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Younger Stephanie would often get very frustrated/excited and talk before she thought… I guess she was kinda like OlderStephanie.
To incense, Dad would give me one of his infamous lectures.
“I’m your father, I’m tall, have a deep voice and am a man. This is your mother, she is shorter, has longer hair and a higher pitched voice.”
We’re ending our conversation and I call him Mom by accident. “I’m sorry, you’re Dad, you’re tall and have a deep voice…”
“You remember that so well!”
Preface:
Dad always used to cook with charcoal, “Nothing cooks better!”
It was common to see flames and smoke emanating from our backyard; thank goodness for those asbestos shingles!
In fact, there was one time that Dad cooked hamburgers and forgot about them. Literally hours later, smoke signals start in our backyard and we get a call from one of the neighbors (“Hey Jerry, dinner’s done!”). Out at the grill, the burgers had turned into hockey pucks and, in a weird twist, were not cooked on the inside.
Our neighbor took the burger and put a magnet on the back and stuck it on the fridge.
Dad cooked things one way, Chernobyl (read: burned and charred beyond recognition).
The phone rings.
It’s the neighbor letting us know that there’s smoke billowing from the yard.
We laugh, “Yeah, yeah, we’ll check the grill.” and then remember that we didn’t have anything on the grill…
Running outside, we see that the garage is on fire (an unshaded lamp fell onto one of the Halloween dummies (stuffed with old newspaper!) and the heat from the lamp started the dummy on fire).
Hose in hand, the fire is extinguished and we laugh about how no one called the fire department because they were so used to seeing smoke from our yard.
(damage was limited to the prop and a small piece of wall, nothing structural.)
A few years later, Dad decides that the garage needs to come down and he’s a “If I can do it, I’m not paying anyone to do it.” (Thanks Dad!)
So him and some friends start pulling the sides out and there’s a shell left.
BTW, we tried to burn the garage down but it wouldn’t start…
Dad takes a heavy-duty rope and lassos the crossbeam where the roof was. Now, at this time, I was maybe 100 pound, soaking wet. He hands me the rope and tells me to pull. After a couple unsuccessful tugs, he stands in front of me and we both pull, tug-of-war style, us vs. the garage.
Suddenly, the beam cracks and we were pulling so hard that when the beam gave way, he fell into me, I fell on my butt and there was some tumbling involved.
Oh, but we got that garage down.
Back in the early/mid-1990’s, I was very much into music and spent a lot of time going to concerts. I was a fan of Sick of it All (New York Hardcore, rrraarrwwrr) and had seen many a mosh pit get ugly.
Dad announces that he’s going to go see White Zombie. Yes, that White Zombie. Hey, I never said I had parents that listened to the soft rock station. In fact, this was a man who’s coping mechanism was to pull our two foot Kenwood speakers within inches of his head and blast “Blizzard of Oz”. Somewhere there’s a picture of a tiny me lying on his tummy with this exact set up. (“What’s that? I can’t hear you over this tinnitus…”)
“Dad…”, I say concerned.
“Stephanie?”, he says mockingly.
“You need to listen to me on this.”
“Okay….”, Says a man who’s last concert may have been Monsters of Rock.
“Leave your wallet in the car. If you don’t absolutely need your glasses, leave them in the car. And for the love of god, DO NOT GO IN THE MOSH PIT.”
(For those of you not familiar, here’s a mosh pit.
Basically, it’s a group of people running around in opposite directions, flailing their limbs about and crashing into other people. File it in ’stupid trends of the 90’s’.)
“Why not?”
“Because, you’re going to get hurt. DO NOT GO IN THE MOSH PIT.”
Also worth mentioning is that Dad is a big guy. He’s six foot two (that’s a foot taller then Mom and I) and well, stocky. In a teddy bear way!
Dad shakes his head, “I can hold my own.”
“I’m serious. BE CAREFUL!”
And I go to stay at a friends house for the night.
The next morning, I walk in the door to see Dad with an ice pack.
“You got in the mosh pit didn’t you.” I say, already knowing the answer.
“It must have been ‘pick on the old man day’.”
“No, that’s a mosh pit. What did I tell you?”
“Not to go in the mosh pit.”
“And what did you do?”
“I went in the mosh pit.”
“And what happened?”
“I got hurt.” he says, sticking out his lower lip.
“And what did we learn?”
“You’re right and I should have listened to you.”
Seeing as I didn’t want to attach any significance or ranking to these posts, I guess letters came close…
Setting The Way Machine to the mid to late-1980’s……………………….
Saturday mornings, Mom would wake up early to go work at Silo (think Best Buy but in browns and yellows, circa 1980’s, microwaves as large as a countertop).
Dad would do his paperwork for the week and we’d listen to records. For you youngings, “records” are pre-iPOD, pre-CD, Pre-Cassette and Pre-8 Track.
Some mornings, we’d hop in the Chevelle- Green on the outside, lipstick red on the inside- and drive around to garage sales.
Usually I’d get a toy of some kind and I don’t really think it’s that we were looking for anything in particular, it was a chance to get out and spend time together.
Pretty much whenever I hear Van Halen or Yes, I’m transported back to driving around Buffalo, hand out the window, letting the wind move my hand in the current with the faint smell of what what was most likley a gas leak.
These trips would usually culminate with a trip to Mighty Taco, Anderson’s (ice cream) or TCBY.
Peeps is sayin'