I don’t know about the hug, but here’s the cake.

And they ate it.

Matthew, Robby and Nicola, another classmate of Matt’s, were standing in the kitchen, waiting for Nicola’s mom to arrive when Diane turned to Robby and asked, “Did you know that tomorrow is Matt’s birthday?”
Robby replied, “Yes,” then glanced my way. I had asked him the same question an hour earlier.

Diane followed with, “Are you going to bake him a cake?”
Robby, master of the straight line, said, “Yes, I am.”
I was a few feet away, behind the island and when he said yes, I thought, and that’s not all. I said, “Robby” but almost too softly to be heard.
“You are?” Diane asked with a tone that carried, I wasn’t serious, are you kidding me and isn’t that sweet, in the same short phrase.

I thought I had an opening so I repeated, “Robby.” This time, loud enough to be heard. I was building up to something and soon Matt would tune in, as he always does, before anyone else.
But Robby continued, “Yeah, when he comes to my house I cook for Matt. I’ve made hors d’oeuvres, and other things. I’m going to make him a cake” I knew Robby was telling the truth because once he made me Sushi.

Sensing another pause, I again said, “Robby.”
Matt’s eyes began to dart as if in search of a foxhole.
Robby turned to me and said, ëYes?”
“There is one more thing you need to do.” I didn’t finish. I let it linger to see if he could guess what I was about to say. He should have, because it was precisely the advice he gave Matt, in the back seat of Diane’s car when we were returning from our Minuteman trip. Right after Matt called Joe clueless and we wanted Matt to apologize to Joe.

Robby looked puzzled and asked, “What else?”
Matt said, “Run.”
“Robby, are you going to give Matt a hug and tell him you love him?”
Matt blushed when Robby said, “Yes.”
He blushed again when Diane asked Nicola if she were going to give Matt a hug and an I love you and she replied, “First, I want to see Robby do it.”

Matt never blushes.

Updated Parts List for the BMW
Inner and outer tie rods (left)
Inner tie rod (right)
Center Linkage
Clutch Plate
Air intake hose
Distributor cap, rotor and ignition wires.
Clutch reservoir cup

Adam finished many a niggling detail, from the worst areas of ceiling blue board, to the metal corner bead, web taped seams and even the critical floor area that connects the addition to the kitchen. All done with his meticulous attention to detail. Now we wait for Bob Farrell of Lancaster (many of the wedding participants were from Lancaster, interestingly enough), who should arrive and finish this Thursday. Hung Nguyen will appear on Monday to create the inch thick mud job that will provide a level, stable, and durable surface for the tiles. Those will be laid after we install the cabinets.

View from the dining room.

I called Jeffrey in Evansville to ask him if he thought the BMW would make the twelve mile drive to Minuteman High School in Lexington. He didn’t hesitate to say yes, but added, “When you shift into the higher gears, give it gas slowly, the clutch slips.”
With Robby and Joe in the back seat, Matt riding shotgun, and Diane trailing in the Mazda, we turned right out of our driveway, down Central St., past the train station and onto School St. I wanted to stick to my mental map of all back roads to avoid less forgiving state cops on the highway. We weren’t illegal, but we were driving an un-inspected car which meant that if stopped, I’d have some ësplaining to do.

The lack of a sticker would give us away but speed traps were not going to be a problem. Every time the speedometer needle passed thirty-five, there was a rousing cheer from the back seat, even if it was then noted that we were going downhill, or that the quivering pointer might not be accurate. Later, Diane confirmed a top speed of forty.

I’m sure if we had taken the highway we could have gone faster, but that clutch has been added to Matt’s school to-do list, as well as the steering wheel that seems only remotely connected to the front wheels.

When we finally got to Concord, Matt called Dan to warn him that we would soon be passing his street. An alert perhaps, to queue up behind us, which he did. The first Minuteman gate we came to was locked, the second invitingly open, but when we pulled into the parking lot next to Matt’s classroom, horns blaring in celebration, a stern-faced security guard approached. I walked up to him.

“I’m Michael Miller.”
Big deal.
“Matthew Miller’s father.”
Still not impressed.
“Matthew is taking a course here and his instructor said he could bring his car to be worked on.”
At least that brought words.
“I need a written statement from his teacher, otherwise you can’t park here.”|

I thought, boolsheet mon. This may be the most rigidly-ruled and regulated state in the union but we’re not turning this parade around. Three harmless looking adults, three boys and a jewel of car created before the guard was born. Besides, the BMW is from Indiana, where there are no rules. He’ll bend.

“What’s the instructor’s name?”
“Bruce Flood, “ Matthew replies.

And that was it, the excuse he wanted to suddenly not need that written statement. By the end, he too was smiling as broadly as the rest of us.

Robby and Joe buckle up.

The not too distant future.
Note to Jeffrey:
I returned the battery, but had the same clicking, no crank sound from the new one. I followed the positive battery lead back to the coil, found it broken off, and in pulling it back out, contacted the battery ground strap which melted the copper wire in half, fried its insulation and sent a plume of acrid white smoke and hot white sparks billowing from under the hood. Assuming the worst, those boys, like hooked marlin, bolted from the car.

There are still four baby wrens, mostly unresponsive until the mother comes by with daily rations. I hesitate to say this, maybe it’s a confession, but back when Skunk was alive not all the babies would fly away. Once I saw Skunk jump up and spill the entire nest onto the porch floor. It’s what cats do.

Matthew called me from his class. I was hanging blueboard so it took me a minute to answer.
“Dad, we need to register the car.”
I knew what he was asking and why, but it was the consequence that grabbed my attention and I stalled for time.
“Your instructor said so?”
“No, I picked this out of thin air.”
Teenagers don’t tolerate anything but tack-sharp clarity. However, I didn’t want to register it, to begin paying insurance and to know we were that much closer to Matthew driving.
“Why?”
“In case something happens, he wants to have proof of ownership.”
I knew there was more to it than that, the title made the car ours, but I also knew there was no reason to argue. For him to bring his BMW to his auto mechanics class, we would have to make everything nice and legal.

That was Tuesday. Today Diane and I drove to the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, title in hand, to pick up our plates. It was easy except that Diane was tired, the woman behind the desk not too bright and the car befuddling because of its age. Finally they placed the value of the BMW at two thousand dollars. We handed over a check for $186.00 and left.

Coming soon: April in Evanvsville.


Lobby of the Evansville Marriott. Photo courtesy of Brian Miller

I think these are baby wrens. They have a nest in one of our porch hanging plants and Diane and I check up on them when we water. This photo is posted for balance, to balance the boys with guns pics below, to restore the gentle order of this web site. Wondering if Horrified in Wacton and Aghast feel better.

BMW update::

Matt is taking an auto mechanics class at Minuteman High School in Lexington. It’s an everyday, half day class, for the month of July. We forced him into it, as a way to keep him off the street, out of trouble and out of the slammer. His first day he had that, I can’t believe I’m going to summer school, look. After the second day, he said, “ I love auto mechanics.”

I thought, good, but don’t like it too much. Remember what Rick from Trusty Transport said, “Finish college or you’ll end up a truck driver like me.” I don’t think he disliked driving trucks but long haul takes him away from his family. Anyway.

The reason I’m bringing this up is because the smart boy asked his instructor if he could bring his BMW to class and the guy said, “Sure, we’ll work on it together.” How great is that? How great is it that Matthew so loves his car, my car, he tells everyone. It is as though both the car and the boy have been reborn.

I crawled out of our tent at about 2 AM and turned my flashlight in the direction of the boys’ campsite. Matt, Robby Nadler and Chris Grosjean were three hundred yards away, up a steep hill and beyond a thick, wet spring-nurtured, canopy of green. I assumed they didn’t see the light and I went back to sleep.
The next morning Matt asked, “Did you shine your flashlight at us last night?”
“That would have been me,” I replied.
“You freaked us out.”

Good, I thought to myself, mission accomplished.

Later, during breakfast (bacon, pancakes -tasty if I don’t say so myself- and eggs), Chris asked, “Was that you with the light last night?”
Matt interrupted me, “It was, I already asked him.”
But Chris continued, “We thought so. We sneaked into the woods and waited to attack you.”

When Matt was younger, I always haunted his tent, and successfully, I might add. Especially the years following the discovery of bear claw marks on the tree next to where he and the foster boys from next door would setup camp. I guess I picked tender targets, those foster boys, but that’s a story for someone else to write. I blame my penchant to terrorize on my brother Brian. He scared the bejesus out of Glenn, Arnold and me, one night when we were younger than Matt. And, we were sleeping in a tent in our yard in Westwood, a safe suburb of Cincinnati, with enough houses to slow a German Panzer division. We continued to be terrified even after we heard my mother yell, “Brian, get in here!”

When Peter and Eileen lived in Ed’s cabin in the early eighties, I would arrive unannounced, late at night, and tip toe around the outside of their cabin making scratching noises. From the inside with the lanterns on, you are as vulnerable as a freshly hatched Robin.

But that movie is over. The credits have rolled, I’ve dropped my popcorn box and left the theater. As I said to Chris, “I would have to be insane to sneak up on three boys with BB guns in the dark.” Think about it. They would have to be absolutely certain that the sounds they were hearing were mine not to open up with an obliterating barrage of BB’s. They were shooting at the hoot of an owl for gods sake.

Even knowing it was me, I’m not confident they wouldn’t shoot.




For a more benign view of the woods click here A new window will open.

When we began this project several months ago, there was a loose understanding that hours of labor required and overall duration would diverge notably. It was also understood that Adam would have to put his own shoulder mightily to the wheel, unable to afford Michael doing all of the work. But even hindsight isn’t all that clear on the trajectory now……..

Yesterday Adam walked out into this newly yellow cube and strapped on his toolbelt to make ready for Mike’s next push — blueboard. Meanwhile, Mike took himself and his family all the way to Gilsum, NH and refreshing Spoon’s Pond to distance himself from this now “boring and bankrupt” albatross, and to breathe fresh, clean air into lungs recently polluted by the insidious filaments of fiberglass. Adam looked around the warm, humid confines and gathered the strays of his will together. And had an epiphany.

In early demo, Michael had carefully dismantled the kitchen floor duct, located in the slider wall to be demolished, and had stuffed fiberglass into it to keep debris out. Thus had it stayed, momentarily forgotten. With the rest of the Kibbe household now on central A/C, this duct languished, merely adding pressure, perhaps, to the rest of the household. But Adam saw that it was on the addition side……. Seconds later, an invisible fountain of cool air spewed up into the strata of heat and began to work magic.

Buoyed by this shift, both of temperature and of attitude, Adam plowed into the task at hand — applying strapping to the trayed, hip ceiling. A critical task, as its joinery sets the stage for the blueboard, on which will be writ in the plasterer’s hand with skimcoat the lines and angles of Adam’s vision. All went swimmingly for 4 or 5 hours until Adam ran short of strapping less than 20 cuts and 16′ from completion.

No matter, a quick trip into Home Depot for some 1 x 3 and exterior caulk (for other tasks) after the Sunday paper, and he was back at it, finishing in time to watch the Western open be put lengthily into time delay twice on account of thunder and lightning, with Tiger in a commanding lead (yeah, Adam sometimes watches golf, the putz). The stage is now in readiness for the beginning of the end, as one of the last items of gross construction comes to an end, and finish materials begin to take sway. Outside, final spackling and caulking makes ready for finish paint; inside one can begin to dream of paint. And of tile, lights, furniture, music…….

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves…….

Lines of strapping 1′ apart trace the shape of the hip tray. Have at it, Mike!

The website for Trusty Transport, the company bringing Matthew’s BMW, claimed door to door service. But when Jeff called from Evansville to say that Rick couldn’t drive to his house, and that he had to pick an abandoned K-Mart parking lot, I knew there would be no front-of-my-house delivery. Luckily, we live a mere two miles from a major highway and it was there that I directed Rick, with his seventy-six foot long, fourteen foot high truck, to meet us. Just off route 2, on Central St., in the Tech Central parking lot.

A mere two miles as a registered, licensed driver drives, a hellava long way if you’re towing your own flesh and blood.

Thinking I was going to reassure him, I walked back to Matthew sitting in the BMW and said,
“Matt, there are four things that can happen. And only four.
You’ll go straight, you’ll turn right (into our driveway), we might pull over to the side of road, and related to number three, we might get stopped by the police. That is it. No left turns, u-turns, stopping for gas, or whistling at friends. Oh, and one more thing, you have to have the engine on.”

“What are you talking about?” Matt asked with that, I ëm only fifteen and you’ve already put my life in jeopardy more times than I can count, look.

I said, “Trust me,” thinking this was different from the moose and her calf in Alaska. I didn’t know the calf was going to walk within petting distance, right between the picnic table where we sat and the RV where Diane was safely ensconced. And as far as all those other events, the changing table, the high chair, the swing, the ice cube are concerned, you’ll have to discuss those with your shrink, I don’t have time now.

The truth is, I was worried about my tow rope breaking and he needed to be ready to drive to the side of the road, but for some reason I couldn’t tell him that. I didn’t want him to be more concerned than he already was
about: steering a car towed through Acton, at fifteen, with no license, with Indiana plates that expired in 1999. And did I mention, no driving experience other than our side yard and moments before, the parking lot where Rick from Trusty deposited the car?

With the yellow tow rope tied between my commercial-grade tow hitch and the wire loop on the front of the BMW that resembled my belt buckle, I told Matt we would practice in the parking lot. Which we did. We made one circle at which time, like Ward Bond in the classic fifties western, Wagonmaster, I thrust my left arm out the window, hoped that Matt in his tiny car two feet behind my rear bumper could see, and shouted – FORWARD HO. As he pointed out later, it wasn’t enough practice. As I admitted only to myself, it wasn’t about his comfort, it was all about me getting brave enough to hit the road. One loop and away we went, directly into the path of a landscaping dump truck.

Rattling in my brain was Jeffrey’s comment about how he had to drive past an Evansville cop. It was relevant because on the way to Tech Central Matt and I passed an Acton cop in the cemetery near our house, waiting for speeders. That’s when I thought to myself, way out of shouting, maybe even telepathic distance, “Matt there’s a fifth thing I need to tell you. If that cop comes out of the cemetery after us, I’m not stopping until we get home.” I’d rather talk to him in my driveway, not on the road where I would have to pay a tow truck to move the car a block. What kind of self preservation instinct would prevail, I wondered? Would Matt see the flashing blue light and try to stop, thereby leaving his engine on Central St., or would he follow his father who would appear to be fleeing (tho slow mo, ala you know who) justice?

I did my best to stay ahead of the landscaping truck, and in my rear view mirror, and Matthew’s too, the driver exhibited the patience of an out-of-stater. Maybe he was enthralled by what he was watching, I don’t know. I do know that at times I would speed up, out of respect for the truck driver, and at others I’d slow to a crawl, not wanting to attract attention. Matthew said I mostly swerved.

Our one stop, the traffic light at Rt. 111, worried me the most. Matthew was two feet behind me, and his only warning would be my brake lights. I had no choice but to trust his video game honed reflexes, and when I slowed to a stop, he did too. Flawlessly. When we got to the cemetery and saw only gravestones, I knew we were home free. And when we pulled into the driveway, my smile was eclipsed by Matthew’s, or was that a demonic, you’ll never do anything like this to me again, grin.

If Matthew had a choice, it would have been the red ’86 Porche.


I drove this car thirty-five years ago. Where is Rod Serling?

The website for Trusty Transport, the company bringing Matthew’s BMW, claimed door to door service. But when Jeff called from Evansville to say that Rick couldn’t drive to his house, and that he had to pick an abandoned K-Mart parking lot, I knew there would be no front-of-my-house delivery. Luckily, we live a mere two miles from a major highway and it was there that I directed Rick, with his seventy-six foot long, fourteen foot high truck, to meet us. Just off route 2, on Central St., in the Tech Central parking lot.

A mere two miles as a registered, licensed driver drives, a hellava long way if you’re towing your own flesh and blood.

Thinking I was going to reassure him, I walked back to Matthew sitting in the BMW and said,
“Matt, there are four things that can happen. And only four.
You’ll go straight, you’ll turn right (into our driveway), we might pull over to the side of road, and related to number three, we might get stopped by the police. That is it. No left turns, u-turns, stopping for gas, or whistling at friends. Oh, and one more thing, you have to have the engine on.”

“What are you talking about?” Matt asked with that, I ëm only fifteen and you’ve already put my life in jeopardy more times than I can count, look.

I said, “Trust me,” thinking this was different from the moose and her calf in Alaska. I didn’t know the calf was going to walk within petting distance, right between the picnic table where we sat and the RV where Diane was safely ensconced. And as far as all those other events, the changing table, the high chair, the swing, the ice cube are concerned, you’ll have to discuss those with your shrink, I don’t have time now.

The truth is, I was worried about my tow rope breaking and he needed to be ready to drive to the side of the road, but for some reason I couldn’t tell him that. I didn’t want him to be more concerned than he already was
about: steering a car towed through Acton, at fifteen, with no license, with Indiana plates that expired in 1999. And did I mention, no driving experience other than our side yard and moments before, the parking lot where Rick from Trusty deposited the car?

With the yellow tow rope tied between my commercial-grade tow hitch and the wire loop on the front of the BMW that resembled my belt buckle, I told Matt we would practice in the parking lot. Which we did. We made one circle at which time, like Ward Bond in the classic fifties western, Wagonmaster, I thrust my left arm out the window, hoped that Matt in his tiny car two feet behind my rear bumper could see, and shouted – FORWARD HO. As he pointed out later, it wasn’t enough practice. As I admitted only to myself, it wasn’t about his comfort, it was all about me getting brave enough to hit the road. One loop and away we went, directly into the path of a landscaping dump truck.

Rattling in my brain was Jeffrey’s comment about how he had to drive past an Evansville cop. It was relevant because on the way to Tech Central Matt and I passed an Acton cop in the cemetery near our house, waiting for speeders. That’s when I thought to myself, way out of shouting, maybe even telepathic distance, “Matt there’s a fifth thing I need to tell you. If that cop comes out of the cemetery after us, I’m not stopping until we get home.” I’d rather talk to him in my driveway, not on the road where I would have to pay a tow truck to move the car a block. What kind of self preservation instinct would prevail, I wondered? Would Matt see the flashing blue light and try to stop, thereby leaving his engine on Central St., or would he follow his father who would appear to be fleeing (tho slow mo, ala you know who) justice?

I did my best to stay ahead of the landscaping truck, and in my rear view mirror, and Matthew’s too, the driver exhibited the patience of an out-of-stater. Maybe he was enthralled by what he was watching, I don’t know. I do know that at times I would speed up, out of respect for the truck driver, and at others I’d slow to a crawl, not wanting to attract attention. Matthew said I mostly swerved.

Our one stop, the traffic light at Rt. 111, worried me the most. Matthew was two feet behind me, and his only warning would be my brake lights. I had no choice but to trust his video game honed reflexes, and when I slowed to a stop, he did too. Flawlessly. When we got to the cemetery and saw only gravestones, I knew we were home free. And when we pulled into the driveway, my smile was eclipsed by Matthew’s, or was that a demonic, you’ll never do anything like this to me again, grin.

If Matthew had a choice, it would have been the red ’86 Porche.


I drove this car thirty-five years ago. Where is Rod Serling?