gordoncarnegie47
New Member
I've really enjoyed your writing, thank you.
Vivid Memories of Childhood and Beyond
- Thread starter Gary O'
- Start date
Geeeez, been awhile
another recollection of life in town
Let there be Light
So my last project of the first day of my week off was to fix my ladies’ night lamp.
Like mine, its wunna them articulated ones, affixed to the wall, somewhat upper end, kinda quaint, old fashioned shades.
The little darling grandchildren were runnin’ thru the house, with a ball, a hard ball, and a bat, a hard bat.
Let yer imagination run as wild as they were. Nuff said.
I’m not one to scream at, and/or chase pint sized Tasmanian devils.
I just lie in wait.
And when one shoots by, I grab ‘em, squeeze ‘em, hug ‘em, and pick ‘em up by their pants and throw ‘em out the back door….then I do the same thing with their parents.
Well, the switch on the lamp was demolished.
Nice swing.
There’s no fixing lamp switches these days…..maybe if I were a brain surgeon, and had a good micro laser, and teeny weeny hands, and nerves of tungsten……maybe.
So I yank out what’s left of the switch, pull the cord outta the articulated brass tubing and bomb down to Home Dopey.
Found an assembly. Not quite the same animal, but I’ll make it fit.
The cord I so brilliantly pulled outta the tube, the double jointed tube, is not cooperating upon re-entry, no matter how much gentle verbal coaxing.
Coercive prose like….’TAKE IT BITCH!!’ wasn’t having much of an effect, except on the neighbor.
‘It’s OK, Helen, you can put the hose away, she’s fine…really….nice azaleas ya got there, miracle grow?’
Upon realizing that my nimble toe-like fingers could not think on their own, I reached for the short handled sledge hammer….and pounded the shit outta the work bench…..it's good to strength test yer work bench every so often....this one's well tested.
Well, the lamp is all back together, and my lady can again read while I fidget with the crossword.
However, I heard a little thump thump under the shop while stumbling around in there…it wasn’t me.
Now, just now, standing on my deck, 9:45 at night, a pole cat is comin’ outta my squash plants in the raised bed on the side of my shop.
Bold little devil.
Rather unnerving.
I haven’t been spooked trudgin’ around in the dark for 50 some years, but now, now I know I have company, bad company.
I can well imagine standing out in the garden, waterin’ the rhubarb, and turn around and there’s a striped critter with its hind end up in the air.
My live traps are down at the cabin.
I’ve strapped a flashlight to the business end of the garden hose, set it on jet, and will be on vigil ‘til dawn...or 10:15 …whichever comes first.
Full report in the morning.
another recollection of life in town
Let there be Light
So my last project of the first day of my week off was to fix my ladies’ night lamp.
Like mine, its wunna them articulated ones, affixed to the wall, somewhat upper end, kinda quaint, old fashioned shades.
The little darling grandchildren were runnin’ thru the house, with a ball, a hard ball, and a bat, a hard bat.
Let yer imagination run as wild as they were. Nuff said.
I’m not one to scream at, and/or chase pint sized Tasmanian devils.
I just lie in wait.
And when one shoots by, I grab ‘em, squeeze ‘em, hug ‘em, and pick ‘em up by their pants and throw ‘em out the back door….then I do the same thing with their parents.
Well, the switch on the lamp was demolished.
Nice swing.
There’s no fixing lamp switches these days…..maybe if I were a brain surgeon, and had a good micro laser, and teeny weeny hands, and nerves of tungsten……maybe.
So I yank out what’s left of the switch, pull the cord outta the articulated brass tubing and bomb down to Home Dopey.
Found an assembly. Not quite the same animal, but I’ll make it fit.
The cord I so brilliantly pulled outta the tube, the double jointed tube, is not cooperating upon re-entry, no matter how much gentle verbal coaxing.
Coercive prose like….’TAKE IT BITCH!!’ wasn’t having much of an effect, except on the neighbor.
‘It’s OK, Helen, you can put the hose away, she’s fine…really….nice azaleas ya got there, miracle grow?’
Upon realizing that my nimble toe-like fingers could not think on their own, I reached for the short handled sledge hammer….and pounded the shit outta the work bench…..it's good to strength test yer work bench every so often....this one's well tested.
Well, the lamp is all back together, and my lady can again read while I fidget with the crossword.
However, I heard a little thump thump under the shop while stumbling around in there…it wasn’t me.
Now, just now, standing on my deck, 9:45 at night, a pole cat is comin’ outta my squash plants in the raised bed on the side of my shop.
Bold little devil.
Rather unnerving.
I haven’t been spooked trudgin’ around in the dark for 50 some years, but now, now I know I have company, bad company.
I can well imagine standing out in the garden, waterin’ the rhubarb, and turn around and there’s a striped critter with its hind end up in the air.
My live traps are down at the cabin.
I’ve strapped a flashlight to the business end of the garden hose, set it on jet, and will be on vigil ‘til dawn...or 10:15 …whichever comes first.
Full report in the morning.
I post this every yuletide season on a few sites of which I belong
New members have expressed their appreciation, and old ones too
Just a remembrance of seasons past;
Christmas 1954
I knew what was coming….really, for once I knew.
The tree, the lights, the bubbling ones, the tinsel, the snow outside,
the oil stove warming everyone (that stood smack dab on the stove),
the windows adorned with Christmas icing, and….the presents.
I just took it all in, quietly, unassuming, sizing things up.
(‘Hmm, so this happens, say, every year…huh’)
I never said much for, oh, about twenty some years, and at four didn’t say anything, ever.
I cast a rather small shadow, and more than a few times got left at places.
Not on purpose, but I just wasn’t much of a bother to anyone…to the point of, to some extent, non-existence.
Mom forgot me at the Montgomery Wards store once.
Huge multi-storied store…fascinating.
She eventually came back and got me even though I wasn’t quite done window shopping.
I wonder how far out of the store she got, or did she get halfway home,
or even home and realize, sitting the table, that, hey, the tiny person that normally occupies the booster seat is not here.
I really enjoyed the anonymity.
It gave me time to take in all I could, and remain in my own thoughts.
Kids were pretty much trained to be out of sight when folks came over.
Ever once in a while someone would ask,
‘And what’s your name young man?’
‘Dad, it’s me, Gary.’
My sis would take my hand and guide me over to the tree, pointing out each and every glittery thing.
It was a no shit moment, but knew it made her feel good, so let it happen.
The day came.
I should say the day before came, as we traditionally opened gifts on Christmas eve.
Gramma and Grampa came down the hill to participate.
I’d say it was around 6pm, as it was dark out and everybody had already eaten.
My sis played santy, handing gifts to Gramma and Grampa.
I was busy watching while trying to crack the walnuts and Brazil nuts from my stocking.
I couldn’t help but observe the fake happiness and surprise from everyone as they opened their gifts
…everyone but Grampa. He was rather gruff, and had a habit of saying exactly what he thought.
‘I already have a tie.’
I loved him.
Didn’t even give much thought to that emotion back then, but now I know I loved him.
It came to be my turn to open my gifts.
Not a big trick, as my stuff was in a large sack.
It was a sack full of toys…..cars, trucks, a harmonica, and some little bags of hard candy.
The thing is, the toys were all kinda beat up, trucks with missing wheels, and everything was a bit scuffed, dented and rusty in places.
It didn’t bother me a whit. I loved it all.
But I remember the look on my Dad’s face as he watched me haul them outta the bag.
He was ashamed.
I felt like saying something comforting…but didn’t.
My feelings of making the situation even harder on him by saying ‘it’s OK’ won out.
Every Christmas after that was huge.
Funny, not haha funny, but oddly strange, my thoughts on his mental processes.
For years I rather pitied him for toiling to get us what he thought was what we wanted.
Him, the bread winner, the toy winner, the house, food and warmth provider.
How he fell head first into the American dream…the freaking nightmare.
But in my early years of fatherhood I came to understand.
He was from an era that dictated those things….’things’.
Christmas 1972
We were a tad impoverished.
Poverty stricken was a status I was striving for.
We managed a few meager toys from the five and dime, and wrapped them in newspaper,
placing them under the tree limb from the neighbor’s backyard that had miraculously blown down from one of their giant firs.
We watched the boys unwrap their tinsel strength early China bobbles.
They lasted almost long enough to get ‘em outta the newspaper, disintegrating in their little ink stained hands.
However, as my lady wiped last Wednesday’s headlines from their fingers so they could drink their mug of hot cinnamon tea and suck one their tiny candy canes,
I whipped out to the truck to bring in the toy of toys…the one that would give back.
My eldest named the little puppy from the pound, Felix.
Felix the dog…hey, it was original.
Only he was too young to pronounce the name Felix, so it came out ‘juwix’.
The thing is, a few moments after cleaning up the vomit and diarrhea from the truck seat,
floorboard and doors, and myself, it dawned on me that Felix may not have been the best of finds.
The next morning my eldest seemed to have lost track of him, so we both went looking.
‘Juwix….Juuuuwix…heeeere Juwix’
I got a kick out of his determination in locating his new little buddy, trudging around the yard,
big cheeks housed upon his tiny neck earnestly calling out with his baby Elmer Fudd like voice…‘Juwix….Juuuuwix…heeeere Juwix’.
Unfortunately we found Juwix.
He was under a gap in the wood pile…rather stiff.
So, as my Dad, twenty some years before, I vowed to provide a better Christmas for the years to come.
Not lavish ones, but ones that bore a couple substantial gifts for each of my little beings.
Christmas now?
Keep yer tie money.
New members have expressed their appreciation, and old ones too
Just a remembrance of seasons past;
Christmas 1954
I knew what was coming….really, for once I knew.
The tree, the lights, the bubbling ones, the tinsel, the snow outside,
the oil stove warming everyone (that stood smack dab on the stove),
the windows adorned with Christmas icing, and….the presents.
I just took it all in, quietly, unassuming, sizing things up.
(‘Hmm, so this happens, say, every year…huh’)
I never said much for, oh, about twenty some years, and at four didn’t say anything, ever.
I cast a rather small shadow, and more than a few times got left at places.
Not on purpose, but I just wasn’t much of a bother to anyone…to the point of, to some extent, non-existence.
Mom forgot me at the Montgomery Wards store once.
Huge multi-storied store…fascinating.
She eventually came back and got me even though I wasn’t quite done window shopping.
I wonder how far out of the store she got, or did she get halfway home,
or even home and realize, sitting the table, that, hey, the tiny person that normally occupies the booster seat is not here.
I really enjoyed the anonymity.
It gave me time to take in all I could, and remain in my own thoughts.
Kids were pretty much trained to be out of sight when folks came over.
Ever once in a while someone would ask,
‘And what’s your name young man?’
‘Dad, it’s me, Gary.’
My sis would take my hand and guide me over to the tree, pointing out each and every glittery thing.
It was a no shit moment, but knew it made her feel good, so let it happen.
The day came.
I should say the day before came, as we traditionally opened gifts on Christmas eve.
Gramma and Grampa came down the hill to participate.
I’d say it was around 6pm, as it was dark out and everybody had already eaten.
My sis played santy, handing gifts to Gramma and Grampa.
I was busy watching while trying to crack the walnuts and Brazil nuts from my stocking.
I couldn’t help but observe the fake happiness and surprise from everyone as they opened their gifts
…everyone but Grampa. He was rather gruff, and had a habit of saying exactly what he thought.
‘I already have a tie.’
I loved him.
Didn’t even give much thought to that emotion back then, but now I know I loved him.
It came to be my turn to open my gifts.
Not a big trick, as my stuff was in a large sack.
It was a sack full of toys…..cars, trucks, a harmonica, and some little bags of hard candy.
The thing is, the toys were all kinda beat up, trucks with missing wheels, and everything was a bit scuffed, dented and rusty in places.
It didn’t bother me a whit. I loved it all.
But I remember the look on my Dad’s face as he watched me haul them outta the bag.
He was ashamed.
I felt like saying something comforting…but didn’t.
My feelings of making the situation even harder on him by saying ‘it’s OK’ won out.
Every Christmas after that was huge.
Funny, not haha funny, but oddly strange, my thoughts on his mental processes.
For years I rather pitied him for toiling to get us what he thought was what we wanted.
Him, the bread winner, the toy winner, the house, food and warmth provider.
How he fell head first into the American dream…the freaking nightmare.
But in my early years of fatherhood I came to understand.
He was from an era that dictated those things….’things’.
Christmas 1972
We were a tad impoverished.
Poverty stricken was a status I was striving for.
We managed a few meager toys from the five and dime, and wrapped them in newspaper,
placing them under the tree limb from the neighbor’s backyard that had miraculously blown down from one of their giant firs.
We watched the boys unwrap their tinsel strength early China bobbles.
They lasted almost long enough to get ‘em outta the newspaper, disintegrating in their little ink stained hands.
However, as my lady wiped last Wednesday’s headlines from their fingers so they could drink their mug of hot cinnamon tea and suck one their tiny candy canes,
I whipped out to the truck to bring in the toy of toys…the one that would give back.
My eldest named the little puppy from the pound, Felix.
Felix the dog…hey, it was original.
Only he was too young to pronounce the name Felix, so it came out ‘juwix’.
The thing is, a few moments after cleaning up the vomit and diarrhea from the truck seat,
floorboard and doors, and myself, it dawned on me that Felix may not have been the best of finds.
The next morning my eldest seemed to have lost track of him, so we both went looking.
‘Juwix….Juuuuwix…heeeere Juwix’
I got a kick out of his determination in locating his new little buddy, trudging around the yard,
big cheeks housed upon his tiny neck earnestly calling out with his baby Elmer Fudd like voice…‘Juwix….Juuuuwix…heeeere Juwix’.
Unfortunately we found Juwix.
He was under a gap in the wood pile…rather stiff.
So, as my Dad, twenty some years before, I vowed to provide a better Christmas for the years to come.
Not lavish ones, but ones that bore a couple substantial gifts for each of my little beings.
Christmas now?
Keep yer tie money.
My favoritest place to go when growing up
The beach
Sand
Glorious sand
Dry sand
Wet sand
Any sand
Folks would always get a motel right on the beach
Wake up
Run to the sand
Dig
Make tunnels
Decrepit leaning ‘castles’
Bury things
Bury myself
Bury my folks
Bury my little brother…heh heh
Run to the surf to clean off
Find things
Weird shells
Seaweed whips
A half dead crab
A broken beer bottle
A large sturdy looking balloon
Tough to blow up
Mom’s shriek told me it wasn’t a large sturdy looking balloon
Anyway
Never seemed to get enough time to get everthing accomplished when at the beach
‘Time to go’ was always waaay tooooo early
So
When I grew older, I went to the beach
And buried things….all my concerns, worries, anxieties, apprehensions
Right there
At the beach
later in life, things changed a bit
Oh, I still went to the beach
but
priorities, I guess
The beach
Sand
Glorious sand
Dry sand
Wet sand
Any sand
Folks would always get a motel right on the beach
Wake up
Run to the sand
Dig
Make tunnels
Decrepit leaning ‘castles’
Bury things
Bury myself
Bury my folks
Bury my little brother…heh heh
Run to the surf to clean off
Find things
Weird shells
Seaweed whips
A half dead crab
A broken beer bottle
A large sturdy looking balloon
Tough to blow up
Mom’s shriek told me it wasn’t a large sturdy looking balloon
Anyway
Never seemed to get enough time to get everthing accomplished when at the beach
‘Time to go’ was always waaay tooooo early
So
When I grew older, I went to the beach
And buried things….all my concerns, worries, anxieties, apprehensions
Right there
At the beach
later in life, things changed a bit
Oh, I still went to the beach
but
priorities, I guess
I cleaned my shop today
Gotta do that about ever week or so
Came across a book in my roll top desk
It was Mom’s
got a kick out her crib notes
I have faint recollection of Mom and me havin’ a good time early on
My little brother got most her affection
And rightfully so
He grew up thru the angry separation era
I was already gone, moved out in my early teens
I did have a good upbringing, back when Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll-ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, was able to tend us kids
But
Not long after that, things went south
I, I went further south, on a freight train
Think she never really forgave me
Don’t think I would’ve either
I sorta came back when Dad sorta came back
Not sure why I did
Anyway, three or four decades later, Mom and I found sumpm in common
Crosswords
The NY Times bein’ the one of our choice
I’d get a call every Thursday
She’d be stumped
A lot of times I could help
Felt real good about that
A closeness…..of sorts
She never let go of her ill feelings
Visited her in the hospital in her last days
She woke up, stared at me, and gave me a ‘what the hell are you doin’ here?
….I couldn't help her
didn’t have an answer, or even a clue
I think it was a Thursday
Gotta do that about ever week or so
Came across a book in my roll top desk
It was Mom’s
got a kick out her crib notes
I have faint recollection of Mom and me havin’ a good time early on
My little brother got most her affection
And rightfully so
He grew up thru the angry separation era
I was already gone, moved out in my early teens
I did have a good upbringing, back when Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll-ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, was able to tend us kids
But
Not long after that, things went south
I, I went further south, on a freight train
Think she never really forgave me
Don’t think I would’ve either
I sorta came back when Dad sorta came back
Not sure why I did
Anyway, three or four decades later, Mom and I found sumpm in common
Crosswords
The NY Times bein’ the one of our choice
I’d get a call every Thursday
She’d be stumped
A lot of times I could help
Felt real good about that
A closeness…..of sorts
She never let go of her ill feelings
Visited her in the hospital in her last days
She woke up, stared at me, and gave me a ‘what the hell are you doin’ here?
….I couldn't help her
didn’t have an answer, or even a clue
I think it was a Thursday
Not to my knowledge
Influence
I learned a couple things about influence, early on
High school Western Civ class
I begin to yawn
Can’t stop
I’m in the front row (Prof Healy liked me up close)
Not long after, everyone is yawning
Healy, rather proud of his stoic persona, developed a look of consternation, zeroing in on me
It’s hard to grin while yawning, but I managed it
Found the same with upchucking
Stayed home from school once because I really was sick for once
Couldn’t keep anything down
Violent heaves, even the dry ones
Heh, after tossing one of content on the hallway carpet (trying to get to the can) my little brother began to barf, right beside me
I was rather proud of that
It’s hard to laugh while vomiting, but I managed it
I learned a couple things about influence, early on
High school Western Civ class
I begin to yawn
Can’t stop
I’m in the front row (Prof Healy liked me up close)
Not long after, everyone is yawning
Healy, rather proud of his stoic persona, developed a look of consternation, zeroing in on me
It’s hard to grin while yawning, but I managed it
Found the same with upchucking
Stayed home from school once because I really was sick for once
Couldn’t keep anything down
Violent heaves, even the dry ones
Heh, after tossing one of content on the hallway carpet (trying to get to the can) my little brother began to barf, right beside me
I was rather proud of that
It’s hard to laugh while vomiting, but I managed it
Last edited:
I wish I had of had the guts for that one......Prolly would have been taken out in a straight jacket...
I wish I had of had the guts for that one......Prolly would have been taken out in a straight jacket...
Well, my brother and I bombed at our dad's funeral
'Course, everbody there was over 90 and couldn't hear their own butts fart
written seven years ago....
For many of my first years, aside from play, I could be found with a blank stare on my face.
My thought pattern count, of over, say, 2-3 hours would be the grand total of minus zero.
Not even day dreaming, just a nil undefinable gaze of inert mental process.
It wasn’t until many years later (six decades to be exact), that I actually became aware enough to put my non thoughts into words.
I, as many, became busy with life.
But now have come somewhat full circle.
Not that I sit with ‘the stares’, fixated on absolutely nothing.
But I now enjoy removing all busy thoughts, and all the hectic little things that are forever emerging,
getting in the way of a serene view of our wonderful reality, and center on the intangible zephyr of existence.
I simply call it ‘The Happiness of Being’.
Dad had a rather satanic twist to his personality that came out and ambushed us kids.
I guess the little one sided fun game of pinning your children to the floor and letting your saliva drool string dangle over their frantic squirming faces until it almost lands,
then sucking it back up, is a game played by many a dad, but mine really really enjoyed it…really.
I tried it on mine, but never got the hang of the sucking saliva back in procedure.
So, it all became rather traumatic, with frowns and scolding from my better half…and a towel.
One event that sorta stands out is when we went to the zoo.
The old Portland zoo had a bear pit, huge, deep pit, enclosed with an iron fence embedded in concrete that us little guys could stand on for a better view, pressed against the bars.
Dad picked me up and dangled me,
by my ankles,
over the fence,
above the now very interested grizzlies.
They all gathered under me, fixated, licking their chops.
I stayed very still…survival.
After maybe 3 minutes of going up and down, or the relative time span of a four year old’s life passing before his eyes…three times…..
my dad’s arms musta got tired, so he hauled me back up and we proceeded to the lion’s den.
Sarcasm ran deep in our family.
Snide mocking acidic remarks directed at the butt of the harsh jokes…me.
I, like an idiot, would laugh along with them. Yes, laugh with the cruel aliens that loosely called themselves my parents.
Then even my good hearted acceptance of their verbal scorn would become the next target.
Years later I’d become quite good at these derisive remarks myself, and, as they say, what goes around comes around.
They were no match….hardly anyone is in my league….maybe satan….maybe.
I have learned to stay away from that mindset.
People are too precious.
This weekend we went to lunch with my dad and his wife.
His 90th birthday is next month.
Can’t see to adjust the remote on his hearing aids.
Food ends up on his shirt and lap.
Laughs out of context.
Can’t find his way to the restroom by himself.
Nose runs constantly, while eating.
But, he’s a happy heart.
And, his lady is 20 years younger.
Not sure if he planned it this way, but she’s his caregiver.
I owe her.
The man loves his sugar.
Ordered pecan waffles.
Extra syrup.
Extra butter.
She cut.
He spooned.
Ever last drop of pecans, butter, syrup.
Then ordered pecan pie.
With ice cream.
Ate every bite.
Well, at 90, what the hell, go for it.
The rest of us ordered normal food, with salad, soup.
When our salads and soups came, there was nothing for him yet.
He jokingly complained.
I told the waiter to just bring him a bowl of sugar cubes.
(half joking)
Once done with his pie, he was ready for the trip to the restroom.
He had several napkins piled up, all containing copious amounts of syrup and pecan bits.
However, several syrup soaked pecans found their way onto his shirt and pants.
Once he got stood up, his lady took a spoon and scraped off the majority.
Last time he’d wandered into the ladies room.
It may not have been a mistake.
He’s always been a ladies man.
So I took him.
There was my dad, tottering in front of me, no longer the brisk pace of a man with a place to go.
Klingon napkins velcro’d to the seat of his levis and elbow.
A bit confused, but an eternal smiley good front, grinning and nodding at waitresses while in full mosey.
He does a lot of crying.
Over happy things.
‘That was the best pie I ever had', lips quivering, 'boooohooo, awww, hooohoo….’ .
(Geeezus)
Do I wanna go there?
As we all rose from the table, his lady put his leather jacket on him.
She dresses him quite sporty.
Levis, plaid shirt, Nikes, black leather jacket….and syrup.
Once his coat was on, he raised both arms, shaking like a weight lifter hitting the max….’Ninety!!’
Folks in adjacent booths clapped.
Maybe 90 won’t be so bad.
I’ve got 27 years to get there.
I’ll take my time.
For many of my first years, aside from play, I could be found with a blank stare on my face.
My thought pattern count, of over, say, 2-3 hours would be the grand total of minus zero.
Not even day dreaming, just a nil undefinable gaze of inert mental process.
It wasn’t until many years later (six decades to be exact), that I actually became aware enough to put my non thoughts into words.
I, as many, became busy with life.
But now have come somewhat full circle.
Not that I sit with ‘the stares’, fixated on absolutely nothing.
But I now enjoy removing all busy thoughts, and all the hectic little things that are forever emerging,
getting in the way of a serene view of our wonderful reality, and center on the intangible zephyr of existence.
I simply call it ‘The Happiness of Being’.
Dad had a rather satanic twist to his personality that came out and ambushed us kids.
I guess the little one sided fun game of pinning your children to the floor and letting your saliva drool string dangle over their frantic squirming faces until it almost lands,
then sucking it back up, is a game played by many a dad, but mine really really enjoyed it…really.
I tried it on mine, but never got the hang of the sucking saliva back in procedure.
So, it all became rather traumatic, with frowns and scolding from my better half…and a towel.
One event that sorta stands out is when we went to the zoo.
The old Portland zoo had a bear pit, huge, deep pit, enclosed with an iron fence embedded in concrete that us little guys could stand on for a better view, pressed against the bars.
Dad picked me up and dangled me,
by my ankles,
over the fence,
above the now very interested grizzlies.
They all gathered under me, fixated, licking their chops.
I stayed very still…survival.
After maybe 3 minutes of going up and down, or the relative time span of a four year old’s life passing before his eyes…three times…..
my dad’s arms musta got tired, so he hauled me back up and we proceeded to the lion’s den.
Sarcasm ran deep in our family.
Snide mocking acidic remarks directed at the butt of the harsh jokes…me.
I, like an idiot, would laugh along with them. Yes, laugh with the cruel aliens that loosely called themselves my parents.
Then even my good hearted acceptance of their verbal scorn would become the next target.
Years later I’d become quite good at these derisive remarks myself, and, as they say, what goes around comes around.
They were no match….hardly anyone is in my league….maybe satan….maybe.
I have learned to stay away from that mindset.
People are too precious.
This weekend we went to lunch with my dad and his wife.
His 90th birthday is next month.
Can’t see to adjust the remote on his hearing aids.
Food ends up on his shirt and lap.
Laughs out of context.
Can’t find his way to the restroom by himself.
Nose runs constantly, while eating.
But, he’s a happy heart.
And, his lady is 20 years younger.
Not sure if he planned it this way, but she’s his caregiver.
I owe her.
The man loves his sugar.
Ordered pecan waffles.
Extra syrup.
Extra butter.
She cut.
He spooned.
Ever last drop of pecans, butter, syrup.
Then ordered pecan pie.
With ice cream.
Ate every bite.
Well, at 90, what the hell, go for it.
The rest of us ordered normal food, with salad, soup.
When our salads and soups came, there was nothing for him yet.
He jokingly complained.
I told the waiter to just bring him a bowl of sugar cubes.
(half joking)
Once done with his pie, he was ready for the trip to the restroom.
He had several napkins piled up, all containing copious amounts of syrup and pecan bits.
However, several syrup soaked pecans found their way onto his shirt and pants.
Once he got stood up, his lady took a spoon and scraped off the majority.
Last time he’d wandered into the ladies room.
It may not have been a mistake.
He’s always been a ladies man.
So I took him.
There was my dad, tottering in front of me, no longer the brisk pace of a man with a place to go.
Klingon napkins velcro’d to the seat of his levis and elbow.
A bit confused, but an eternal smiley good front, grinning and nodding at waitresses while in full mosey.
He does a lot of crying.
Over happy things.
‘That was the best pie I ever had', lips quivering, 'boooohooo, awww, hooohoo….’ .
(Geeezus)
Do I wanna go there?
As we all rose from the table, his lady put his leather jacket on him.
She dresses him quite sporty.
Levis, plaid shirt, Nikes, black leather jacket….and syrup.
Once his coat was on, he raised both arms, shaking like a weight lifter hitting the max….’Ninety!!’
Folks in adjacent booths clapped.
Maybe 90 won’t be so bad.
I’ve got 27 years to get there.
I’ll take my time.
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Poor thing, English lit prof...reading my fractured rendition of that language
Yes, I'm a word butcher
A couple books
One should be burned
The other, tiny one, did OK
Working on another
Marketing a book...that's the tough one
Sassycakes
SF VIP
- Location
- Pennsylvania
My Cousins birthday was on Halloween and every year all of my cousins would get together and go Trick or Treating together and then go to his house for his Birthday Party. I still can't remember what my Mom had me and my older sister dressed as, but I remember the wonderful times we had..
I so admire your raw honesty.
Nothing you write is pretentiously sugar coated .
Ok, not many things ... lol
nthego:moosehead
Member
- Location
- South western Ontario
Hey Gary, GREAT stories!!! It is fun to write tales that bring back memories of times past. Keeps the old brain working too...
Meanderer
Senior Member
Hey Gary, GREAT stories!!! It is fun to write tales that bring back memories of times past. Keeps the old brain working too...
I know you know that one, moose
Love yer stories...BIG TIME
:laugh: You always make me laugh.Nothing like it.....nothing
It would be mandatory for every child, if I were king
