The following a re-run story from a couple of years ago. I tweaked it a bit.
My mom hosts, on average, about 35 people a year for Thanksgiving. Nine kids, plus spouses, plus 22 or so grand kids, it is a lot of people. Each family brings a dish of some sort but my mom does the cooking of the turkey and the stuffing.
A few years back she started to cook more than one bird for the dinner. Since the larger turkey took up all the space in her main oven she bought a medium sized rotisserie oven to cook a smaller, second turkey.
A few years ago the rotisserie oven broke. A couple of weeks prior to Thanksgiving my mom was giving the (now old) rotisserie oven a test run to make sure it was ready. Well, she found out that the mechanism that turned the fowl (or maybe it was the fetzer valve or the by-pass line, I am not sure) as not working properly. She asked my dad to take a look at it to see if he could fix it. She did not want to have to spend the money to buy a new oven. She left the oven on a table in the laundry room/back office so my dad could tinker with it.
My dad traveled a bit a with his job but he would go in and out of his office almost everyday. Every night for three weeks my mom would ask my dad if he fixed the rotisserie. Every night my dad would say he did not get around to it. My mom explained that rotisseries were expensive and if she had to, she would get a new one. My dad would then tell her that he would fix it and not to waste the time or money.
The rotisserie just sat on the table.
The Tuesday before Thanksgiving my dad came home early from work and saw the rotisserie sitting on the table. With only 48 hours left until Thanksgiving he grabbed a screw driver and decided to take the oven apart. Later that evening, when my mom and dad were talking he told her that he disassembled the oven but could not see anything wrong with it. He also told her that the he was having a hard time putting the pieces back together. My mom freaked out.
The day prior, that Monday, my mom went out and bought a new rotisserie oven and threw the old one away.
My dad took apart a brand new oven.
_____________________________________
My favorite Thanksgiving post is up over at What was I Thinking.
Showing posts with label Barb and Skip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Barb and Skip. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Favorite Son
I was my dad's favorite son.
No really I was. Well, not all the time, but there was the fall of 1986 and the fall of 1987 when I was his favorite son. He would admit it and my seven brothers knew it too.
When I turned 16 and I got my driver's license there were 4 kids of legal driving age that lived at home. Plus my parents, there were a total of 6 drivers with only two cars. The kids were always asking to use the car. My dad always wanted to have one of the cars at home so that left 1 car for 4 kids. The old policy was whoever asked first got first dibs on the car.
We, of course, would argue over who got to use it and when. We were all different and hung out in different crowds so there was rarely any sharing of the car. Besides, having the car meant that you could actually go out on a date. It would be awkward to try and go to "inspiration point" while your brother was in the back seat waiting to get driven home from a party.
That was when my dad came up with the Favorite Son Policy.
His policy was quite simple. Whoever was involved in an extracurricular activity that would entertain my dad (sports) would have first pick of using the car. If two of us were involved in the same sport, first pick would go to the person that was either on the Varsity squad or who actually started in the game.
That was why I was the favorite son in the fall of 86 and 87. At that time there were really only two of us fighting over the car, my brother LawnWhisperer and myself. I played football and LW played basketball. The early part of the fall of 86, my junior year, I was not on the varsity team, so LW and I would argue every weekend over the car. But then, Tim A, the starting wide receiver became academically ineligible (he was failing Spanish I think) to play football and I got to start on the varsity team. I did not care that I was now the starting wide receiver for the football team as a junior, I was more excited that I was officially the favorite son.
I got the car whenever I wanted it. LW would ask to use the car on a Friday night, I could invoke the Favorite Son Rule and get the car instead of him. I can still remember the chilly nights after the games, with the stadium lights glowing down on us, my dad would throw me the keys to the car and occasionally slip me a 10 dollar bill and tell me to have a good time. My social status amongst my friends shot up because now I could drive to get Slurpees after the game. I was the favorite. LawnWhisperer would have to ride a bike to see his girlfriend or bum a ride from someone else. It was good to be the favorite.
Of course right after Thanksgiving, football would end and basketball would start. I was no longer the favorite. The title went to LW. My social status in school plummeted. I was now the one riding my bike to see my girlfriend or friends. Basketball being the winter sport and all it was quite cold on my bike. I think LW got the better season to be the favorite.
The fall of 87, with LW away at college and my younger brothers not old enough to drive, there was less competition for the car. Occasionally my mom would want the car for something but I would trump her request and invoke Favorite Son Rule and I usually won.
No really I was. Well, not all the time, but there was the fall of 1986 and the fall of 1987 when I was his favorite son. He would admit it and my seven brothers knew it too.
When I turned 16 and I got my driver's license there were 4 kids of legal driving age that lived at home. Plus my parents, there were a total of 6 drivers with only two cars. The kids were always asking to use the car. My dad always wanted to have one of the cars at home so that left 1 car for 4 kids. The old policy was whoever asked first got first dibs on the car.
We, of course, would argue over who got to use it and when. We were all different and hung out in different crowds so there was rarely any sharing of the car. Besides, having the car meant that you could actually go out on a date. It would be awkward to try and go to "inspiration point" while your brother was in the back seat waiting to get driven home from a party.
That was when my dad came up with the Favorite Son Policy.
His policy was quite simple. Whoever was involved in an extracurricular activity that would entertain my dad (sports) would have first pick of using the car. If two of us were involved in the same sport, first pick would go to the person that was either on the Varsity squad or who actually started in the game.
That was why I was the favorite son in the fall of 86 and 87. At that time there were really only two of us fighting over the car, my brother LawnWhisperer and myself. I played football and LW played basketball. The early part of the fall of 86, my junior year, I was not on the varsity team, so LW and I would argue every weekend over the car. But then, Tim A, the starting wide receiver became academically ineligible (he was failing Spanish I think) to play football and I got to start on the varsity team. I did not care that I was now the starting wide receiver for the football team as a junior, I was more excited that I was officially the favorite son.
I got the car whenever I wanted it. LW would ask to use the car on a Friday night, I could invoke the Favorite Son Rule and get the car instead of him. I can still remember the chilly nights after the games, with the stadium lights glowing down on us, my dad would throw me the keys to the car and occasionally slip me a 10 dollar bill and tell me to have a good time. My social status amongst my friends shot up because now I could drive to get Slurpees after the game. I was the favorite. LawnWhisperer would have to ride a bike to see his girlfriend or bum a ride from someone else. It was good to be the favorite.
Of course right after Thanksgiving, football would end and basketball would start. I was no longer the favorite. The title went to LW. My social status in school plummeted. I was now the one riding my bike to see my girlfriend or friends. Basketball being the winter sport and all it was quite cold on my bike. I think LW got the better season to be the favorite.
The fall of 87, with LW away at college and my younger brothers not old enough to drive, there was less competition for the car. Occasionally my mom would want the car for something but I would trump her request and invoke Favorite Son Rule and I usually won.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Third Date by Momo9
I never did date anyone else after the second date.
On our third date we went to a club. Danced all night long. We sang along to all the music. We both liked Rock’n’Roll. We fast danced and slow danced. Even though he told me he wasn’t crazy about dancing, he knew I liked it, so he did it. We talked and talked. We were getting to know each other well (I was falling in love). Almost love at first sight.
During this date he confessed that the only reason he asked me out the first time, was that his mother suggested he do it. I said, “What?”
He explained that he asked three girls out for that first Saturday date. They turned him down, so his mom suggested me (see what I mean about being a jerk). Maybe he was trying to be funny. Oh well, there were so many nice things about him, that I overlooked his nasty (humorous) remarks. I sort of liked his mother for mentioning me (we lived in the same neighborhood).
This date went very well. We talked on the porch again till the wee hours of the morning.
This was a Bingo date!
I got a kiss goodnight, and another and another! Bingo!
This is the guy who could stay out late back then. Dance and dance, and play football, basketball and baseball and never stop.
This is also the guy, today, who gets into his pajamas at 5:30pm, sits and watches the news and sports center, and would never think of asking me to dance. This is the guy who would stay awake for hours and talk to me and only me. And now barely says hello, goodbye, or goodnight. He falls asleep by 8:30 pm. Of course, if I’m lucky, I do get a game of Scrabble out of him before he retires for the evening and a kiss goodnight.
I truly did marry a winner!
On our third date we went to a club. Danced all night long. We sang along to all the music. We both liked Rock’n’Roll. We fast danced and slow danced. Even though he told me he wasn’t crazy about dancing, he knew I liked it, so he did it. We talked and talked. We were getting to know each other well (I was falling in love). Almost love at first sight.
During this date he confessed that the only reason he asked me out the first time, was that his mother suggested he do it. I said, “What?”
He explained that he asked three girls out for that first Saturday date. They turned him down, so his mom suggested me (see what I mean about being a jerk). Maybe he was trying to be funny. Oh well, there were so many nice things about him, that I overlooked his nasty (humorous) remarks. I sort of liked his mother for mentioning me (we lived in the same neighborhood).
This date went very well. We talked on the porch again till the wee hours of the morning.
This was a Bingo date!
I got a kiss goodnight, and another and another! Bingo!
This is the guy who could stay out late back then. Dance and dance, and play football, basketball and baseball and never stop.
This is also the guy, today, who gets into his pajamas at 5:30pm, sits and watches the news and sports center, and would never think of asking me to dance. This is the guy who would stay awake for hours and talk to me and only me. And now barely says hello, goodbye, or goodnight. He falls asleep by 8:30 pm. Of course, if I’m lucky, I do get a game of Scrabble out of him before he retires for the evening and a kiss goodnight.
I truly did marry a winner!
Second Date by Momo9
Guest post by William's mom. Part two of a three part story about how she met my dad.
He was really playing it smooth on that first date!
The very next morning, he called. He asked if I would go to a football game that he was playing in. After the game there would be a social. A meal and dancing. I was shocked that he called. I was excited, and felt better about our first date. I really felt he didn’t like me. However I was wrong. I went to the game, met his friends, and went dancing into the night. This night he wore his own shoes and clothes. We had a good time! We talked for hours again. I was beginning to like this cocky jerk! Amazing!
Still no kiss!
Was it my breath? (be quiet sons)
Or was he still playing it smooth?
He was really playing it smooth on that first date!
The very next morning, he called. He asked if I would go to a football game that he was playing in. After the game there would be a social. A meal and dancing. I was shocked that he called. I was excited, and felt better about our first date. I really felt he didn’t like me. However I was wrong. I went to the game, met his friends, and went dancing into the night. This night he wore his own shoes and clothes. We had a good time! We talked for hours again. I was beginning to like this cocky jerk! Amazing!
Still no kiss!
Was it my breath? (be quiet sons)
Or was he still playing it smooth?
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
First Date by Momo9
I asked my mom to guest post for me for a couple of days. I never really asked my parents about how they met, so for Momo9's first guest post I aksed her to write about their first date.
A little background. My mom is the oldest of 12 and my dad is the oldest of 8. My mom lived only 2 blocks from my dad's parent's house.
First Date by Momo9.
We went to the movies and saw, “ Seven Brides for Seven Brothers”. (It is true, believe it or not). But first we had to stop at the pharmacy, so I could buy a toothbrush for my little sister, who was starting to brush by herself. He let me stop and let me drop it off for her before we left on our date. He was very patient and kind.
After the movie, we went to a club for a drinks and dancing. While dancing, I stepped on his feet. I was so apologetic. He said, “Don’t worry, they’re not my shoes. They belong to my roommate”. We danced a lot! The place got warm. I suggested he take off his sport coat. He said he couldn’t because he only ironed the front of his dress shirt. The sleeves and back were all wrinkled. A “mess” he said. Then he confessed that the sport coat was also his roommate’s. I wanted to ask him about his underwear. I really didn’t want to know whom that belonged to. So I did not ask.
We had a lot of conversation that night as most people do on a first date. We had a lot in common. However, every piece of clothing that I wore belonged to me. He was a gentleman, a good listener, a good dancer, not great, but good. We knew a lot of the same people. So, I decided, if he asked me out again, I would say yes. If he wanted a kiss goodnight, I would go along with it. We did talk for a long time on the porch, after we arrived at my house. He did not ask me out for a second time that night, and did not make an attempt to kiss me goodnight. What a jerk!
A little background. My mom is the oldest of 12 and my dad is the oldest of 8. My mom lived only 2 blocks from my dad's parent's house.
First Date by Momo9.
We went to the movies and saw, “ Seven Brides for Seven Brothers”. (It is true, believe it or not). But first we had to stop at the pharmacy, so I could buy a toothbrush for my little sister, who was starting to brush by herself. He let me stop and let me drop it off for her before we left on our date. He was very patient and kind.
After the movie, we went to a club for a drinks and dancing. While dancing, I stepped on his feet. I was so apologetic. He said, “Don’t worry, they’re not my shoes. They belong to my roommate”. We danced a lot! The place got warm. I suggested he take off his sport coat. He said he couldn’t because he only ironed the front of his dress shirt. The sleeves and back were all wrinkled. A “mess” he said. Then he confessed that the sport coat was also his roommate’s. I wanted to ask him about his underwear. I really didn’t want to know whom that belonged to. So I did not ask.
We had a lot of conversation that night as most people do on a first date. We had a lot in common. However, every piece of clothing that I wore belonged to me. He was a gentleman, a good listener, a good dancer, not great, but good. We knew a lot of the same people. So, I decided, if he asked me out again, I would say yes. If he wanted a kiss goodnight, I would go along with it. We did talk for a long time on the porch, after we arrived at my house. He did not ask me out for a second time that night, and did not make an attempt to kiss me goodnight. What a jerk!
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Bahama Mama
I was talking to my brother Kevin about his recent trip to visit us here in Florida with my parents. After Kevin and his wife and my Mom and Dad left Orlando they flew to the Bahamas for a few days.
"Did you guys have a good time?" I asked.
"Yes. It was awesome."
"Did Mom and Dad like the Bahamas?"
"Yes." replied Kevin.
"Did they have a good time?"
"Yes. Almost too good of a time."
I looked at him with a rasied eyebrow to which he answered.
"I'm saying you might be getting a little baby sister out of the deal."
"Did you guys have a good time?" I asked.
"Yes. It was awesome."
"Did Mom and Dad like the Bahamas?"
"Yes." replied Kevin.
"Did they have a good time?"
"Yes. Almost too good of a time."
I looked at him with a rasied eyebrow to which he answered.
"I'm saying you might be getting a little baby sister out of the deal."
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
The Belt
I originally posted this on the Blogfathers last week. I did not post anything on Father's Day for my dad due to Wyatt's arrival. Happy Father's Day Dad.
My father was the disciplinarian in our household when I was a kid. Sure my Mom would occasionally ground us, or wash our mouths out with soap but the penalties for the major infractions to the family rules were left up to my father to dish out. The worst punishment to get, besides the “I’m disappointed in you” speech and look, was the Belt. The Belt was an important tool when disciplining 9 kids.
I can only remember being punished with the Belt twice. One time, when I was about 8, I told my brother to “suck my *#$@”. I was 8 and I did not know what the phrase meant, but I did know it was an insult. After the three cracks of the Belt on my ass I knew that I would not say it again.
The other time that I was on the receiving end of the Belt was when the entire family, all 9 of us, were going to be punished for not eating our dinner. You see my Mom cooked dinner every night for 11 people. She tried real hard to make meals that were healthy and that we would all like, or at least eat, and that were within the food expense for the week. One time she decided she was going to be creative and make us a Chinese meal. Chicken Chow Mein I believe it was.
None of us would eat it. It tasted awful. My mom is a good cook but for some reason this recipe did not pan out. My 7 brothers, my sister and I sat at the dinner table for an hour without anyone touching their meal. We complained the entire time about how disgusting it was. It was gross. I think at one point one of my brothers threw the contents of their plate on the floor. When this happened my mother said to my dad, “I want them all punished.” She then placed her head in her hands and yelled at us to “go to your rooms.”
There were 5 bedrooms upstairs. My sister had her own room and all of the boys shared a room with another brother, 2 to a room. My room was in the middle of the 5. I heard my dad climbing the stairs snapping the Belt. I could hear him enter the first room. There was a pause. Then I heard the crack of the belt against their backsides. –Crack- “Ow” –Crack- “Ouch”, -Crack- “Owww!” –Crack- “Ooh!” The first two brothers got theirs.
My father entered the second room, the one right next to mine where the LawnWhisperer shared a room with Dan. I could hear him say something but it was muffled. There was a pause.
-Crack- “Ouch. Dad?” –Crack- Ow!”
-Crack- “OOOH.” , -Crack- “Arrrh.”
That was two more brothers were punished. It was my turn next. I sat on my bed as far away from the door as possible thinking that that would save me. The bedroom door flew open. I could tell from the look on my father’s face that he was not happy. He started to speak in a low, barely audible voice.
“Okay guys,” he whispered. “I want you to hold up your pillows. When I hit them with the Belt you scream like it hurts. Do you got that?”
My brother and I exchanged glances of disbelief. We were shocked and could not quite understand what was going on.
“I said, hold up your pillows. Do you got that?” He repeated as he nodded his head.
My brother and I shook our heads and held our pillows up. –Crack- went the Belt across the pillow. “Ouch” my brother yelled through a smile. –Crack- “OW!”- Crack- the belt popped against my pillow. “OOW!” I yelped. –Crack- “Aww Ouch.” I hollered.
My dad turned to leave the room, he turned back and said “I didn’t like dinner either, don’t tell your mother.” And he left.
My father was the disciplinarian in our household when I was a kid. Sure my Mom would occasionally ground us, or wash our mouths out with soap but the penalties for the major infractions to the family rules were left up to my father to dish out. The worst punishment to get, besides the “I’m disappointed in you” speech and look, was the Belt. The Belt was an important tool when disciplining 9 kids.
I can only remember being punished with the Belt twice. One time, when I was about 8, I told my brother to “suck my *#$@”. I was 8 and I did not know what the phrase meant, but I did know it was an insult. After the three cracks of the Belt on my ass I knew that I would not say it again.
The other time that I was on the receiving end of the Belt was when the entire family, all 9 of us, were going to be punished for not eating our dinner. You see my Mom cooked dinner every night for 11 people. She tried real hard to make meals that were healthy and that we would all like, or at least eat, and that were within the food expense for the week. One time she decided she was going to be creative and make us a Chinese meal. Chicken Chow Mein I believe it was.
None of us would eat it. It tasted awful. My mom is a good cook but for some reason this recipe did not pan out. My 7 brothers, my sister and I sat at the dinner table for an hour without anyone touching their meal. We complained the entire time about how disgusting it was. It was gross. I think at one point one of my brothers threw the contents of their plate on the floor. When this happened my mother said to my dad, “I want them all punished.” She then placed her head in her hands and yelled at us to “go to your rooms.”
There were 5 bedrooms upstairs. My sister had her own room and all of the boys shared a room with another brother, 2 to a room. My room was in the middle of the 5. I heard my dad climbing the stairs snapping the Belt. I could hear him enter the first room. There was a pause. Then I heard the crack of the belt against their backsides. –Crack- “Ow” –Crack- “Ouch”, -Crack- “Owww!” –Crack- “Ooh!” The first two brothers got theirs.
My father entered the second room, the one right next to mine where the LawnWhisperer shared a room with Dan. I could hear him say something but it was muffled. There was a pause.
-Crack- “Ouch. Dad?” –Crack- Ow!”
-Crack- “OOOH.” , -Crack- “Arrrh.”
That was two more brothers were punished. It was my turn next. I sat on my bed as far away from the door as possible thinking that that would save me. The bedroom door flew open. I could tell from the look on my father’s face that he was not happy. He started to speak in a low, barely audible voice.
“Okay guys,” he whispered. “I want you to hold up your pillows. When I hit them with the Belt you scream like it hurts. Do you got that?”
My brother and I exchanged glances of disbelief. We were shocked and could not quite understand what was going on.
“I said, hold up your pillows. Do you got that?” He repeated as he nodded his head.
My brother and I shook our heads and held our pillows up. –Crack- went the Belt across the pillow. “Ouch” my brother yelled through a smile. –Crack- “OW!”- Crack- the belt popped against my pillow. “OOW!” I yelped. –Crack- “Aww Ouch.” I hollered.
My dad turned to leave the room, he turned back and said “I didn’t like dinner either, don’t tell your mother.” And he left.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Purple
When Maxfield was about 6weeks old I became concerned that his circumcised penis was not healing correctly. Every time we changed his diaper we made sure that we were very careful with cleaning him and applying the proper ointment and such. Sure it looked healed but I could not get over the fact that his “fire helmet” was always a bright purple. It was six weeks after the procedure one would think that the penis would look normal.
The only point of comparison I had was, well, my own, and I know that mine was not the color of Barney. I did not want to call the doctor because part of me felt that maybe this was normal and that it just needed a while to heal. I thought about calling my brother Jim whose son, Bo, was born two months before Max, but I did not want to subject myself to his laughter and ridicule to me possibly over reacting to something that may be normal.
So like most people, (I guess) when in need for baby/medical advice, I called my mom.
When she answered the phone I could hear small children in the background, “Hi Mom. It’s Bill. What are you doing?”
“I am watching Jimmy’s kids. They had a wedding or something to go to.”
“Oh. Well I have a question for you and it may sound weird but, Max’s penis is a bright purple and I just want to know if that is normal.”
“What do mean bright purple?”
“It looks like, you know if you were to tie a rubber band around your finger really tight. But only it is brighter than that. I figured you have more experience with penises than anyone I know. Okay that came out wrong but you know what I mean.” (My mom raised 8 sons).
She chuckled. “I am sure it is normal but I don’t remember if any on you guys having a bright purple penis.”
“You don’t? I am not sure whether I should call a doctor or not. Max’s next check up is like two weeks away and I would hate to wait until then. What do you think?”
“Bill I am sure it is normal. You know what? Hold on.”
I could hear her put the phone down and telling my dad that it was me on the phone. I waited for a few minutes. When she picked the phone back up I could hear her laughing.
“I am sure it is fine and nothing to worry about.” She reassured me.
"Why?"
“I am watching Jimmy’s kids. I just went and checked Bo’s penis. His is purple too.”
I laughed and hung up the phone.
About 20 minutes later the phone rings. I pick it up. “Hello?”
“Bill. It’s your father.”
“Hey Dad. What’s up?”
“Why is your mother asking to check everyone’s pecker.”
The only point of comparison I had was, well, my own, and I know that mine was not the color of Barney. I did not want to call the doctor because part of me felt that maybe this was normal and that it just needed a while to heal. I thought about calling my brother Jim whose son, Bo, was born two months before Max, but I did not want to subject myself to his laughter and ridicule to me possibly over reacting to something that may be normal.
So like most people, (I guess) when in need for baby/medical advice, I called my mom.
When she answered the phone I could hear small children in the background, “Hi Mom. It’s Bill. What are you doing?”
“I am watching Jimmy’s kids. They had a wedding or something to go to.”
“Oh. Well I have a question for you and it may sound weird but, Max’s penis is a bright purple and I just want to know if that is normal.”
“What do mean bright purple?”
“It looks like, you know if you were to tie a rubber band around your finger really tight. But only it is brighter than that. I figured you have more experience with penises than anyone I know. Okay that came out wrong but you know what I mean.” (My mom raised 8 sons).
She chuckled. “I am sure it is normal but I don’t remember if any on you guys having a bright purple penis.”
“You don’t? I am not sure whether I should call a doctor or not. Max’s next check up is like two weeks away and I would hate to wait until then. What do you think?”
“Bill I am sure it is normal. You know what? Hold on.”
I could hear her put the phone down and telling my dad that it was me on the phone. I waited for a few minutes. When she picked the phone back up I could hear her laughing.
“I am sure it is fine and nothing to worry about.” She reassured me.
"Why?"
“I am watching Jimmy’s kids. I just went and checked Bo’s penis. His is purple too.”
I laughed and hung up the phone.
About 20 minutes later the phone rings. I pick it up. “Hello?”
“Bill. It’s your father.”
“Hey Dad. What’s up?”
“Why is your mother asking to check everyone’s pecker.”
Friday, May 12, 2006
Mother's Day past.
This story contains slight embellishement, not much but I need to protect myself from angry emails from siblings.
Finding the perfect Mother’s day gift for my Mom used to be easy. When I was a kid my dad did all the purchasing of the mothers day gifts. Either on the Saturday night before Mother’s Day or on the morning of, he would gather the 9 kids in a room, dump the contents of bag, which had either Sears, Two Guys, or Jefferson Ward printed on it, onto the floor. Falling onto the floor were 9 gifts for my mom. They ranged anywhere from bathrobes to toiletries to cooking utensils and other types of small gifts and always a bottle of Jean Nate.
My dad would walk out of the room and leave my sister Sharon in charge of divvying up the gifts so that each kid had something to give to my mom for Mother’s Day. Sometimes we would fight over who got to give mom what.
“I want to give Mom the hairbrush. I gave her the change purse at Christmas.” Kevin would say.
“John and Bill should give her the small stuff because they are in the middle and we should give her the big stuff first and last.” Sharon would direct.
Dennis would chime in. “Well I want to giver her the socks because they are yellow. And Yellow is the hue of that portion of the visible spectrum lying between orange and green, evoked in the human observer by radiant energy with wavelengths of approximately 570 to 590 nanometers; any of a group of colors of a hue resembling that of ripe lemons and varying in lightness and saturation; one of the subtractive primaries; one of the psychological primary hues….”
Someone would eventually cut Dennis off because he was too longwinded. After much discussion and debate Sharon would tell each of us what we were going to give mom and hand us the item. We would line up, usually youngest to oldest, and proceed to the living room, where my Mom was sitting still in her robe from last year, sipping tea. One by one we would approach her and hand her unwrapped gifts.
She would always act like each gift was the perfect thing.
“Oh Jimmy. What’s this? A new sweatshirt? And it is green which is my favorite color. Thanks. Michael, wow you got me new Sunglasses. I love them. Thank you Patrick for the wonderful manicure set. Oh Billy. A new Spatula. How wonderful. I really need this. Thank you so much……. Umm. What’s your name? John. Right. Sorry honey it is still early. Thank you for this quart of motor oil. That is lovely and it is Pennzoil. Oh Daniel. Jean Nate. I love it. I think I just used up the last of the bottle I got for Christmas. Why does this bottle have some missing. Did you drink some of it?”
And this would go on until all of the gifts were sitting in front of her either on the coffee table or on the floor. As the kids went about getting ready for church we each one by one, would ask my mom what gift she liked best. Her answer was always the same.
“ I love them all for different reasons. I can’t pick out a favorite.”
I know it was always whatever Jimmy, the youngest, gave her.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom. I love you.
Finding the perfect Mother’s day gift for my Mom used to be easy. When I was a kid my dad did all the purchasing of the mothers day gifts. Either on the Saturday night before Mother’s Day or on the morning of, he would gather the 9 kids in a room, dump the contents of bag, which had either Sears, Two Guys, or Jefferson Ward printed on it, onto the floor. Falling onto the floor were 9 gifts for my mom. They ranged anywhere from bathrobes to toiletries to cooking utensils and other types of small gifts and always a bottle of Jean Nate.
My dad would walk out of the room and leave my sister Sharon in charge of divvying up the gifts so that each kid had something to give to my mom for Mother’s Day. Sometimes we would fight over who got to give mom what.
“I want to give Mom the hairbrush. I gave her the change purse at Christmas.” Kevin would say.
“John and Bill should give her the small stuff because they are in the middle and we should give her the big stuff first and last.” Sharon would direct.
Dennis would chime in. “Well I want to giver her the socks because they are yellow. And Yellow is the hue of that portion of the visible spectrum lying between orange and green, evoked in the human observer by radiant energy with wavelengths of approximately 570 to 590 nanometers; any of a group of colors of a hue resembling that of ripe lemons and varying in lightness and saturation; one of the subtractive primaries; one of the psychological primary hues….”
Someone would eventually cut Dennis off because he was too longwinded. After much discussion and debate Sharon would tell each of us what we were going to give mom and hand us the item. We would line up, usually youngest to oldest, and proceed to the living room, where my Mom was sitting still in her robe from last year, sipping tea. One by one we would approach her and hand her unwrapped gifts.
She would always act like each gift was the perfect thing.
“Oh Jimmy. What’s this? A new sweatshirt? And it is green which is my favorite color. Thanks. Michael, wow you got me new Sunglasses. I love them. Thank you Patrick for the wonderful manicure set. Oh Billy. A new Spatula. How wonderful. I really need this. Thank you so much……. Umm. What’s your name? John. Right. Sorry honey it is still early. Thank you for this quart of motor oil. That is lovely and it is Pennzoil. Oh Daniel. Jean Nate. I love it. I think I just used up the last of the bottle I got for Christmas. Why does this bottle have some missing. Did you drink some of it?”
And this would go on until all of the gifts were sitting in front of her either on the coffee table or on the floor. As the kids went about getting ready for church we each one by one, would ask my mom what gift she liked best. Her answer was always the same.
“ I love them all for different reasons. I can’t pick out a favorite.”
I know it was always whatever Jimmy, the youngest, gave her.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom. I love you.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
The Rabbit
We had very few pets growing up. Due to my mom’s, Lawnwhisperer’s, and Jimmy’s (Baby Jesus) serious phobia of canines we knew we would never have a dog. We did have a few cats though. There was Gray, named because she was gray, and later we had Sears and Roebuck, named so because they were found at Sears and Roebuck, where my dad worked. And at one point, when I was about 10 or so, the Easter bunny, left us a rabbit.
I do not remember the rabbit’s name because we did not have him for very long. We kept the rabbit in the back yard in a cage made of wood and chicken wire and screens. We would go out back everyday to look at the rabbit and try to feed it carrots and admire the Raisinets it left behind. The rest of the neighborhood kids liked the rabbit as well. Especially the girl that lived behind us, catty- corner, her name was April.
Most of us did not like April. Most of the girls that grew up in our boy-dominated neighborhood (granted my 7 brothers, 1sister and I made up half the neighborhood) were either tomboys and could hang out with us, or they kept their distance. Not April. She was always trying to do what we were doing. The problem was she was all girly girl. She wore frilly dresses and white stockings and had curly hair and she was pretty snobby. We always compared her to Nellie from Little House on the Prairie.
April loved the rabbit in our backyard. She would often climb the fence that separated our yards and take the rabbit out of its cage and play with it and pet it. She probably gave it more attention than my entire family ever did. We would catch her feeding our rabbit and we would go out back and yell at her in that nanny-nanny-pooh-pooh way.
“Why don’t you get your own rabbit?”
“Don’t give the rabbit girl germs.”
“If you love our rabbit so much why don’t you marry it?”
She always ended up leaving in a huff or tears.
“I’m telling.” April would whine as she scurried over the fence being careful not to get rust stains on her perfectly pleated plaid dress.
One day, and I am sketchy on the details, we came home to find the door to the rabbit cage open with no rabbit in sight. We of course went and told our parent’s that the rabbit was gone. My parent’s said that someone must have left the door open and that the rabbit escaped. We knew it was no of us. It had to be April. Our dislike for the girl intensified. She kidnapped our rabbit. My parent’s talked us out of forming a mob, with wiffle-ball bats and sticks, and marching over to her house and demanding the rabbit back. They assured us that the rabbit had probably escaped due to our own fault.
Deep down we knew it was not one of us that let the rabbit out. I believe one of us confronted April and she denied the kidnapping as well as mistakenly letting the rabbit go. I think she was more upset than us that the rabbit was gone, but we did not let that fool us. It was her fault. We knew it.
We blamed her for years and eventually the rabbit incident became a joke in our house. Even as adults we would talk about how April was responsible for the rabbit’s disappearance. It was only just a few years ago that my father told me the true story of the rabbit.
He came home one day and found the rabbit dead. Stiff as a board, in it’s cage. In an effort to “protect” the younger kids from seeing a dead rabbit, or feeling guilty over the death of the pet, he quickly disposed of the carcass and left the cage door open. Instead of telling us that the rabbit died he would let us believe that rabbit just escaped. A rabbit that was roaming free in the wild of suburbia was easier for us kids to grasp than death would be. He did not realize that we would blame April.
When I asked him how come he let us blame April for so long and his response was, “You guys blamed April. And I figured as long as the blame was going in her direction I was off the hook.”
My dad’s birthday is this weekend. The man who came up with “Poop and Boogies”
Happy Birthday Dad.
I do not remember the rabbit’s name because we did not have him for very long. We kept the rabbit in the back yard in a cage made of wood and chicken wire and screens. We would go out back everyday to look at the rabbit and try to feed it carrots and admire the Raisinets it left behind. The rest of the neighborhood kids liked the rabbit as well. Especially the girl that lived behind us, catty- corner, her name was April.
Most of us did not like April. Most of the girls that grew up in our boy-dominated neighborhood (granted my 7 brothers, 1sister and I made up half the neighborhood) were either tomboys and could hang out with us, or they kept their distance. Not April. She was always trying to do what we were doing. The problem was she was all girly girl. She wore frilly dresses and white stockings and had curly hair and she was pretty snobby. We always compared her to Nellie from Little House on the Prairie.
April loved the rabbit in our backyard. She would often climb the fence that separated our yards and take the rabbit out of its cage and play with it and pet it. She probably gave it more attention than my entire family ever did. We would catch her feeding our rabbit and we would go out back and yell at her in that nanny-nanny-pooh-pooh way.
“Why don’t you get your own rabbit?”
“Don’t give the rabbit girl germs.”
“If you love our rabbit so much why don’t you marry it?”
She always ended up leaving in a huff or tears.
“I’m telling.” April would whine as she scurried over the fence being careful not to get rust stains on her perfectly pleated plaid dress.
One day, and I am sketchy on the details, we came home to find the door to the rabbit cage open with no rabbit in sight. We of course went and told our parent’s that the rabbit was gone. My parent’s said that someone must have left the door open and that the rabbit escaped. We knew it was no of us. It had to be April. Our dislike for the girl intensified. She kidnapped our rabbit. My parent’s talked us out of forming a mob, with wiffle-ball bats and sticks, and marching over to her house and demanding the rabbit back. They assured us that the rabbit had probably escaped due to our own fault.
Deep down we knew it was not one of us that let the rabbit out. I believe one of us confronted April and she denied the kidnapping as well as mistakenly letting the rabbit go. I think she was more upset than us that the rabbit was gone, but we did not let that fool us. It was her fault. We knew it.
We blamed her for years and eventually the rabbit incident became a joke in our house. Even as adults we would talk about how April was responsible for the rabbit’s disappearance. It was only just a few years ago that my father told me the true story of the rabbit.
He came home one day and found the rabbit dead. Stiff as a board, in it’s cage. In an effort to “protect” the younger kids from seeing a dead rabbit, or feeling guilty over the death of the pet, he quickly disposed of the carcass and left the cage door open. Instead of telling us that the rabbit died he would let us believe that rabbit just escaped. A rabbit that was roaming free in the wild of suburbia was easier for us kids to grasp than death would be. He did not realize that we would blame April.
When I asked him how come he let us blame April for so long and his response was, “You guys blamed April. And I figured as long as the blame was going in her direction I was off the hook.”
My dad’s birthday is this weekend. The man who came up with “Poop and Boogies”
Happy Birthday Dad.
Friday, March 24, 2006
The 7 worst words.
Maxfield helps us out around the house. He does not have set chores,, but as we do miscellaneous projects we ask him to pitch in. He does an excellent job of overfilling the Luna’s (our dog) food bowl. He has a special knack for emptying the dishwasher one spoon at a time. He does a fine job watering the plants and the front porch and our shoes and everything else that may be within a ten-yard radius of the flowerpots. And most recently he has developed an appreciation of spackling the walls in our living room. It is always fun to watch him enjoy his work and I know it is only a matter of a few years when that enjoyment will disappear, so right now, I don’t mind that a project that should only take a few minutes take 20 times longer.
While growing up, my brothers, sister and I all had weekly chores. They were divided up by age/skill appropriate chores. For instance, once you were twelve years old your weekly chore was to mow the yard. (I lucked out because the Lawnwhisperer enjoyed cutting the grass so much, he kept that chore up until he was at least 16. Since he is a year older than me I skipped the whole lawn-cutting chore). I always volunteered to clean the bathroom. We only had one (Yes there was 11 of us in the house with one bathroom). It usually only took me a half hour to do every Saturday, where other chores could take hours to do on the weekend. Along with the regular chores, we all had a Dish Night. Each of us had a specific night that was our night to do the dishes. Sunday night was the worst one to have because that was always the big meal night (lots of pots and pans). The rest of the week consisted of leftovers from Sunday or simpler meals, so those nights were easier.
Besides the weekly chore and dish night there were always other projects that my dad had us working on. One of the worst things that my dad could ever say to one us, the 7-word phrase that could doom us was “I need five minutes of your time.” (Or the same thing in a question.) “Can I borrow you for five minutes?”
“Sure.” We always responded because there really was not the option of saying “No.”
I know it does not sound that bad. 5 minutes. No big deal. Right?
Wrong.
Never in the history of my family did any task that started with that statement take any less than 2 hours. My dad was skilled at disguising the biggest projects as a five- minute favor. He planned to build a shed from scratch in those five minutes. He figured we could clean the entire basement ceiling to floor in those five minutes. He believed that one 12-year-old kid could Rototill the entire property, front and back yards, in 5 minutes.
Once we got into our teens he slowly changed the way he asked us for help. He would casually say to one or more of us, as if he was really interested, “Do you have any plans this weekend?” (Please note 7 words again). And whoever responded with “Nothing” He would then say “I could use your help on Saturday” (7 words.) We would be stuck cleaning out gutters for a few hours because we did not think of something to do on the weekend.
It is funny how all of this comes around full circle. I know feeding the dog should only take a few seconds but I don’t mind working with Max as he places the food into the bowl one piece at time. It is time that I get to spend with him. It is a time I get to show him new things. I wonder if that is how my father felt. Would he make the five-minute projects longer so we would spend more time with him? Was he just trying to get us out of our mother’s hair?
If he was doing it for those reasons, I never really did appreciate it until now. But I also realize he simply could have said, “Who wants to go get ice cream?”
While growing up, my brothers, sister and I all had weekly chores. They were divided up by age/skill appropriate chores. For instance, once you were twelve years old your weekly chore was to mow the yard. (I lucked out because the Lawnwhisperer enjoyed cutting the grass so much, he kept that chore up until he was at least 16. Since he is a year older than me I skipped the whole lawn-cutting chore). I always volunteered to clean the bathroom. We only had one (Yes there was 11 of us in the house with one bathroom). It usually only took me a half hour to do every Saturday, where other chores could take hours to do on the weekend. Along with the regular chores, we all had a Dish Night. Each of us had a specific night that was our night to do the dishes. Sunday night was the worst one to have because that was always the big meal night (lots of pots and pans). The rest of the week consisted of leftovers from Sunday or simpler meals, so those nights were easier.
Besides the weekly chore and dish night there were always other projects that my dad had us working on. One of the worst things that my dad could ever say to one us, the 7-word phrase that could doom us was “I need five minutes of your time.” (Or the same thing in a question.) “Can I borrow you for five minutes?”
“Sure.” We always responded because there really was not the option of saying “No.”
I know it does not sound that bad. 5 minutes. No big deal. Right?
Wrong.
Never in the history of my family did any task that started with that statement take any less than 2 hours. My dad was skilled at disguising the biggest projects as a five- minute favor. He planned to build a shed from scratch in those five minutes. He figured we could clean the entire basement ceiling to floor in those five minutes. He believed that one 12-year-old kid could Rototill the entire property, front and back yards, in 5 minutes.
Once we got into our teens he slowly changed the way he asked us for help. He would casually say to one or more of us, as if he was really interested, “Do you have any plans this weekend?” (Please note 7 words again). And whoever responded with “Nothing” He would then say “I could use your help on Saturday” (7 words.) We would be stuck cleaning out gutters for a few hours because we did not think of something to do on the weekend.
It is funny how all of this comes around full circle. I know feeding the dog should only take a few seconds but I don’t mind working with Max as he places the food into the bowl one piece at time. It is time that I get to spend with him. It is a time I get to show him new things. I wonder if that is how my father felt. Would he make the five-minute projects longer so we would spend more time with him? Was he just trying to get us out of our mother’s hair?
If he was doing it for those reasons, I never really did appreciate it until now. But I also realize he simply could have said, “Who wants to go get ice cream?”
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Switcheroo
I was in the 5th grade when my Mom started watching some of the neighborhood kids for some side money. Actually, I don’t know if she ever made any money or if she just did it out of the kindness of her heart. But every morning a couple of kids would be dropped off at our house before school. They were Jeff and his sister Pam and another girl named Sarah. My mom would make sure that they all made their way to school, along with my brothers and I, and then after school she would watch them until their parents picked them up. (Now that I think about it, these kids were my responsibility on the walk to and from school since I was the oldest out of everyone that had to make the 4 block walk. So I have to guess that my mom did NOT make any money because I am sure she would have cut me in on the action since I was the responsible one).
After school, I would lead the 7 of us back to our house where we would play in the street or on Bob’s (my best friend who lived across the street) yard until, either dinner time, or until Mrs. Luchuk, the old cranky lady that lived next to Bob, would call the cops or come out and yell at us, whatever came first, and it was usually Mrs. Luchuk. (Hag).
Sometimes the other kids would not be at my house. Jeff and his father would be away hunting for a week. Sarah would be staying with her grandparents. I think there were other kids somewhere along the way, that I do not remember, but there were always a bunch of us playing in the street. Mrs. Luchuk would yell at us, and sometimes her husband, who was a nice man, would come out and apologize to us. Or Mr. Luchuk would tell his wife to come inside and leave the kids alone. Sometimes he would retrieve the ball that landed on his yard for us because we were too afraid to approach the house. He was nice man.
One day, my mom asked that we all play inside because Mr. Luchuk had died. She wanted to give Mrs. Luchuk a break. Later after all the other kids left we sat down to have dinner. My mom made meat loaf. My mom’s meat loaf was good. Not great, but good. It was consistent. It tasted the same every time. This particular night it did NOT taste the same.
“Mom, why does this taste funny?” One of us asked.
“I made it the same way I always make it. Eat it.” She would reply.
The LawnWhisperer asked, as he did with every meal, “Mom? Is there onions in here?” He hated onions.
“No John.”
“Mom this doesn’t taste right. What is it?” Said another brother.
Dad spoke up. “Poop and boogies. Eat it.”
At one point my mom announced that she did make the meatloaf a little different this time but she would only tell us what she used after we all ate it. After a while we all seemed to finish our meals although we were little wary of what my mom was going to tell us. We were waiting for Pat to finish his plate (Pat was always the last to finish) so we could all hear Mom’s secret ingredient. As Pat finished his last few bites, my mom told us what we had just eaten.
“I did make the meatloaf a little different.” She said. “I used a different kind of meat. It is called Venison.”
“Venison? What’s that?” Someone said.
“Well.” My mom replied, “Do you know how Jeff and his father go hunting? Well the last time they went, they shot a deer. Jeff’s dad was nice enough to bring us some ground venison so I used it for the meatloaf.”
There was an up roar at our house. “We ate deer meat?”
“Mom that’s like eating Bambi.”
“Ohh. Gross.”
“I will never eat meatloaf again.”
These were just some of the comments.
As I was clearing the table, I turned to my mom and I said, “I did not think it was too bad. And I am glad you said it was deer meat. I thought you were going to say it was Mr. Luchuk.”
After school, I would lead the 7 of us back to our house where we would play in the street or on Bob’s (my best friend who lived across the street) yard until, either dinner time, or until Mrs. Luchuk, the old cranky lady that lived next to Bob, would call the cops or come out and yell at us, whatever came first, and it was usually Mrs. Luchuk. (Hag).
Sometimes the other kids would not be at my house. Jeff and his father would be away hunting for a week. Sarah would be staying with her grandparents. I think there were other kids somewhere along the way, that I do not remember, but there were always a bunch of us playing in the street. Mrs. Luchuk would yell at us, and sometimes her husband, who was a nice man, would come out and apologize to us. Or Mr. Luchuk would tell his wife to come inside and leave the kids alone. Sometimes he would retrieve the ball that landed on his yard for us because we were too afraid to approach the house. He was nice man.
One day, my mom asked that we all play inside because Mr. Luchuk had died. She wanted to give Mrs. Luchuk a break. Later after all the other kids left we sat down to have dinner. My mom made meat loaf. My mom’s meat loaf was good. Not great, but good. It was consistent. It tasted the same every time. This particular night it did NOT taste the same.
“Mom, why does this taste funny?” One of us asked.
“I made it the same way I always make it. Eat it.” She would reply.
The LawnWhisperer asked, as he did with every meal, “Mom? Is there onions in here?” He hated onions.
“No John.”
“Mom this doesn’t taste right. What is it?” Said another brother.
Dad spoke up. “Poop and boogies. Eat it.”
At one point my mom announced that she did make the meatloaf a little different this time but she would only tell us what she used after we all ate it. After a while we all seemed to finish our meals although we were little wary of what my mom was going to tell us. We were waiting for Pat to finish his plate (Pat was always the last to finish) so we could all hear Mom’s secret ingredient. As Pat finished his last few bites, my mom told us what we had just eaten.
“I did make the meatloaf a little different.” She said. “I used a different kind of meat. It is called Venison.”
“Venison? What’s that?” Someone said.
“Well.” My mom replied, “Do you know how Jeff and his father go hunting? Well the last time they went, they shot a deer. Jeff’s dad was nice enough to bring us some ground venison so I used it for the meatloaf.”
There was an up roar at our house. “We ate deer meat?”
“Mom that’s like eating Bambi.”
“Ohh. Gross.”
“I will never eat meatloaf again.”
These were just some of the comments.
As I was clearing the table, I turned to my mom and I said, “I did not think it was too bad. And I am glad you said it was deer meat. I thought you were going to say it was Mr. Luchuk.”
Friday, December 09, 2005
Greatest Gift
Lauren and I have been quite busy preparing for the Christmas Holiday. Lauren pointed out to me that we have 22 people on our gift list this year and that does not include Max, Lauren or me. She said to me last night, “I don’t know how your parents did It.” with having so many kids and Godchildren and brothers and sisters.
Every year at this time I think the same thing. How did they pull it off? There were 9 of us. That’s a lot of presents for Santa to deliver.
Christmas morning was always a whirlwind in our house. The night before, my parents would arrange the gifts in piles under the tree with each of our names on our designated pile (We still, to this day, joke about who had the biggest piles of gifts, FYI- Jimmy). We would all come down the stairs at the same time and sit in front of our pile and as my parents watched sipping their coffee and tea, open our gifts at the same time, There were 11 of us in a small family room, tripping over each other to see what Santa brought for us.
I always tried to keep my wish list reasonable after I found out that my parents were acting as Santa’s agents. I knew they had a lot of mouths to feed and they always did their best to provide us with nice Christmas gifts. But one year, the only thing I wanted cost $60.00. I was willing to forego all other gifts if I could just have this one thing.
You see, in 1982 I was 12 and I thought I was a budding comic book artist. The only piece of equipment I would need, to be the next Jack Kirby, was a Drawing Table. I knew that sixty bucks was lot of money at that time and I did not have high hopes because I also knew that I needed socks, gloves, a hat and probably a new pair of Tough Skins.
When I came down to the tree that Christmas Morning, I noticed that there were a few gift boxes with my name on them. I was a little saddened that there was no table waiting under the tree but I knew that it was a lot of money and understood that things were tight. I opened the few gifts (gloves and socks) that I received and I sat and watched everyone else open their much bigger piles. I guess I would have to wait to create the next Spiderman.
As I sat and listened to my brothers “Ooohing and Ahhing” over their gifts I heard my mother, not raising her voice or anything but just a normal tone, say “Bill.”
I turned to look at her (and I know this sounds totally cheesy, but I will never forget the smile on her face) she smiled and nodded her head towards the back wall. I followed her eyes. There it was, a giant box, leaning against the back door. I jumped up and ran over. I tried picking the box up but it was too heavy. I spun it around so I could look at the front picture. A drawing table.
I was ecstatic. I turned around and looked at my mom. She had a devilish grin on her face. I guess the table was not with my pile of gifts because it was so big. I also think that my mom wanted to see my reaction to actually getting the gift. With so many kids opening gifts at the same time I am sure it was difficult to see everyone. Or maybe she was just letting me sweat it out.
I never did become a great comic book artist. The only drawing I do now is MooneyAngelo stuff, but I kept that table until I was 27. It is still one of my favorite gifts. Ever.
Every year at this time I think the same thing. How did they pull it off? There were 9 of us. That’s a lot of presents for Santa to deliver.
Christmas morning was always a whirlwind in our house. The night before, my parents would arrange the gifts in piles under the tree with each of our names on our designated pile (We still, to this day, joke about who had the biggest piles of gifts, FYI- Jimmy). We would all come down the stairs at the same time and sit in front of our pile and as my parents watched sipping their coffee and tea, open our gifts at the same time, There were 11 of us in a small family room, tripping over each other to see what Santa brought for us.
I always tried to keep my wish list reasonable after I found out that my parents were acting as Santa’s agents. I knew they had a lot of mouths to feed and they always did their best to provide us with nice Christmas gifts. But one year, the only thing I wanted cost $60.00. I was willing to forego all other gifts if I could just have this one thing.
You see, in 1982 I was 12 and I thought I was a budding comic book artist. The only piece of equipment I would need, to be the next Jack Kirby, was a Drawing Table. I knew that sixty bucks was lot of money at that time and I did not have high hopes because I also knew that I needed socks, gloves, a hat and probably a new pair of Tough Skins.
When I came down to the tree that Christmas Morning, I noticed that there were a few gift boxes with my name on them. I was a little saddened that there was no table waiting under the tree but I knew that it was a lot of money and understood that things were tight. I opened the few gifts (gloves and socks) that I received and I sat and watched everyone else open their much bigger piles. I guess I would have to wait to create the next Spiderman.
As I sat and listened to my brothers “Ooohing and Ahhing” over their gifts I heard my mother, not raising her voice or anything but just a normal tone, say “Bill.”
I turned to look at her (and I know this sounds totally cheesy, but I will never forget the smile on her face) she smiled and nodded her head towards the back wall. I followed her eyes. There it was, a giant box, leaning against the back door. I jumped up and ran over. I tried picking the box up but it was too heavy. I spun it around so I could look at the front picture. A drawing table.
I was ecstatic. I turned around and looked at my mom. She had a devilish grin on her face. I guess the table was not with my pile of gifts because it was so big. I also think that my mom wanted to see my reaction to actually getting the gift. With so many kids opening gifts at the same time I am sure it was difficult to see everyone. Or maybe she was just letting me sweat it out.
I never did become a great comic book artist. The only drawing I do now is MooneyAngelo stuff, but I kept that table until I was 27. It is still one of my favorite gifts. Ever.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
First Thanks
Growing up with such a large family of boys, most of my Saturday’s were occupied going to games. Little League baseball, basketball, and football.
If I was not playing I was required to attend my brothers’ games. My parents would not allow me to stay home by myself. Sometimes Saturday’s would be an all day event because 4 or 5 of my brothers would be playing at different times throughout the day.
There was one benefit to attending these all day events. Treats.
Treats are what we called any type of sugary food from the concession stand.
At some point during the 6-hour day, my dad would ask, “Who wants a treat?”
Of course no one ever said “No”.
We (anywhere between 3 and 7 of us) would walk over to the concession area and stand in line as we told my dad what we wanted. He would repeat what we said to the people working. “Bottlecaps, uh, Razzles, Charleston Chew. What? Oh. Billy what flavor Charleston Chew? Strawberry. A Fun Dip. I am not supposed to let you have that. Okay. A Fun Dip. Red Hot Dollars and a Snow Cone.” As the lady working the counter handed my dad each item he would turn around and pass it back.
We would walk back to the area in the bleachers or on the hill that overlooked Field 2 that was designated by one of our parents as the meeting spot. Sitting through a T-ball game and a Minors League blow out (usually the Lawnwhisperer’s team. He was always on a stinky team) did not seem to suck as bad once you had your treat. We would devour our candy and then fight to sit still through the next couple of games. We were not allowed to “horseplay” we were “there to watch the games.”
At some point, when the candy was gone and the wrappers were in the trashcan, someone, sometimes me, sometimes someone else, would say, “Thanks Dad.” Immediately following the first thanks there was an echo of “Thanks Dad.” from everyone else.
In my mind it always felt so good to be the first to say thanks. By being the first to say thanks that meant I was the only one to truly mean it. Everyone else was just saying it because someone else said thanks. I always felt bad not being the first to say it.
As we got older it became a competition to see who could say thanks first. If it was one of my brothers and not me, I would hold my ‘thanks” until later, so my dad knew I meant it. So he wouldn’t think I was just saying thanks because someone else did. Often times I would hold my “Thanks Dad” too long and would forget to say thanks at all.
For every time I forgot.
“Thanks Dad.”
That should cover me for a while. Except that my dad rarely reads Poop and Boogies and I am sure all of my brothers are calling him right now to say thanks so they can beat me to it.
If I was not playing I was required to attend my brothers’ games. My parents would not allow me to stay home by myself. Sometimes Saturday’s would be an all day event because 4 or 5 of my brothers would be playing at different times throughout the day.
There was one benefit to attending these all day events. Treats.
Treats are what we called any type of sugary food from the concession stand.
At some point during the 6-hour day, my dad would ask, “Who wants a treat?”
Of course no one ever said “No”.
We (anywhere between 3 and 7 of us) would walk over to the concession area and stand in line as we told my dad what we wanted. He would repeat what we said to the people working. “Bottlecaps, uh, Razzles, Charleston Chew. What? Oh. Billy what flavor Charleston Chew? Strawberry. A Fun Dip. I am not supposed to let you have that. Okay. A Fun Dip. Red Hot Dollars and a Snow Cone.” As the lady working the counter handed my dad each item he would turn around and pass it back.
We would walk back to the area in the bleachers or on the hill that overlooked Field 2 that was designated by one of our parents as the meeting spot. Sitting through a T-ball game and a Minors League blow out (usually the Lawnwhisperer’s team. He was always on a stinky team) did not seem to suck as bad once you had your treat. We would devour our candy and then fight to sit still through the next couple of games. We were not allowed to “horseplay” we were “there to watch the games.”
At some point, when the candy was gone and the wrappers were in the trashcan, someone, sometimes me, sometimes someone else, would say, “Thanks Dad.” Immediately following the first thanks there was an echo of “Thanks Dad.” from everyone else.
In my mind it always felt so good to be the first to say thanks. By being the first to say thanks that meant I was the only one to truly mean it. Everyone else was just saying it because someone else said thanks. I always felt bad not being the first to say it.
As we got older it became a competition to see who could say thanks first. If it was one of my brothers and not me, I would hold my ‘thanks” until later, so my dad knew I meant it. So he wouldn’t think I was just saying thanks because someone else did. Often times I would hold my “Thanks Dad” too long and would forget to say thanks at all.
For every time I forgot.
“Thanks Dad.”
That should cover me for a while. Except that my dad rarely reads Poop and Boogies and I am sure all of my brothers are calling him right now to say thanks so they can beat me to it.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
School Lunch
I brought my lunch to work the other day. I put a can of tuna in the bread bag with the last two pieces of bread.
This was how I use to carry my lunch to school.
My mom would make us peanut butter and jelly, some chips or cookies and piece of fruit. She would use left over bread bags as out lunch bag. I kind of recall maybe having a “Bigfoot and Wildboy” lunchbox or maybe it was a super friends lunchbox (with Zan and Jana and Gleek not Wendy and Marvin) in 2nd or 3rd grade. But by 4th and 5th grade, most of my lunches were packed in Wonderbread bags.
I remember being mortified at the fact that while other kids had the typical brown paper bags I was carrying a big semi-see through red, yellow and blue polka dotted bag weighed down at the bottom with an apple. This always bothered me because the length of the bag was about half my height so usually I would be dragging it. The other thought that always got me was, the fact that we would use the old bread bags to put on our feet in rainy or snowy weather. The bags would make our boots slide on easier as well as keep our feet dry. I don’t recall if my lunches ever had a feet smell to them but the thought sometimes made me lose my appetite.
While sitting in the cafeteria I would sit and watch other kids display their cool bags or “Dukes of Hazard” lunchboxes. They would display (yes display is what it felt like at the time) such awesome lunches. Snack Pak pudding snacks. Tiny bags of chips from the actual manufacturers. Store bought sandwiches. Cans of soda. Man I would kill for that.
I would try to empty the contents of the bag (which would be crushed by lunchtime by the weight of the fruit) as quickly as I could so the other kids would not see the bag itself. Spread out on the table would be the PB& J in a sandwich bag, the piece of fruit, and usually a sandwich bag of chips or crackers (unless my dad made lunch then the chips would just be thrown in the bread bag loose) a piece of paper, a penny and a nickel. I would take the 6 cents and buy milk.
Of course the trading would commence. No one ever wanted to trade with me. Seriously why would you trade a chocolate pudding cup for pretzel crumbs? Of course there was always the ribbing that I never would have anything good to trade; that my lunch stunk. They would joke that I shouldn’t eat it all because whatever was left over I had to give to my younger brother so he would have lunch (this of course was not the case).
As the other kids would flaunt their candy bars and prepackaged goods, they would say things like “I bet you wish you had pudding.” or “Ooooh, look I got a Hershey bar.” ,I would reach for the piece of paper that was with my lunch. I would open it and it would read:
Billy,
Have a nice day at school.
I love you.
Mom
I would smile and look at the kids at the table and I would say, “Sure you got chocolate pudding but my mom loves me.” And that would shut them up. Until the next day.
This was how I use to carry my lunch to school.
My mom would make us peanut butter and jelly, some chips or cookies and piece of fruit. She would use left over bread bags as out lunch bag. I kind of recall maybe having a “Bigfoot and Wildboy” lunchbox or maybe it was a super friends lunchbox (with Zan and Jana and Gleek not Wendy and Marvin) in 2nd or 3rd grade. But by 4th and 5th grade, most of my lunches were packed in Wonderbread bags.
I remember being mortified at the fact that while other kids had the typical brown paper bags I was carrying a big semi-see through red, yellow and blue polka dotted bag weighed down at the bottom with an apple. This always bothered me because the length of the bag was about half my height so usually I would be dragging it. The other thought that always got me was, the fact that we would use the old bread bags to put on our feet in rainy or snowy weather. The bags would make our boots slide on easier as well as keep our feet dry. I don’t recall if my lunches ever had a feet smell to them but the thought sometimes made me lose my appetite.
While sitting in the cafeteria I would sit and watch other kids display their cool bags or “Dukes of Hazard” lunchboxes. They would display (yes display is what it felt like at the time) such awesome lunches. Snack Pak pudding snacks. Tiny bags of chips from the actual manufacturers. Store bought sandwiches. Cans of soda. Man I would kill for that.
I would try to empty the contents of the bag (which would be crushed by lunchtime by the weight of the fruit) as quickly as I could so the other kids would not see the bag itself. Spread out on the table would be the PB& J in a sandwich bag, the piece of fruit, and usually a sandwich bag of chips or crackers (unless my dad made lunch then the chips would just be thrown in the bread bag loose) a piece of paper, a penny and a nickel. I would take the 6 cents and buy milk.
Of course the trading would commence. No one ever wanted to trade with me. Seriously why would you trade a chocolate pudding cup for pretzel crumbs? Of course there was always the ribbing that I never would have anything good to trade; that my lunch stunk. They would joke that I shouldn’t eat it all because whatever was left over I had to give to my younger brother so he would have lunch (this of course was not the case).
As the other kids would flaunt their candy bars and prepackaged goods, they would say things like “I bet you wish you had pudding.” or “Ooooh, look I got a Hershey bar.” ,I would reach for the piece of paper that was with my lunch. I would open it and it would read:
Billy,
Have a nice day at school.
I love you.
Mom
I would smile and look at the kids at the table and I would say, “Sure you got chocolate pudding but my mom loves me.” And that would shut them up. Until the next day.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Oldest Priority/Oldest In Charge
Growing up riding in the car was always an event. Anytime Dad and Mom went somewhere they rarely went without one of the kids. Well, actually some of the kids. This caused some bellyaching and whining due to the fact that every one wanted to sit up front. Dad had a basic rule. There was no calling “shot gun”. The rule was “Oldest Priority”. The oldest chose their preferred seat in the car. If you happened to be the oldest one going to the grocery store with Dad, you got to sit wherever you wanted. This usually meant the front seat. The next oldest would choose their seat (usually by the window) and so on down the line. This prevented many arguments over who got to sit where.
If you were the youngest of the 6 children going on a ride in the car you didn’t even bother to pick a seat. You were stuck on the hump. The middle. Where the drive shaft ran through the car. Not only did this make the 20-minute car ride to Granny’s uncomfortable but you also knew that you were of the lowest class of child at that point. A caste system working at it’s full potential.
Mom utilized this rule as well. The difference when you were in the car with Barb was that the oldest usually chose the back seat directly behind the driver seat. By invoking “Oldest Priority” and picking this location you accomplished two things. One, you were in the best position not to be backhanded or slapped while in the car. Barb had a good reach but not that good. And two, you never received the instant bone crushing, automatic seatbelt of Mom’s right arm when she had to stop short. In the time before baby seats and seatbelt laws, Mom’s arm was the strongest force known to man to prevent anyone from hitting the dashboard.
In the rare event that Mom and Dad would go out with out the children the rule was “Oldest in Charge”. This meant that the oldest sibling home at the time was in charge of all the rest of the kids. Instant babysitter. The OIC was responsible. If someone got out of line, the oldest could punish them. “Oldest In Charge” got to decide what was on the television. The OIC would dictate who got snacks. The downside to this rule was that if the house burnt down, the oldest was the one held responsible.
If Mom and Dad had to go to a wedding or something, they would tell (for sake of this story) Kevin* that he was in charge (being the oldest in the house at that time, Kevin is the 3 rd oldest). Kevin* would make the younger ones do the chores and would rule the house with an iron fist. After an hour or so if Dennis or Sharon (both older than Kevin) showed up they instantly became the boss. Many miniature dictatorships were overthrown by the fact that Dennis’ baseball practice was rained out or that Sharon needed to come home to get more cigarettes. Every now and then a Coup D’eta would backfire on the little ones when they would cheer the arrival of their favorite Napoleon wannabe just to have that same Napoleon leave after 15 minutes.
Then it was back to chores and asking the reinstated king for forgiveness.
*I used Kevin in this example, but I cannot recall if Kevin ever ruled with an iron fist or not.
If you were the youngest of the 6 children going on a ride in the car you didn’t even bother to pick a seat. You were stuck on the hump. The middle. Where the drive shaft ran through the car. Not only did this make the 20-minute car ride to Granny’s uncomfortable but you also knew that you were of the lowest class of child at that point. A caste system working at it’s full potential.
Mom utilized this rule as well. The difference when you were in the car with Barb was that the oldest usually chose the back seat directly behind the driver seat. By invoking “Oldest Priority” and picking this location you accomplished two things. One, you were in the best position not to be backhanded or slapped while in the car. Barb had a good reach but not that good. And two, you never received the instant bone crushing, automatic seatbelt of Mom’s right arm when she had to stop short. In the time before baby seats and seatbelt laws, Mom’s arm was the strongest force known to man to prevent anyone from hitting the dashboard.
In the rare event that Mom and Dad would go out with out the children the rule was “Oldest in Charge”. This meant that the oldest sibling home at the time was in charge of all the rest of the kids. Instant babysitter. The OIC was responsible. If someone got out of line, the oldest could punish them. “Oldest In Charge” got to decide what was on the television. The OIC would dictate who got snacks. The downside to this rule was that if the house burnt down, the oldest was the one held responsible.
If Mom and Dad had to go to a wedding or something, they would tell (for sake of this story) Kevin* that he was in charge (being the oldest in the house at that time, Kevin is the 3 rd oldest). Kevin* would make the younger ones do the chores and would rule the house with an iron fist. After an hour or so if Dennis or Sharon (both older than Kevin) showed up they instantly became the boss. Many miniature dictatorships were overthrown by the fact that Dennis’ baseball practice was rained out or that Sharon needed to come home to get more cigarettes. Every now and then a Coup D’eta would backfire on the little ones when they would cheer the arrival of their favorite Napoleon wannabe just to have that same Napoleon leave after 15 minutes.
Then it was back to chores and asking the reinstated king for forgiveness.
*I used Kevin in this example, but I cannot recall if Kevin ever ruled with an iron fist or not.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
In Strictest Confidence
I have not told a story about my parent's in a while. Part of this blog is supposed to be about them and how I was raised.
Growing up if I had a secret to share, or I needed to rat someone out but did not want to be considered the rat, or had an embarrassing situation that I needed help with, I told my mom. I think everyone in my family did.
Mom was not a gossip. She did not tell the neighbors secret information. Sure sometimes she would tell her sisters (she has 9) but that was to be expected. I of course would be mad if she disclosed information. “Mom I can’t believe you told Aunt Z. that I told you that I thought her kids were brats.”
“Well when you told me,” she would say, “you didn’t say it was in strictest confidence.”,
So if you ever wanted her sworn secrecy, you had to preface your confession, secret, dirty laundry or what not with “This is in Strictest Confidence”. It was the code for “Please, please, please swear to god, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye, that you will not tell another living soul.”
Most of the secrets were silly things about girlfriends or friends or brothers. Sometimes they were more serious situations like, “Mom, I am quitting my job to work in theater.” Or “This in strictest confidence, but I am living with my girlfriend.”
Usually I would tell her things so she could act like a buffer when I had to tell my dad. She sometimes would lecture. Sometimes offer counsel or advice. But as far as I know she always kept the secret.
To this day I use the "In strictest confidence" code with my brothers. Sometimes I use it with friends and I forget they are not "in" on the code, that "In strictest confidence" is not a universal code for secrecy. It gets me into trouble form time to time.
This is NOT in strictest confidence. I love you Mom.
I expect a ton of comments from my brothers about me sucking up to mom.
Growing up if I had a secret to share, or I needed to rat someone out but did not want to be considered the rat, or had an embarrassing situation that I needed help with, I told my mom. I think everyone in my family did.
Mom was not a gossip. She did not tell the neighbors secret information. Sure sometimes she would tell her sisters (she has 9) but that was to be expected. I of course would be mad if she disclosed information. “Mom I can’t believe you told Aunt Z. that I told you that I thought her kids were brats.”
“Well when you told me,” she would say, “you didn’t say it was in strictest confidence.”,
So if you ever wanted her sworn secrecy, you had to preface your confession, secret, dirty laundry or what not with “This is in Strictest Confidence”. It was the code for “Please, please, please swear to god, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye, that you will not tell another living soul.”
Most of the secrets were silly things about girlfriends or friends or brothers. Sometimes they were more serious situations like, “Mom, I am quitting my job to work in theater.” Or “This in strictest confidence, but I am living with my girlfriend.”
Usually I would tell her things so she could act like a buffer when I had to tell my dad. She sometimes would lecture. Sometimes offer counsel or advice. But as far as I know she always kept the secret.
To this day I use the "In strictest confidence" code with my brothers. Sometimes I use it with friends and I forget they are not "in" on the code, that "In strictest confidence" is not a universal code for secrecy. It gets me into trouble form time to time.
This is NOT in strictest confidence. I love you Mom.
I expect a ton of comments from my brothers about me sucking up to mom.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Happy Fathers Day
Lesson’s that my dad taught me. Some will need explanations some will not.
Don’t hit your brother. This was the #1 rule.
Double Jeopardy – If you are going to be late do NOT call. You will get yelled at or in trouble twice. When you call they will be mad and yell at you. Then, when you finally get to the destination that you were late for, they will yell and be mad again. If you don’t call you will only take shit once. (This rule pertains to wife/girlfriend scenarios not parents).
Piss In Your Socks- Before “timeouts”, if one of us acted up we would be sent to our room. We could only to be released on Dad’s okay. Of course we would try every excuse to get out of the banishment. “DAAaaaaAADD”, we would call out down the steps, “I have to go to the bathroom”. My dad would yell back up the steps. “Piss in your socks”.
'Poop and Boogies shut up and eat it." (see profile).
"Be home at 5 o’clock. "
Parlay a Hard 8- Dad taught pretty much all of us how to play craps. One of his favorite bets is the hard 8. If you put $10 on a hard 8 and it hits you win 10 to 1 odds. Instead of taking the $100 that you won, you let it ride. If it hits again you now have a $1000. You let that ride. Why? “Because it is only a $10 bet.” he would say.
"I Did Okay"- If you win big or lose big at the casino or race track the answer when you get home should always be “I did okay”. “I broke even.” is also an acceptable answer.
"You can’t lead your life following your pecker."
"Sometimes doing the right thing isn’t always the easiest thing."
I chose your mother not you.- Whenever one of us would get into an argument or be punished by our mother we would go to dad to see if he could intervene. His answer was “I chose your mother. Not you.”
“What? Are you saying you didn’t want to have me?”, was the typical smart assed teenage response.
“No I didn’t say that. We chose to have you but I didn’t choose your personality. When I decided to marry your mother, I chose her for her personality and everything about her. I will not take sides against her.”
Happy Fathers Day Dad.
Don’t hit your brother. This was the #1 rule.
Double Jeopardy – If you are going to be late do NOT call. You will get yelled at or in trouble twice. When you call they will be mad and yell at you. Then, when you finally get to the destination that you were late for, they will yell and be mad again. If you don’t call you will only take shit once. (This rule pertains to wife/girlfriend scenarios not parents).
Piss In Your Socks- Before “timeouts”, if one of us acted up we would be sent to our room. We could only to be released on Dad’s okay. Of course we would try every excuse to get out of the banishment. “DAAaaaaAADD”, we would call out down the steps, “I have to go to the bathroom”. My dad would yell back up the steps. “Piss in your socks”.
'Poop and Boogies shut up and eat it." (see profile).
"Be home at 5 o’clock. "
Parlay a Hard 8- Dad taught pretty much all of us how to play craps. One of his favorite bets is the hard 8. If you put $10 on a hard 8 and it hits you win 10 to 1 odds. Instead of taking the $100 that you won, you let it ride. If it hits again you now have a $1000. You let that ride. Why? “Because it is only a $10 bet.” he would say.
"I Did Okay"- If you win big or lose big at the casino or race track the answer when you get home should always be “I did okay”. “I broke even.” is also an acceptable answer.
"You can’t lead your life following your pecker."
"Sometimes doing the right thing isn’t always the easiest thing."
I chose your mother not you.- Whenever one of us would get into an argument or be punished by our mother we would go to dad to see if he could intervene. His answer was “I chose your mother. Not you.”
“What? Are you saying you didn’t want to have me?”, was the typical smart assed teenage response.
“No I didn’t say that. We chose to have you but I didn’t choose your personality. When I decided to marry your mother, I chose her for her personality and everything about her. I will not take sides against her.”
Happy Fathers Day Dad.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
I Am From
This is a cool little writing exercise that has been going around the blog world. It is like Mad Libs memories. The theme is I am From. The format is somewhat simple (I am From______(insert ordinary item), from______(insert product name) And So forth). Since I did not have anything else to write today I figured I would give it a shot.
I AM FROM
I am from a towel draped around my neck, from Superman and Batman, Kool Aid and plastic cups with our names written on them.
I am from the one bathroom, stone front house with the base paths worn into the lawn, the hoop in the driveway, which is damp from exploded water balloons and littered with bikes and big wheels and action figures.
I am from the Hyacinth and the 6 bulb potted Tulips, which we sold every year on street corners at Easter (3 for $10). The sweet smell of the hyacinth means spending money.
I am from family dinners, every night, and humor, laughter and practical jokes, from Skipper and Bobbajean and Pop Pop and Dash Riprock.
I am from sticking up for your family and doing the right thing.
From “Don’t hit your bother” and “Poop and boogies” and “You are Rocky’s (the mailman) son”.
I am from CCD and Sunday Mass and “What did she do with the money” and lollipops at the early service. From saying prayers every night with all 9 of us lined up the stairs.
I am from Abington and Philly and Ireland and Cuba and meatloaf and chicken and leftovers.
I am from not showing our report cards because one of us got bad grades and we wanted to protect him from being grounded, from my sister beating up the bullies in the neighborhood.
I am from cardboard boxes and scrapbooks, made for each of us, and shoe boxes. And from the stories that are told so many times they have become legends.
I AM FROM
I am from a towel draped around my neck, from Superman and Batman, Kool Aid and plastic cups with our names written on them.
I am from the one bathroom, stone front house with the base paths worn into the lawn, the hoop in the driveway, which is damp from exploded water balloons and littered with bikes and big wheels and action figures.
I am from the Hyacinth and the 6 bulb potted Tulips, which we sold every year on street corners at Easter (3 for $10). The sweet smell of the hyacinth means spending money.
I am from family dinners, every night, and humor, laughter and practical jokes, from Skipper and Bobbajean and Pop Pop and Dash Riprock.
I am from sticking up for your family and doing the right thing.
From “Don’t hit your bother” and “Poop and boogies” and “You are Rocky’s (the mailman) son”.
I am from CCD and Sunday Mass and “What did she do with the money” and lollipops at the early service. From saying prayers every night with all 9 of us lined up the stairs.
I am from Abington and Philly and Ireland and Cuba and meatloaf and chicken and leftovers.
I am from not showing our report cards because one of us got bad grades and we wanted to protect him from being grounded, from my sister beating up the bullies in the neighborhood.
I am from cardboard boxes and scrapbooks, made for each of us, and shoe boxes. And from the stories that are told so many times they have become legends.
Friday, June 03, 2005
One Moment of Passion
Growing up, Sex Education in our house consisted of a talk from my mom. Once we( my 7 brothers and 1 sister) hit the age of 14 or 15 my mom would try to corner us into having a “talk”. I vaguely remember the beginning but I think it began with my mother saying, “ I’m sure you know most of this from school or your older brothers but, are there any questions you may have about…(dramatic pause) sex?”
Now I am quite positive that most of my brothers as well as myself responded with laughter followed by “Mom, I probably know more than you and we don’t need to talk about it.” We would then try to fidget out of the embarrassment of talking.
However, being persistent, Mom would make us sit for a few minutes, in the living room, to listen to her. Why she picked the living room I do not know. It was where the front door was. Inevitably someone would walk in on the conversation, realize what was going on and do a quick about-face and run so they wouldn’t get roped in on the talk.
Mom talked of the usual stuff. How sex was for marriage. How sex was for two people who loved each other and so forth. If we had any questions we should not be afraid to ask and she would answer any question honestly. It was quite difficult to keep a straight face. She would end her “talk” with the phrase we all remember and will probably teach to our kids,
“Remember, one moment of passion can ruin a lifetime.”
“What does that mean Mom?” we would ask.
“It means, what it means. One moment of passion can ruin a lifetime. You could get a disease. You could get a girl pregnant when you are not ready to be a father. Those things could be with you forever.”
Being smart assed teenagers we would come back, “So you are saying I ruined your life?”
“No. Just remember, one moment of passion can ruin a lifetime”
And the sex talk was over. Just like that. Unless of course it was my one brother who would ask questions just to see if he could embarrass my mom. “What’s a labia, Mom?”
Now I am quite positive that most of my brothers as well as myself responded with laughter followed by “Mom, I probably know more than you and we don’t need to talk about it.” We would then try to fidget out of the embarrassment of talking.
However, being persistent, Mom would make us sit for a few minutes, in the living room, to listen to her. Why she picked the living room I do not know. It was where the front door was. Inevitably someone would walk in on the conversation, realize what was going on and do a quick about-face and run so they wouldn’t get roped in on the talk.
Mom talked of the usual stuff. How sex was for marriage. How sex was for two people who loved each other and so forth. If we had any questions we should not be afraid to ask and she would answer any question honestly. It was quite difficult to keep a straight face. She would end her “talk” with the phrase we all remember and will probably teach to our kids,
“Remember, one moment of passion can ruin a lifetime.”
“What does that mean Mom?” we would ask.
“It means, what it means. One moment of passion can ruin a lifetime. You could get a disease. You could get a girl pregnant when you are not ready to be a father. Those things could be with you forever.”
Being smart assed teenagers we would come back, “So you are saying I ruined your life?”
“No. Just remember, one moment of passion can ruin a lifetime”
And the sex talk was over. Just like that. Unless of course it was my one brother who would ask questions just to see if he could embarrass my mom. “What’s a labia, Mom?”
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