Homecoming

What good would a blog post be without a little Kanye drop?


Fans of the blog (irony) will know, I went home very briefly for the weekend. Last time we spoke I was sleep-drunkenly gaffing at the ridiculous Dukes of Hazard reunion show, looking forward to a nice short flight home, ala' Knickerbocker Air. It was awesome, but frustrating because Matt got the wrong address and we ended up on the wrong side of Scott Field, by the military compound, NOT the tarmac. But, we flew home in under an hour, and poor Ron, both Dad and I slept the whole way home. I'm expecting pictures from the part time lawyer, photographer, pilot and full time party animal Ronnie K, so will post when that comes through. For now, enjoy 3.2 mega pix from 5000 feet...



So I get home, well rested (sort of) and decide after I unpack a day's worth, go for a walk around the Manor. There are some things, I'm sure, that will change, as I continue to grow up. But there is a magic, a vividness that courses through the blood of Poland Manor, that I think will never change. A wild beating of drums, a non-stop tempo of life just flooding the woods and streets that are overlapped by trees and forest; it is the most beautiful place I will ever go.

I did my old route, from the summers of Giant Eagle pizzas, Star Fox 64 with Stevie, and roaming the streets trying to imagine how similar my spontaneous patrolling of my neighborhood was to the suburban dream of the 50s. So, I stopped at Wagon's.

Matt the Wagon Rogers is one of my oldest friends. Older then Jim, Porter, Brent, Kitten, all those guys have some heavy boots to fill in. My parents met Wagon's at a neighborhood party, and the following day, Stevie and I had to go meet the kid, you know, welcome him into the Manor. As if Steve and I were embassardors to Poland, or something. I remember this event vividly: I was wearing really short jean shorts (yikes) and ended up talking about rap, which at the time I didn't listen to, with Matt's mom in the driveway. Matt came out and we all decided to go for a bike ride in the woods, which was thrilling becuase Steve and I weren't supposed to take our bikes on those rooted, beaten trails.

During our ride, we asked the usual questions that friends testing new waters ask; we quickly learned that Matt was the same, bike ride loving, outdoor playing, Star Wars fanatic that Steve and I were. Then, and I also remember this vividly, the question that most likely is what made us friends: "So do you play any video games?" Matt says, "Yeah, I have a PlayStation 2 and an N64. I'm really into my James Bond game right now." That was all I needed to hear.

"You wanna come back and play?"

So we did, probably in 2001 I played my first PS2 game, Agent Under Fire, at Wagon's house with Steve. You can imagine the rest: endless days and sleepovers of movies and games, frozen pizzas and exploration. Almost ten years later, Matt is still one of my closest friends later. So it was nice to catch up while Matt worked on his Poker carreer.

Of course, not too long into our reunion special, Dad calls and it's time for Mary's Middle Eastern. Not much to say, I ate. A lot. The usual: Lamb combo with a large order of Grape leaves. Delicious, I think as I pity people less adventureous with their eating habbits. We go home with Ron and Bobbie, and grandma and papa joined us for ice cream and good company. I sprawled out on the floor with Maggie and took a nap. After waking up, of course, a bonfire at Porter's was an order. We made pizza, burend yard waste and had a great time. Had an even better time at Sheetz with Jim.

Here I have to stop and call myself out. "I pity people less adventureous with their eating habbits," to, in the same day, "having a better time at Sheetz." Gas station food, Arabic food, I guess it's all gormet to me.



Speaking of gormet: father's day picknic. We had honey dijon chicken, compliments of Amish country's 35 cent off the truck Grey Poopon, Goat-kabobs, pasta salad and tabouli. All of which was delicious. Even sweeter than the watermelon, of course, was getting to see everybody on the back porch one more time. That's how summers should go; the whole lot of us, gathered around to papa's occasional calous remarks, Mom's adorable knit-picky hosting, and of course, the booming raccous laughter that dots the green canopy in the trees above us.

Even loftier, it was great to be with Dad on his big day. Stephen Anthony doesn't get much credit, and he's a great dude. Talk about lessons in sacrifice, and it really was all for us. He is a family man, a loving husband (those secret kisses mom and dad think we miss are the best), a strong backed employee/boss; his coworkers respect him in ways I believe the word respect was created for, and of course, a devoted father.

I don't throw around phrases like the greatest man that ever lived, or undisputed father of the year, but, rest easy Daddyo, you got my admiration.