Saturday, January 15, 2011

Chewy and Captain Hook

This is my dad.  Daddy.  Daddy-o.  Father.  And my most favorite; Chewy.

Growing up having a judge for a father got rather confusing.  He would go off to work and 4 kids were wondering why he would leave for work so late…as my mother kissed him goodbye on the cheek, my oldest sister asked where daddy was going.  My mother said contently, he has gone off to marry someone.  My oldest sibling, my then 7 year old  sister, who was leader of the pack; cried out “How dare dad do that to you, mom!” My mom laughed and couldn’t wait to tell my dad upon his return.

My dad is a happy guy who was all about business when it came to business and when he came home he took off his shoes and watched the news and ate his dinner and expect all four kids to be monk-like quiet for 30 minutes on Sundays and Tuesday nights while he watched Barney Miller and All in The Family.  If us kids, made a peep, no matter how small, he would threaten to throw our blankies in the fire or use his belt on us, stand up, and take the belt off so fast…us kids were petrified, trying to figure out why he would do that because we were just happy to hang out in the same room with him.  

Later, when we grew up and he would yell “I’ll get the strap!”  We would still freeze in terror even when we knew he would never use it.  It wasn’t necessarily him we were afraid of…we were afraid of the obsessive, ninja-like focus mother of ours. One in which we just called MOM.  She wouldn’t warn us.  When we acted out in public, just out of nowhere, she would pinch us hard on our fattest area of our arms.  OUCH!  We would of course, be stunned, then we would yell out “Why did you hurt me?!” Then begin to cry.  Of course then, people in the stores who had their own unsettling tots, would turn to look at who was the brave woman who would abuse their child in public and why weren’t they as brave.

As soon as we got home, there was a different story.  We would tear into the house and rush into our bedrooms and stomp, break, tear, write on whatever we could find.  We would get my sister’s Disco albums and break them while yelling “DISCO IS DEAD! DISCO IS DEAD!” Can you guess what year that was?  My mom, could have cared less.  I don’t think she liked the Bee-Gees much anyway. 

We grabbed first edition books that were handed to us generation after generation and write 39¢ & 49¢ you know, (because with a one penny tax, it will equal to round number.) We put up fliers, knocked on our friend’s doors and tell them we were getting rid of our stuff.  We had excited wide eyed, kids rushing to house anxiously awaiting to find out what treasures they were going to score with the change in their pockets.

When they found out that the ‘stuff’ was books and smashed up disco records; their excitement suddenly changed to sadness; which we found rather amusing.  Then we were puzzled as to why no one would buy a 1935 leather bound Mother Goose rhymes with exotic pictures.  And why no one would buy a 1936 teacher’s edition of a Dick and Jane primer book.  My mom still didn’t care.  As long as we were inside our rooms and not disturbing her as she scrubbed the floors the walls, the toilets, the kitchen, vacuumed the floor, the ceiling and the walls and still managed to cook a 3 course meal each and every night.
 This is was my mom.  Mommy.  Puddin’.  And my all time favorite; Captain Hook.

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