My Father is a mechanical engineer. He lives in a world of right angles and numbers that add up. But God decided to give him four creatively inclined children. It didn't take him long to realize that our numbers were not adding up to concrete skill sets we could actually use in the world. I majored in Dating, with a Minor in English Literature. “Mamby-pamby, is that how you want to go through life?” Often my brothers and I heard this refrain. In my world of candy coated dreams those words fell silently to the ground like snow and there died, with all other refrains of reason. My Father's advice was wise, but at the time I saw it as stifling to my creativity. To tether an artist to reality was in my view nearly as cruel as smothering a puppy with a pillow. Perhaps my Father envisioned me living on the streets of Boston, a starving Mime in painted tears silently peddling for tips from inside a shrinking box. A terrifying thought for any parent.
I think he was fearful we would all flounder forever. Our home became the Tower of Babel, everyone had a different plan to reach the top but no one was speaking the same language. My Father used words like, “Milk Toast” , “Bum”, and "Destitute". All terms we deduced from context were bad things to be. His strange tongue railed on about the value of a dollar, and we tried to listen at the dinner table with furrowed brows and cocked heads, like four curious birds evaluating a shiny foreign object. (Side note: If that furrowed brow ever turned into an eye roll, that was a death knell to borrowing the car ever again...) Discussions between us became an art form, a tactical game of risk. Home from college I had dinner with Dad and my Stepmother Cindy.
“Red Skelton, ever see him?” asked my father as he dug into a spoonful of basmati rice, the latest fad in healthy living.“I think so.” I said.My father feigned shock, “You think so? You’d remember him kiddo! He is only one of the funniest comedians who ever lived!”“Very funny.” Cindy encouraged him.“Not like this crap today.” He said.“It’s unfortunate.” Cindy said shaking her head.
”Comedians today are nothin’ but perverts. Not like back then, funny was just…funny!” Cindy nodded.In conversations like this it is always better to nod in agreement. Even though what your hearing is alien, the consequences for rebuttal are far worse than just flat out lying.
“Absolutely Dad. Pie in the face humor is always funny.” I said.“Yeah, nothin’ but crap and smut on the ol’ Boob these days.” He added.
The Boob. Brought me back to Saturday mornings when my little brother and I would watch a few hundred cartoons and right in the middle of Scooby Doo my father would switch off the T.V. and say,
“You’ve had enough of the Boob. Outside.”I learned quickly that other families don’t use this handy little nickname. Just like every family has a special name for passing gas. My cousin’s family called it “winder”. Or I’ve heard “Bunny”, “Toot”, “Fluff”, or my family’s term, “Beef”, which I find the most grotesque of all. But what choice did I have being the only girl, the only voice of civility? Certainly my brothers would not concede to referring to their flatulence as a “fluff” or a “bunny”. Inevitably, car trips were the worst.
“Who beefed? You beef?” My father pointed to my oldest brother in the rear view mirror. “You? You beef?” My second oldest brother shook his head. “Well someone beefed! Who was it! Right now! I want to know who beefed!” Most likely it was J.P., the baby of the family. He was two at the time, and the stench he could produce through a pair of pull-ups and church pants could curl steel. It certainly was not me. I’m no idiot. If I ever let that happen my brothers would make my life a living hell. “That’s it!” He pulled over. “I’m not going another inch until SOMEONE admits to the beef!” ”Ron, honestly.” Said my mother. She looked sadly to the back seat at her four children in their Sunday best. Slicked hair, shiny shoes, and dried toothpaste stuck on their faces. These were clean children and she did not want to be having this conversation. However, there was no arguing the tone in her husband’s voice. He chose this moment to teach a lesson.
“Someone is lying Sherry! I’m not going to allow this. No sir, we are not breeding liars in this house!” He turned around and looked over all of us very carefully, asking each one over and over,
“You?! You?! You beef?!”
His finger moved from captive to captive. His interrogation style had been effective in past cases such as The Missing Yellow Comb, and The Puncture Hole that bled stuffing out of his leather desk chair. But when you’re dealing with a Beef, there is no greater humiliation than admitting to one. The angrier my father got the more determined we were to link arms and muzzle up.
“We’re going to be late.” My mother said with a sigh. She turned the mirror toward her and fluffed her hair. “Let’s just roll down a window already and get to Church.” My father still held the stare hoping for some sign of weakness, some inkling of guilt, but got nothing. He trained us well. Slowly he turned back around muttering, “You know you kids, lying is the worst offense! The worst!” Finally we left for Church punishment free, and the sweet feeling of victory lasted well into the week, that is until the case of Dad’s Missing Scissors came into play.
As a woman well past my teens and now with a child of my own, I wonder what phrases my son will find utterly ridiculous. Those “mom-isms” that may one day fall on deaf teenage ears. A frightening time when kids who know nothing of reality start making huge decisions. But my Dad hung with me. He would listen to my stories and endless plays and say, “Keep writing.” He listened A LOT. His motive was never to stifle, but merely to harness a dreamer into reality. A hard task when your dealing with a person who drops out college because, “I’m just not as into it anymore...” If I could go back in time and shake that kid I would. Shake and smack her around a little to wake her up. I would drop Motherly words like, Character, Integrity, and for the Love of God Finish What You Start. But I’m sure she wouldn’t listen to me either.
My Father scooped up the last of the rice. “Any more rice kiddo?”
“No thanks Pop.” He shook his head, “You know I hope your eating good, and not just crap either.”
“No, not just crap,” I said, “mainly crap yes, but not only crap.”
“Watch your mouth. Fresh. Such a fresh kid.” He said. He wasn’t fooling anyone. I knew he liked it when I dished it back. At the right time of course. It took me years to learn the subtleties of my father’s stand-offs. He considered the challenges of our conversations sort of a boot camp for the real world. Little did he know he was simply training us for the next conversation with him.
