Matthew Smith
I met Tim when we were just five years old. We went to Clarklake kindergarten together, and from that point on, my life was intertwined with his and the entire Rodda family. I remember so many great times growing up with Tim and the entire Rodda family at the Jefferson Road house. We’d spend hours in the treehouse or picking vegetables so Pat could can food for the winter. I had many meals at that house, and I remember them all being better than home—sorry Mom, but Pat was a master cook with those natural ingredients.
We used to sneak rhubarb to Trixi the horse that lived behind the property. We would gorge ourselves on concord grapes from the fence line. Tim, Jeff, and I were warned we’d get stomach aches, but we never did; we were young and resilient. We played Army men in the yard for what felt like an eternity, summer after summer.
In the winters, John would pull us on the toboggan behind the snowmobile he’d worked so hard to buy. John was a saint—dedicated to his work, his family, and his friends. I remember working one summer with him and Tim, notching hogs ears. We had them pinned against the plywood until the iodine came out; then, it was a race to see who could jump the wall fastest to avoid a feisty hog. I’d give anything to go back to that moment with both of them.
Those simple nights—eating 'old school' popcorn from a brown paper bag while the whole family watched the movie of the week—are the times I wish I could relive again.
Tim and I talked the Tuesday before his trip to Colon. We had the 'gift of gab' and covered every topic under the sun for hours, as we always did. We treasure many fleeting things in this life, but the 'possession' I treasure most is my lifelong friendship with Tim. My eternal friend, Tim.
