One of those days when you can hear the quiet. The words begin to flow as I walk to the strains of Bocelli and Cohen. Many of you know I planned to write about my son Matthew's passing eventually. I just haven't been able to form the thoughts until now. Prompted by the strains of Cohen etc. and the cushiony soft quiet warmth of the day, this first day of autumn, I am able to begin forming sentences.
My shoulders hurt and I slump from the weight of this ever present burden of grief. Others share my burden or I wouldn't be able to stand up. I have felt grief before, in many forms and for many losses, but I have never felt the loss of a child. I lost my boy! How could I lose my boy? The same baby boy who was brought to me after his arrival in the hospital with his hair all braided in little corn rows and ribbons; the same baby boy who had a seizure in the car after an injection at the doctors. The same little boy whose forehead I checked night after night and during nap times for fever from that day forward. The same little boy who spoke in three word sentences at 9 months. The little boy who charmed everyone who met him with his engaging personality and smile. The same little boy whose first word was tractor followed by truck, then dada and mama. The same little boy who couldn't wait to open his Christmas gifts. Who always tried to catch Santa in the act. The same little boy who woke his sisters many times throughout the night to check on the activities of Santa and the Easter Bunny. The toddler I attached a harness and leash to when we went out in crowds since I had two other babies by that time. He was very curious and would wander off investigating. I feared losing him then. I have prayed for this child, my son, as I pray for all my children every day and every night of my life. Did I forget to pray on the morning of his passing? I ask myself over and over, "How did this happen?How could I have lost my son?" How do I write about the baby boy who was the first to grow in my womb? How do I honor this precious being who grew to be a fine, strong man, loved by many. My grief is deep, wide and yes, still raw.
I close my eyes and I see that beautiful silver cord anchored deeply in my heart, a cord that cannot be disolved by death now or in the years to come. He came here with a wonderful curiosity about everything. He was blessed with a photographic memory for places he had been, things he had read or heard. He dreamed of being an excavator from the time he was a very small boy. He drove his bottle along the floor when he could only crawl making the noises of a machine. As we built our own home, he climbed to the roof top behind his father and grandfather Lewis. He hammered hundreds of nails into the subflooring of that house. He drove his BuddyL Sit n'Ride ride truck into the septic tank hole. We could hear faint calls as we searched for our missing son. In the bottom of the hole, we found him with his trusty truck unhurt but wanting out. Machinery drew him like a moth to a flame. He began riding his bike to Glenn Gould's at age 7 to help do chores. It was only a short time before he begged to be allowed to drive Glenn's tractor. We knew there was no denying him his dream and he began. He appeared to be a daredevil but inside Matthew was a calculating perfectionist. He did nothing without thinking and planning. In the early schooling days, he made intricate drawings of tractors showing all the nuts and bolts. His vision was larger than this life. One time he wanted to build a tree house up on his Uncle's land. He gathered all the nails he could find, a hammer and disappeared for hours. I could hear the faint hammering sound but was busy with the other children. I figured as long as I could hear the hammering, he was fine. Upon investigation, we discovered he had cut down numerous small trees leaving stumps of about his height and then hammered them all with numerous nails. Needless to say the activity did not sit well with his Uncle or his dad. He became enthusiastic about rockets and used his allowance and any monetary gifts he had to order new rockets. He and I would drive up to his Uncle's open field with our small John Deere tractor to launch them. He would use the battery connection on the tractor to fire the thing off and after it had gone way up in the heavens, down it would float with a parachute. Later on after I had purchased a young Morgan colt which I broke and trained, I discovered that Matt was sneaking out in the paddock, luring John Henry over to the fence so he could climb aboard. Apparently, this went on for several years without my knowledge. I had a Beetle Bug car with a sunroof which Matt loved to drive around the yard. He loved to show off by standing up through the sunroof while driving. He reached an age where he could ride his trail bike up across the flats to the Gould farm to go to work. One time as he rode hell-bent-for-election across the frozen ground, he hit a frozen pile of cow manure which stopped the bike and propelled him through the air to land hard on his face. Matt always entertained all the neighbor children in our yard even though he was the youngest of the group. We had a huge old pine tree nearby with lots of exposed roots which invited further excavation. The area became larger and larger
over the years as all the children dug in there. We dumped sand in it for them and they made farms, villages and roads. We purchased numerous pieces of equipment over the years which he modified to his specifications. There was always several children down in that pit. As he grew up, he wanted to race snow mobiles in the winter which he did quite successfully but that led him to wanting to become a race car driver. He built his first stock car. Helping older racers in the area as crew taught him what he needed to go on his own. It also introduced him to his future wife. He got knocked around badly several times but continued to dream and eventually win. I have watched Matthew grow to a fine man, a loving husband and then father to two girls whom he adored. He was a self-made successful businessman along with his wife Kellie. He realized his life-long dreams in several aspects of his life. He raced snowmobiles, cars, (stock and late models) and motorcycles. He built an excavation business plus a cement business. He became a pilot and dreamed of one day retiring to a home in FL where he could keep his plane.
I realize my loss is shared by those thousands of people he touched along the way. He loved to tell stories about his adventures. He was like me in that regard. We are story tellers, we are talkers and we are people lovers. He was not above embellishing a story to make it richer. He always accused me of doing that to my stories and would
often say, "You can cut that right in half." Well, I have said that very thing to my son. How I wish he were here now with his wonderful stories, his funny antics, his ability to laugh at himself, his beautiful smile, rich deep voice, positive attitude and knowledge. My hero, my son!!
