sat in the back of the car, I would look forward to the front seat, with my grandfather on the passenger side. On queue, I would see his ancient hand move high in the air, with fingers extended, as the Hot Hand blocked out the sun streaming through the windshield, ready to inflict horror on little seven year old boys.

I never asked the follow up question to learn its wrath. The threat alone was enough.

Okay, now I'm gonna go eat some ice cream. :)

Five weeks old

Little Lady Stella is doing quite well, aside from a minor rash on her face. She is five weeks old and growing quite nicely. Even though she is too young to smile, she can communicate (or at least mimic). When I stick out my tounge, she sticks hers out right away..fun:)

What time are your parents picking you up

Since Aimee and I only have one car at the moment, I have reverted to something that I haven't done since the age of 15: call my parents for a ride. At least two days a week, I travel to Alexandria Virginia by Metro (subway). Lately, I have been calling both of my parents for rides. I cannot imagine what my coworkers think when I call and say: "Hey Dad/Mom, can you pick me up from the Metro?"

Next, I think I will ask for a ride to the Mall to see if that works.

Hmmm..