Guess What's For Dinner?

My Mom was one of the best cooks of all time. She could do it all...different cuisines, breads, sweets..everything from A-Z. On one particular evening, the family was sitting down to dinner and my Mom had prepared a great meal, as she always did. When I asked what we were having that night, she was somewhat evasive, using a line I hadn't heard up until then: "it's like chicken".
Indeed, whatever we were having did indeed taste like chicken. But for some reason, my older brother was snickering and smiling strangely throughout the meal. "yeah, it's like chicken". I didn't put much more thought into his behavior as acting odd was not unusual for him.
When the meal was over, my Dad announced somewhat unceremoniously, that what we had eaten, was in fact not chicken, but in fact rabbit. Not any old rabbit, but what I considered to be my pet rabbit.

I did not believe him and raced out of the kitchen to the backyard,  to look at the rabbit's cage to prove to myself that my Dad was lying.
He wasn't. The cage was empty. I had just had my pet rabbit for dinner. He did taste like chicken.

The Pee Jar

Growing up, I had 2 brothers and a sister at home. Add my parents in, and we are talking a total of 6 people sharing one bathroom for a long time, until eventually we finally put a toilet in the basement.
To top that off, I'm speaking for myself, but I have a very weak bladder. To this day, the first thing I do when I'm in any new environment is to check  where the bathroom is.
So when we had 1 bathroom, what did we do as a work around? Well of course all the men used the bushes outside, especially when we had just come home, and before we went in the house. Some would "call firsts" on the bathroom when we came back home from a trip. This had limited success. You could also beg others to hurry up in there, before you busted a kidney.

But when none of those options were available, and nature was calling, we had a special jar under the sink in the kitchen. It was actually a metallic drinking glass.

I'm pretty sure it was purple in color. Everyone in our family knew where it was and what it was for. Suffice to say, it got a lot of use.

One summer day, my parents had one of their weird friends over, and as soon as Mrs. P came into the house, which from the back door, led you straight to the kitchen, she said she was very thirsty. Without warning, she opened the cabinet doors under the sink

and grabbed the pee jar! She filled it up with water from the sink and guzzled the contents down. It all happened so fast, that none of us reacted or said a word. We just watched as she quenched her thirst from the pee jar. While the next part is legend, after she was finished, she supposedly remarked that it was an especially great glass of water!
In some ways, it was.

Sweat!

Today's heat reminded me of how hot it was in our house when I was growing up.

Air conditioning? Ha! How about we had one fan.....one! It was set up at the top of the stairs where the window was. Theoretically...heavy on the theory part, because it faced towards the three bedrooms my family slept in, we all got some of it's intended effect. Barely.
But when the humidity and temperature were both at 100, all it did was blow the hot humid air around and around.
.

My 2 brothers and I were all sharing one bedroom for a while and on the most horrific nights, we would sleep in our underwear and bring glass jars filled with ice water in the room to try to stay cool. Sometimes it was impossible to fall asleep, as the sweat dripped off onto the sheets. I can remember waking up literally drenched from sweat. In Jersey, we would have heat waves that could last like two weeks, so the unholy pattern stretched on for days. My father's advice..said seriously during these heat waves was always the same: "take your shirt off". Followed by the admonition to go outside, where the sun just made it feel hotter.

The years passed and my parents actually bought 3 new fans, so every bedroom had it's own fan. It was like how winning the lottery must feel, because we couldn't believe how lucky we were! But it still wasn't as good as an air conditioner would be.

When I was about 16 or 17 and earning money at the local hamburger joint, I conspired with my younger brother to elevate our cooling experience to a new level. We went out and bought our own window air conditioner . By this point, we each had our own bedrooms. but we slept in the one bedroom on hot summer nights. We were in the bedroom 24/7 during heatwaves, putting some beach chairs in the bedroom, and listening to our own tv set which we had by this point. We felt like we were staying at The Ritz.

My dad always pooh poohed the benefits of an air conditioner..."a fan is just as good". Yeah, right. I remember him coming in our bedroom and ever so reluctantly admitting that it sure felt nice in that room.

Next summer my mom and dad bought one for their room! I can still remember how vindicated I felt.

Stories my Dad told me- "My Little Pony"

My dad grew up in Ukraine and had some interesting stories to tell...here's my favorite one. If it proves popular, I might re-tell some others in the future.

My father grew up on a small farm in and although probably just 10 or 11 years old, was entrusted to take care of the farm animals and protect them like the valuable assets they were. In the course of doing this, he also developed personal attachments as well. I remember him telling me how when his mother told him to "get" a chicken for dinner, that she called the chicken by it's given name. There was no going to Whole Foods to buy an organic chicken. You went into the backyard and grabbed the unlucky chicken whose time had come.


On this fateful day, my dad was driving a pony led wagon

somewhere on the farm, back to the barn area. The pony was one of my dad's favorite animals on the farm. They were driving in a sort of sunken roadway , perhaps a dry culvert, with rather steep sides. As they progressed, my dad noticed that very dark storm clouds were quickly gathering. With no place to turn around, or seek shelter, he pressed onward. A severe thunderstorm struck minutes later and it started to rain with an incredible intensity. The rain did not let up  and within a short time, the previously dry culvert began to fill up with water from the flash flood. The pony was frightened and my dad struggled to keep it from panicking.

The water level continued to rise and it soon became apparent that the water was going to be over the head of the drowning pony in a few minutes unless my father acted quickly. He unhitched the terrified pony and struggled to try to lift up his beloved companion over the culvert's steep embankment.. He could not get a proper hold on the now freaked out pony. My dad realized that he needed to get a firmer grip  so he bit through the pony's blanket, into the pony's flesh, to solidify his grasp. With almost super human strength, he then  managed to lift the terrified creature over the culvert's embankment and onto safe land.

He climbed up and over the embankment himself and fell down in an exhausted heap with his pony.
 

Wedding Day Shocker: We Almost Missed Our Own Reception!

I guess I have weddings on the brain, as my daughter is getting married next May, (hooray!), and just today, I had to drive back to the town I was married in, to get a copy of my marriage license

that was needed for dependent health insurance coverage purposes by my employer. It reminded me of my own wedding some thirty two year s ago and how my new bride and I almost missed our own wedding reception!
We were married in a church in one town, while the reception was a good 30-45 minutes away in another town.

A lot of pictures were taken by the photographer at the church, after the ceremony, so mostly everyone had left and started to drive over to the reception. Eventually, there were only three of us left at the church, me, my new wife, and one of her brothers.   My wonderful sister and her husband had let us borrow their beautiful, luxurious  Lincoln Continental for our special day, and my wife's brother was acting as our chauffeur.
So my wife and I lock up the church (I had a key, but that's another story), and go to the car where her brother has parked it, smack dab in the middle of the street, waiting our exit. Everyone else has left by this point and we are the only ones at the church. Her brother steps out of the car, and somehow, ends up power locking all the doors......with the only set of keys in the ignition!

In 1979, there were very few cars with power locks and being unfamiliar with the Lincoln, my wife's brother had just locked out the newly married couple. Let me remind you: .there are no cell phones at this point. Anyone I could call that might be able to help is on their way to my wedding reception, which is going to be lame if the situation can't be rectified.
I let myself back into the church and called the police. The phone call was right out of a stand-up comedian's routine: " Uh, police..yeah, I just got married and am on my way to my own reception, but we've locked the keys in the car, which is in the middle of the street......I wish I could have seen the  person's face at police headquarters that took my call. Anyway, they said they would get there when they could. The town I got married in was more of a city than a town, and I'll bet they had higher priorities.
So I ran back outside in my wedding tux and relayed the update to my wife and my new brother-in-law. In what seemed an instant, a passerby asked us what the problem was...let's face it, it had to be an odd scene for him to stumble on:  a very worried bride and groom, all dressed up, standing in front of a church, with a big car in the middle of the street.
We told him of our dilemma and he said he might be able to help us. With that, he reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small piece of hanger wire. Within seconds, he had opened the car.
.

We thanked him profusely! I ran back into the church, called the police and told them our issue had resolved itself. I ran back outside and into the Lincoln Town Car. We then proceeded hastily to our reception. No one was the wiser.


P.S. Yes, that's the actual piece of wire in the picture to the left. Maybe I'll bring it to my daughter's wedding....just in case......

Bullies!

There have been a lot of stories about bullies the past several months and new anti-bullying legislation has been passed in several states. Has anyone of us not been bullied at some point in our lives? Let me recall one of the best bullies I ever had the misfortune to be a repeated victim of.
 Let's call him for blog purposes , Mike. Yes, even though it's almost 50 years ago that Mike bullied me, I am not ashamed to admit that I am afraid that if I use his real name, he may somehow find out, and seek revenge. I'm serious. Let me give you a few details about Mike. He had  shocking red hair which was long for it's day and was always uncombed. He moved around in a very fluid, lanky  fashion and had the most "I don't care about anything at all" attitude that I ever saw. He seemed to always wear low cut sneakers with floppy laces. I remember him burning his awful eighth grade report card in the back of our school, something akin to draft card or  flag burning back then. Kids who were 13 or 14 simply did not display such anti social behavior during that era..but Mike did.

He also could sing many very obscene verses of Barnacle Bill, The Sailor, which I had only heard previously  in a Popeye cartoon. Sheepishly, I must admit that I can still remember some of them. They were incredibly funny at the time.

You might be asking, how, if he was a bully I was terrified of, would I find myself to be in his presence to see him burn his report card and display his obscene vocal skills ? I think it's akin to putting your hand in a fire...you want to see how close you can get, without being burned. It was also the fact that his behaviors were so contrary to mine, that one could not help oneself to watch in a vicarious way. 
But, I digress. So how did Mike bully me? Well. it was pretty straightforward bullying 101. I'd be riding my bike down his street which I had to, as it was on the way to my grammar school, where I'd hang out occasionally. Of course, I rode my bike as fast as I could, on the opposite side of the street where he lived, praying that Mike was not hanging out on his porch stoop, where unfortunately, he did a lot of the time. His friends that were with him on the stoop were of similar disreputable character.  Mike had the instincts of a cheetah on an open plain in Africa, and I of course, was the gazelle.
He would run across the street, stop you on your bike, and then threaten to bust up your face and/or your bike, in no particular order. I  must emphasize that I did nothing to provoke him, other than have the audacity to ride my bike down his street, or worse yet, walk down his street.

Usually, he would take out whatever anger he had on your bike, throwing it down, riding it with threats that you would never see it again, etc. I can't recall him ever striking me, but just the thought that he might, was sufficient enough for it to be a horrific experience. It was usually over in a few minutes, although it felt like hours. And then, he would let you go, after he had satisfied whatever twisted needs that had led him to act the way he did.
I was one of his victims on many occasions, but never really told anyone about it, other than my friends, who if they were with me, would get the same treatment. My parents would have shrugged it off, telling me to avoid him and the street he lived on. I didn't even consider telling school authorities or the police, as it seemed petty to do so. Forget knocking on his door by the way as well, to tell his parents, who I had seen only occasional glimpses of.  They did not appear to have a sympathetic nature.. No ,being bullied my Mike was just part of the the neighborhood experience, no different than the other pleasant parts of my childhood.
In a short few years, I was in high school, and never saw Mike again.  I can't help but wonder how he ended up.

I Was A Child Garbageman!

Around the age of nine or so, I ramped up my love of construction trucks, road department vehicles, and garbage trucks, by not just following them around on my trusty Columbia bicycle, but by becoming one of the crew.

Garbage was picked up twice a week in my hometown, by a contracted service whose name was Fereday and Meyer. So, early Monday and Thursday mornings, I would get up, get dressed quickly, and run to where I knew one particular crew started their route. By this point, I had followed around all of the five or so crews that worked my town, and had developed a special bond with Phil and George. Phil was the driver and George was his partner. When you wanted the truck to pull up to the next house, you would signal to the driver by two short whistles, but George apparently couldn't whistle and would instead yell out "Ha!"

When I met up with my garbage men pals, I just didn't watch them load the trash into the truck, I helped. And by helped, I mean I was like the third man of the crew! I dragged the cans, boxes and assorted trash to the vehicle, threw it in and dragged back the empty cans back to the curb. I eventually learned how to operate the controls, so I knew had to "zip it up", garbageman slang for compressing the load into the truck. When the next stop ahead was too far to walk, I jumped on the little running board on either side of the truck, and hung on for dear life as we raced to the next stop. I loved every minute of it and literally spent the whole day with these guys on their route. D45 and then F21 were the numbers that designated Phil and George's trucks, and my summer was spent with them.
When all the routes for that day were finished, all the trucks converged on one street, helping each other finish the days work. Before heading back to their garage, which was in the next town over, they would all get out of their trucks , eat, drink soda, and discuss the days events. I felt privileged to be part of the inner circle and hang out with the boys. I was as tired and sweaty as they were, as I had put in a hard day as well.
I remember asking one day, how they got the garbage out of the truck at the dump. Al, from another crew, laughed and was surprised that I didn't know that all garbage trucks were like dump trucks, and that once they were full, all they had to do was open up the back part of the truck and then just engage the hydraulic dump mechanism. My co-worker Phil looked at it as an opportunity to learn, and asked me if I wanted to go with them to the dump one day to see how it was done! I was giddy, to say the least.
I secured my parent's approval like Phil had asked and the glorious day arrived. It was like Christmas in July, seeing all the trucks lining up and dumping their loads at the landfill. It was the pinnacle of my garbageman days.
Speaking of my parents, some time later, as I was once again working the route,one of my friends told me my parents were looking for me and I needed to go home right away, which I did. My parents solemnly sat me down in the living room and told me the bad news. Someone had seen me helping out the garbage men and were concerned enough about my safety, that they had contacted the Board of Health, who then notified my parents that I had to cease my activities immediately, or the consequences would be severe for me, my parents, and my garbageman buddies.
I was devastated! I liked working with these guys more than anything else in the world! I sobbed uncontrollably.  But, I knew I couldn't work with them ever again. I'm pretty sure I explained things to Phil and George who I could only watch from afar from then on.
A few years later, my parents confessed that they made up the whole Board of Health story, which I had believed wholeheartedly. They were very concerned that I would get hurt or injured one day, and knew that they had to come up with something compelling to break me from my addiction. I wasn't really mad at them, as I knew they were right. Nothing short of the Board of Health story would have worked.
I'm sure of it, as to this day, I can't resist watching my garbage men do their thing!