Connecticut Pt. 3
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Part three of my Connecticut summer vacation.
The Petersen bachelor party.
Connecticut Pt. 2
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Part two of my Connecticut summer vacation.
Anthony Skut’s wood shop.
Connecticut Pt. 1
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Part one of my Connecticut summer vacation.
Colchester Hayward Fire Department and Essex County Fire Rescue.
Back to the Woods
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In our lives we have these moments where everything snaps into focus.
It’s kind of like a day in the life of Columbo (with picture links to help you follow along). John Cassavetes is conducting the LA Phil, married to Gwyneth Paltrow’s mom, and hooking up with the orchestra’s pianist. The Pianist threatens to ruin John Cassavetes’ conducting career by spilling the beans to the woman from The Thin Man, the orchestra’s owner, who just happens to be Gwyneth Paltrow’s mom’s mom, but before she is able to, John Cassavetes sneaks off and kills the Pianist making it look like a suicide, note and all. John Cassavetes goes to his performance at the Phil and is like “Huh, where’s the Pianist?! Bummer. Oh Well.”, and no one’s the wiser. Columbo’s on the scene. He meets John Cassavetes, sees the cut of his jib and doesn’t like it. Columbo interviews the neighbors, and a little girl says she saw a man leaving the Pianist’s house. The Little Girl goes to the Phil to identify the man, and Columbo’s like “Yeah I got this.” but the little girl points out the trumpeter. The Trumpeter admits he was there. He loved the Pianist but she didn’t love him back. Columbo’s like “Well, shit.” and mumbles something about the town bicycle orchestra pianist. He knows the suicide note’s a fake and there are some peculiar mileage discrepancies in the log book of John Cassavetes‘ meticulously maintained car, and Pat Morita is Gwyneth Paltrow’s mom’s mom’s house boy. Just when Columbo thinks he’s running out of leads he sees some video footage from the Phil’s performance on the night of the suicide/murder, and John Cassavetes isn’t wearing a flower on his lapel, but he ALWAYS wears a flower on his lapel, AND THEY FOUND AN ERRANT FLOWER IN THE PIANIST’S HOUSE!
Snap. Focus.
I grew up the son of a carpenter. Wood was everything, and anything could be made of wood. A crib, a rocking horse, a swing set, toy tanks, toy guns, slingshots, my dad built it all.
After years of roaming around job sites, hammering together sculptures from scraps, and honing our woodworking skills, my brother and I came to the same conclusion that all boys should come to in their formative years. We needed a tree house, and with our dad’s help (and his power tools, and fully developed muscles and decades of construction knowledge) it would the best tree house this side of the Connecticut River.
We spoke, and it was done.
This wasn’t just some tree house. It was a house built in a tree. It had a picket fence, a shingled roof, screened windows, and a locking door. My little mind snapped into focus. I had it good. I had it real good. For the first time in my life I remember being aware of how fortunate I was.
Maybe, just maybe, somewhere across town, a CPA was teaching his kids how to balance their books. A plumber was guiding his kids though the ins and outs of plumbing a toilet. An underwater welder had his kids in tiny underwater welder suits, and was showing them whatever it is that underwater welders do. But I feel like those kids probably didn’t walk away with the same message. Unless, maybe they too were building a tree house, underwater?
The above photo is the first in a series I want to do, documenting the tree house.
CT Nights
This photo was taken December 23, 2008, and marks one of the best nights of my life.
Click it to see the rest.
Fresh off the plane from California, and not yet crippled by single digit temperatures of Connecticut, I went back to my old high school to take care of something I had thought up eight year earlier.
With school still in session, my brother and I spent eight hours shoveling all the snow we could find. Once the sun went down, and school was out, we cut the locks on the gates, ran some cords for lights, and broke out the 40.oz libations.
Until the early hours of the morning, the four of us took turns drifting behind a dump truck, and towing into the jump at thirty miles per hour.
When the session was over, there was talk of getting a larger crew together and doing it all again on Christmas Eve. As fate would have it, it rained the next day. The jump melted to the ground. There was nothing left, save for the muddy tracks left behind by the dump truck. Maybe it was better that way, no cops, no injuries, just good times with family and friends.
