‘Bye, Dad.

Dad Keely Cape Cod

My Dad passed away this morning. I alternately miss him like a limb and am so grateful that he’s no longer on this plane- because that means he’s no longer suffering. I also have firsthand knowledge that he’s happy- he’s happy- so it’s slightly easier for me to write about him, celebrate him, and grieve him without the bewildered fist to my heart that’s accompanied these past two years and change. And I’ll attempt to do so without giving an {Read More}

Brave.

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When I was a little kid, my Dad used to take us sledding at The Pit. A questionably safe, still in use/long out of use gravel pit where gigantic trucks would dig up clay for some unknown, terribly mysterious and ghost-story-romantic reason. (At least in the head of a seven year-old.) I was a pretty short person- especially back then- but I don’t think I’m exaggerating in the slightest when I say that the clay hills comprising The Pit were {Read More}

Let’s Go Exploring: Paper Storage Edition.

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One of the best parts about helping to sort/organize/preserve at your childhood home is the sheer amazingness that you find (and subsequently scan). Behold: It’s the little things. Unless you’re talking about a certain blue felt fedora which one of us received for Christmas ’93. Then it’s the big things.

15 Months IS TOO A Milestone.

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Today is my youngest kid’s 15 month-day. Which is totally a thing. Because- again- he’s my youngest kid. I love this little man and his braced stance, cautious smile, and general demeanor that’s pretty much summed up as “pleasantly surprised.” No one’s knocking me to the ground in a bear-hug attack! I am pleasantly surprised! Lunch was served to me at a decent lunch-ish hour (while others were actually eating, too)! I am pleasantly surprised! Daytime eye contact?! I AM {Read More}

St. Patrick’s Week, AKA Recovery Monday.

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Happy Monday-after-the-Saturday-before-St.-Patrick’s-Day, you guys! The Saturday in question of which I did not celebrate. You know why? Because even though my name is Flynn and even though I live in a Celt-happy town, this weekend shindig has devolved into an embarrassingly excessive Rage Fest which has very little to do with a) saints, b) Ireland, and c) anything other than copious amounts of green beer and Mardi Gras(?!) beads. For the record, drunken driving and the vomiting off of bridges {Read More}