Let’s go to Brookside.
This steak is burnt! Oh, it’s a porkchop?
Do you want a chotty karaop?
Oooo, zickies!
Pick up this pig sty!
Don’t cry or I’ll give you something to cry about!
Wake up! Get a job, get a haircut. Get a better job!
Pass me the potatoes. And the gravy, too.
Turn off the lights when you leave the room!
Let’s go for ice cream – Carvel, Jersey Freeze, or Zippy’s?!
Hi DAD – Delete this and write something else before you share this Blog with your friends. Happy Father’s Day!
( To my siblings: Add your memories as COMMENTS but keep your identities. First names only – please refrain from referring to present whereabouts, etc. YES, I’m paranoid – there are lots of creepie peepies on the net AS well as real-life as we know). Maybe DAD will post HIS memories. As long as I’ve known him, I know so little about him! )
I’ll start:
I remember that old station wagon on the side of the road. Well at least it LOOKED old but it could have been rusted from the water. It was pulled out of the river after it went off the bridge, A family of, like EIGHT, dead just like that.
Dad had read about he accident in the City paper. He used to come home and although we couldn’t say much at the dinner table, he shared crime headlines and gruesome murder stories with us. This was during the time of the serial killings and Son of Sam was also the headline more than once.
Dad never talked about his feelings, I don’t even think he ever said F word (feeling). I could tell when something bothered him though. Like that od station wagon. We drove by it several times. I noticed the box of CheezeIts on the front seat and imagined OUR family fighting in the back seat, Dad’s swappng hand trying to shoo the noise and shut our traps.
I imagined us 5 kids fighting over who got to sit in the front seat, and who got to hold the box of “Cheeze Its.” Those crackers have been around for years.
Anyone else remember that car? I forgot whether or not they were wearing seatbelts back then. The kids were all ages, baby to late teen. All siblings.
THAT was one of the sadest day in my childhood. I think I was about five.
And for a while there, I obsessed with drowning. Maybe the stories of the American Indians who helped build the bridges falling to the rapids below or drowning in the newly poured cement didn’t help my concerns. - K (daughter dearest)
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