One More To Go

I can only think of a few times in my life that I witnessed my dad reacting to a situation in fury: one of those times was on Halloween night when I was about 11 years old.  

That night, for the first time, my parents had allowed me to go trick-or-treating with my friends, without an adult.  When we had knocked on enough doors to fill our pillowcases with enough candy that we were ready to call it a night, we went back to my friend Curt's house about a quarter of a mile away from my house, and then we all left from there to go home for the night.

I think some kids' parents picked them up and other kids walked or rode their bikes in a different direction than the way I went.  I hopped on my bike and headed off toward my house under the patchy beams of the streetlights. When I was about eight houses away from my own, I saw my dog trotting towards me; when she saw me, she turned and ran alongside my bike.  We continued along that way until suddenly from out of the shadows came two people wearing costumes and masks.  Both had a can of shaving cream, which they squirted into their hands and threw at my dog and me, chasing after us and doing the same thing over and over again until both my dog and I were covered in soapy foam.

By the time we'd made it to my driveway, I was crying, both out of shock and anger and because the shaving cream that was running into my eyes was stinging.  My dad was in the kitchen when I came in.  He looked up and saw me crying, and I saw his jaw clench as he stood up.  After I had told him what had happened, he told my mom to get a towel for me and my dog, and then he stepped outside and slammed the door behind him.  I wasn't sure what he was planning to do: it wasn't too often that he saw me crying or that he slammed a door like that.

I was still trying to get the shaving cream out of my hair a little bit later when the front doorbell rang.  When my mom and I answered the door, we saw two boys standing on the front porch just in front of my dad. After they sheepishly looked in my direction and told me they were sorry, my dad quietly said, "You still have one more to go" and then he marched them around to the side of the house and my mom and I heard them apologize to my dog.

I'm not sure what has made this event stick out in my memory for so many years: it wasn't the first time that I had seen my dad stick up for someone who needed help, and it wasn't the last.  It was one of a handful of times that I can remember him jumping in and fighting a battle for me, though, instead of encouraging me to handle it myself, and, although I don't think I ever told him, I appreciated the way he handled it because it somehow didn't leave me feeling ashamed or afraid.  

The good old days, when kids created their own costumes out of old clothes and scraps of material - or, as in my sister Nancy's case, they just wore their superhero underwear

Turkey Sandwich

When I was about ten years old, my parents decided that my family needed to split up for a couple of days so that we could visit both sets of my grandparents over the Thanksgiving break.  We drove the 400 miles to my mom's parents' house, spent the night, and then my mom and my two younger sisters stayed there while my dad, our yellow lab Dobie, and I continued down the highway 300 miles more to get to his parents' house.  

When we got there, my granddad was in the kitchen, with food cooking on the stove and in the oven and in all stages of completion all over the kitchen.  He was the big-time cook in the family; he loved cooking and was very good at it.  As usual, he let me sit on a tall stool and help him stir, measure, and pour, which thrilled me.  The kitchen was filled with conversation and great smells as we prepared and then ate the Thanksgiving dinner.

The next day, Grandmom had to work, but Granddad, my dad, and I stood in line so that Dad and I could ride the merry-go-round that their town sponsored every holiday season.  We ran a few errands and then ended back at my grandparents' house where we sat on the front porch and ate leftover turkey sandwiches that my grandfather had made.  I remember the taste of the sandwiches like it was yesterday; each one was cut into two perfect rectangle halves, on soft white bread and with the turkey chopped and mixed with a little bit of mayo and very finely sliced celery.  It was just the way I liked it.

Two days later, my dad woke me up before the sun was up, and we loaded our suitcases and Dobie into the station wagon for our trip back to my other grandparents' house.  As we hugged my grandparents, my granddad handed my dad a brown grocery sack and said, "Four turkey sandwiches for the road!"  We thanked him, with Dobie lying down in the "way back" of the car, we got into the front seat, and set out on on way.

A few hours later, Dad commented that he was hungry.  The thought of the perfect turkey sandwich was making my mouth water too, and so I climbed over the seat to get the bag of food.  I noticed that the top of the sack was opened, and when I reached inside, I discovered the only thing left in there was shredded plastic wrap.  Evidently, Dobie had helped herself to all four sandwiches as we drove down the highway.  

Dad and I were so disappointed.  We ended up stopping at a truck stop for lunch, which of course wasn't nearly as good.  To this day, I think the best part of the Thanksgiving dinner is eating a leftover turkey sandwich, cut into two perfect rectangle halves, on soft white bread and with the turkey chopped and mixed with a little bit of mayo and very finely sliced celery.  I attempt to recreate Granddad's version every year, but to date I have yet to eat one that is as good as Dad and I thought those sandwiches in the brown paper sack were going to be that day.  Maybe this year ...