Bolivar’s Door

Posted on July 15, 2016 by Ben Gannon

Sadly, there is no image of an enormous dog named Bolivar in this picture, yet the door behind my white head remains significant.

This picture was taken in 1979, the same year the Pittsburg Pirates won the World Series. The door was as ugly, colorful and magnificent as the Pirates’ uniforms that year. I remember the Pirates just as I remember our dog.

Very little did I know about Bolivar. Evidently, he was part of a grandeur litter given as a gift to one of my brothers, Glenn. This may have been ten years before I was born. Therefore, I only knew him in his later years. Some say he was a Newfoundland. When I came to know him, at my age and height, I just maintained the notion he was a friendly and cuddly black bear. Everyone in our neighborhood felt the same making all of us feel safe.

The door represented a gift granted to us by this overweight canine maintaining justice on our block. Each night, after a hearty stew, Bolivar always wished to head out for the night and scratched on the door until someone would let him outside to patrol our neighborhood. When Bolivar was alive, I don’t remember a crime on our street. We didn’t lock our doors back then and even left our garage door open before Bolivar, sadly, passed away. Our dog died, but the door didn’t. Countless times, our mother pled for a new door. Our father, a man crazy for nostalgia, refused to replace what was left of Bolivar.

After Bolivar died, oddly, crime became a serious issue in our neighborhood. Locking our doors and shutting the garage door became a task each night after his death. It didn’t seem right to a boy of my age.

What Floor?

Posted on July 1, 2016 by Ben Gannon

“Throw strikes, you ape!” Vacationing in Seattle, Washington, relatively close to forty years ago, this is what my brother and I remember hearing when watching a Mariner baseball game in the, now deceased, Kingdome. The inebriated stranger next to us was screaming at the rather large, white, semi talented pitcher, and the drunkard was more entertaining than the game itself. Back then, Mariner baseball was even more abysmal than it can be these days.

Currently residing in Seattle, I often think about vacationing here as a youth. Traveling first class in a car is much different than a plane. Even though you are directly behind the pilot of the car, you don’t get free drinks or hot towels. You do get complimentary second hand smoke and a “shut the hell up” lecture once you hit Seattle’s city limits. With three brothers sitting next to one another, it would get a little cramped, but on the positive side, as the youngest, I wasn’t subject to ridicule as much being so close to the captain’s seat. I’d still get picked on, yet it was quite subtle and delivered with far less profanity. Whispering, my brother Greg might warn, “Wait’ll we get on that ferry, you little snot nosed towhead. Don’t get too close to the railing.” Those threats were futile. According to our itinerary, I’d get to see a major league baseball game before being tossed off a ferry deck into the Puget Sound.

One of our older sisters was also on the trip, but she was allowed a friend as a carry on, so, for the most part, they stayed clear of us brothers. This was fortunate for us, because she’d always keep an annoyingly watchful eye on our rascally asses. Not because she was worried about us being injured or killed, but rather, she loved to rat us out for anything that was even remotely mischievous. She actually received a tremendous thrill out of us getting a masterful tongue thrashing from our father, the head chief of scolding. To her benefit, it must have been difficult constantly dealing with three irritating younger brothers. To my benefit, I wasn’t usually the one on the receiving end of our father’s sharp tongue.

All the seats in the car were accessible to windows so there was plenty to witness on the five hour journey. You could look through the rear window of the car and say goodbye to the city you never wish to see again. I could envision it vanishing like Atlantis. (Sadly, that wish didn’t come true until my mid thirties.) You also have a first class view of the Snoqualmie Pass and the Cascade Mountain Range before dropping you off at Downtown Seattle, home of the Space Needle and a seemingly endless supply of elevators.

It was our annual vacation to the Emerald City, because my father’s best friend lived in Seattle. We loved heading west from Spokane, because we knew we’d be staying at a hotel, eating at some of the finest burger joints, watching a Major League baseball game and even perhaps taking a short trip on a ferry. But, for me, and my brothers, we loved those up and down roller coasters, also known as “elevators”. For grown ups, it seemed their pleasures were eating, drinking and smoking. For us, it was eating, sports, and best of all, elevators.

After arriving in our hotel in Seattle, we had some time to kill before everyone was ready for our first destination. With my sister out of the way, mom and dad gave us permission to roam around the hotel before we were to head to the Seattle Center, just blocks away. Mom needed to get ready, and dad needed to knock back a smokey pack. We were given one hour before we were to return to the lobby to meet them. My two brothers, Tom and Greg and I headed to the elevator where I assumed we were going to drop to the main level and take a look around outside. Greg, however, wanted first to head to the highest floor, exit the elevator, and find a window with a better view of Seattle. He could have been doing this because he knew I was afraid of heights, or perhaps he did want a proper view of this magnificent city. Either way, we managed to find a window, and peer out of it for five or six seconds before returning to the elevator where we could have more fun. We had all ridden an elevator before, but not one with this caliber of speed intriguing us all. This elevator was turbo charged. You didn’t even have time to listen to its classical music before any landing.

Prior to descending to the main level, Greg wanted to hit a few more floors. We’d shoot down to the second floor, get out and find the next elevator going up, and take it all the way to the top. Of course, since there were other people staying at the hotel, we had to stop at other floors for them. This became somewhat entertaining. Greg, the oldest, and best actor amongst the three of us, when others would enter, he’d say in his best twelve year old stuffy butler accent, “What floor, madame?” Or, “To which floor today, Sir?” They’d provide a number and Greg would turn to me, just tall enough where my head would be covering the panel of buttons and give an approving nod, and I would proudly press the proper button as if I was a V.I.E.O. (Very important elevator operator). Tom would stand next to me, eyes peering at the person or people on “our” elevator looking at them as though we just earned some form of tip. All I remember were some friendly smiles, and even some chuckles. Upon exiting the elevator, I would hear Tom mumble, “Cheap bastards”. Greg would also strike up conversations with the people on board. “Might you be heading to the ball game this evening, sir?” Awkwardly, the person may respond with more than a “yes” or “no”. “Actually, I’m just heading to the lobby to find out where we should go for dinner tonight.” Greg would reply with such grace, “Oh, excellent choice, sir.” What a goof.

Of course, we’d end up on the main level on numerous occasions, but we’d just stay on the elevator and perform our duties. Up and down, up and down. I owned that panel, and for once, played a critical role within this threesome. I couldn’t have been happier even if I were to catch a fly ball at the game later that night. This must have gone on for more than an hour, because on our last descent to the main level, after our passengers had exited, our diabolical sister, Maggie, was glaring at us. “What the hell are you guys doing? We’ve been waiting for you, and dad is beginning to get pissed. Dad, they’re right here! They’ve been riding this stupid elevator for the last hour and a half. (It couldn’t have been more than an hour fifteen.) He’s going to send you back to the room and not let you go to the Seattle Center or the game tonight. Ha!”

Dad only put out his cigarette, (glad he wasn’t trying to give those up at the time) rolled his eyes and told us if we did that anymore, he’d kick our asses up between our shoulder blades. He added, “Don’t mess around too much at the Seattle Center.”

When entering the food court to meet my father’s friend, the first thing we noticed was the glass elevator smack dab in the middle of the center. “The Bubbleator”. You must be joking! Where were we? Maggie just shook her head, and while my dad, mom and their friend went to have a beer before lunch, we hopped on “The Bubbleator” like bums on a billfold the second they turned their backs. Ten minutes later, pointing to the stairs,we were asked by staff to get off and not return.

I can just imagine my first grade teacher asking me what I wished to be when I grow up. Fireman? No. Baseball player? No. Elevator Operator? Bingo.

Flat Dance

Posted on June 23, 2016 by Ben Gannon

His face is as flat as a pancake, and that’s all that is flat about our new, six week young kitten, Michael Flatley Gannon.

Performing a magnificent rendition of the “River Dance” on my face for three consecutive nights, his paws and claws are stamped all over my head. He is smaller than one of my forearms, yet commands respect while monopolizing any and all of our rooms… dancing, sleeping, drinking and eating in each one. He also manages to decide where his wet and dry food should remain, depending on his mood. It’s the first and official Southern Ireland Monarch of our time. Potatoes were so much easier.

Michael also finds comfort in my wife’s locks during what should be a peaceful slumber for both of us. Her head has become a comfortable nest between the hours of ten and three in the P.M. and the A.M. It’s the first time I’ve felt grateful for losing my hair.

“River Dance” being beneath him, he refers to himself, with extreme arrogance, as “The Lord of the Dance”. On a good day, you may refer to him as Mr. Flatley. When irritated at two o’clock in the morning, it must be Lord Flatley, or simply, Lord. Sir Flatley is also a name he enjoys after some properly aged bourbon.

Our veterinarian removes his white coat and bows to him before charging us with a significant fine for taking care of a cat who clearly CAN take care of himself. “Good morning, My Lord.” Good grief.

As I write this, and I’m frustratingly serious, he continues to pounce on all my keys, thus making this silly piece much more difficult to write. Fortunately, he hasn’t found the “publish” button.

It has now evolved to a 2016 Looney Tunes episode with actual humans and a futuristic animal attempting to withhold me from using my computer. All the claws and scars are non-fictional. As the former actor, Elmer Fudd, once said, “I hate that rabbit”, I don’t think he did. And, as for today, I don’t hate this cat.

On the Other Hand

Posted on June 15, 2016 by Ben Gannon

“Which arm should I use?” (My mother wasn’t sure if she was right or left handed.) This was the question she asked me when I convinced her to throw me batting practice in the backyard decades ago when all my brothers and sisters were off to school and our father was at work. My response? “It doesn’t matter. Just throw the ball in my general direction with either arm, and I’ll swing at it or catch it.” She did, and I did.

Baseball’s All-Star game is just a month around the corner, and nobody deserves to be on that roster more than my mother.

My mother did anything to keep me occupied before I entered kindergarten. At the age of four, I’d already captured the swings of every Los Angeles Dodger, so I wished to display my talents outside. Mom preferred playing board games with me inside, but after playing a solid game of “Memory” which I’d commonly win, I wanted to take my energy elsewhere. This was also prefaced by her extinguishing sibling fights, as well as preparing breakfast, lunch, and laundry all before seven o’clock in the morning.

I would persuade her to go outside and just throw a ball at me (yes, at me), even if I had to chase it down with a bat or a glove. She may as well have been blind folded. Our yard was half an acre and she hit every square foot of it. If I wasn’t running into our chicken coop, diving into a potato shed, I’d be bouncing off our cherry tree or tangled in nettles. Not knowing where she was going to throw the ball, it became quite a challenge as well as a proper workout. With all her might and love, she’d toss it with each arm, successfully making me happy, even though I was bleeding.

My father was a very good athlete, and whether she admits it or not, my mother is an exceptional artist. However, growing up without even sniffing the thought of being in athletics, my mother never really had the chance to develop an interest in sports before her sons and daughters arrived. She was a mother, and her duties were those of which I can’t possibly fathom. Going beyond her duties as a mother, she became a companion and the teammate I required as a young and energetic youth. I was her last dog in the litter.

Co-Laziness

Posted on May 27, 2016 by Ben Gannon

“When I wrote this book…..”

Don’t give me that crap. Usually trying to keep my writing positive, I am going to accentuate something negative, or shall I write, realistic, today. There are many things on this earth which annoy me: terrorists, Trump, Hillary, The Family Circus, but nothing more than a celebrity or ex sports star claiming to have written a book about themselves, unless it is written by themselves. “When I wrote this book”……wait a minute……….who wrote this book? You may as well begin by stating the truth. “When I was sitting on a bar stool telling stories, some man or woman jotted down notes, then converted these stories to well crafted sentences, paragraphs and chapters all ending with, ‘wait till you hear this next one’ so I could get most of the credit by paying him or her to do so. Only in miniature font, shall I give the man or woman credit putting in the majority of the work into said book.”

I despise the term “Co-written” unless you have two people collectively sitting down with a pen, notebook, laptop, sticky notes, journaling over a cup of coffee or a can of beer and composing sentences together. Screen writers do it all the time. That, I respect. What I don’t respect is the lack of integrity some possess by not properly acknowledging those actually writing the book, which is the most difficult part.

Sadly, my father convinced me at a young age to read the book “The Mick”. It is an autobiography about the “Great” Mickey Mantle. With “Great” bold letters, the book’s cover read, “The Mick” MICKEY MANTLE, H. Gluck. Who’s this H.Gluck guy? Who cares? Naively, I believed this was written by Mickey Mantle himself. How does this freak of baseball talent with good looks, Centerfield speed and astonishing power find the time to write a book about hitting home runs while hung over on a daily basis in Yankee Stadium? Of course, I want to be this guy! Drinking and dining at the finest restaurants for free in New York, hitting bombs in Yankee Stadium, making loads of money while taking your pick of any girl you want, yet still being educated enough to write an autobiography? Chicks love the long ball, but they also love the brains. He had it all. In the eighth grade, I thought, “oh, yeah, I want to be him.” Mickey Mantle didn’t write one word in that book and probably forgot or regretted every word he uttered while giving the writer complete artistic liberty.

Heartwarming as the stories may be, whether it be blaming your failures on drug, alcohol, or mental issues, please give those who write these tender stories verbal credit or a crap load of money.

This morning, I was motivated to write this piece because of something I read on the front page of the sport’s section. Since I am overseas, and you wouldn’t know which periodical I may be referring to, I still won’t disclose who inspired me this morning, but I will tell you, he made me question his complete lack of integrity, not just as a “writer”, but as a baseball player.

If I ever told someone my silly stories and wanted them to write them down while falling off a bar stool, thus completing a book, I would insist the title be, “Co-Laziness”.

Sweetness

Posted on May 7, 2016 by Ben Gannon

“You guys, my daughter is so smart.” “Hey, seriously, my son is really, really good at everything.” (Cue the trumpets.) “I hereby declare, our dog is the sweetest, kindest, most polite and dumbest canine God has bestowed upon us all, and I will fight any man or woman who says otherwise!” I’ve been guilty of one of these former proclamations.

Parents of children and animals whip these phrases around as if they are stone cold gospel only furthering themselves from parishioners questioning their beliefs. Sometimes, when it comes to family, pride can cloud our judgment, much like honesty can get you in a heap of trouble with your significant other.

I’m not knocking parents, because I think they actually convince themselves that these statements are true, and that, my friends, is unconditional love. It is also, sometimes, confirmation of their legal blindness. When their sons or daughters grow up, they may or may not end up being astronauts, professional athletes, rap stars, blackjack or coke dealers, but, one way or another, they will, without exception, live up to some form of standard.

When my wife and I had our first child, a bernese mountain dog we named Etta, after about two years of her life, I determined that she wasn’t terribly smart. Sweet, but not smart. (Sometimes, I prefer people with similar characteristics. It seems to clear up the pretentiousness.) None too happy about my remark, for months my wife denied our ebony and ivory fur ball was anything short of future canine valedictorian status.

Not being a member of the “make your animals do tricks” organization, my wife and I would just give simple orders. “Sit, please.” “Wait……wait.” “Where’s your ball?” In addition to finding her gigantic beach ball sitting just feet away from her, she was pretty good at the former two commands or suggestions as well. But, it was her genuinely goofy, rather dumb looking smile she would maintain at all times, making you think her mind was in another room or county.

Frequently traveling with Etta and our other dog, Jack, gave us time to evaluate her intelligence, or lack there of, outside of her comfort zone. Six years ago, my nephew was participating in a wrestling tournament in Wenatchee, Washington in mid December. Although there was a winter storm warning, we packed up the dogs and headed east, opting to stay the night at a dog friendly hotel. After the tournament, and before heading to bed, we took the dogs outside for a potty break and a romp in the six inches of snowfall. Being impervious to the cold, our large dogs had a blast as we threw gigantic snowballs directed at their bulbous heads, only to laugh at them attempting to catch the balls in their mouths. It was terrific family fun, and Etta’s goofy smile never wavered. Not being impervious to the cold, my wife and I finally decided it was time to head back to the room. Etta must have understood the outdoor fun was over, and before we could tell them to follow us back to the room, Etta decided to lead the way, and surprisingly, she was heading precisely to our room which had direct access outside from the first floor. My wife, Britt, looked at me with excitement and said, “She knows which room we’re in. I don’t think she’s as dumb as you think she is.” At that very moment, Etta busted through the screen door to our room and dove onto our bed, soaking it with her drenched locks. The grin she maintained as we followed her path into the room negated any lecture we may have provided as we looked from her to the now useless screen door on the rug, riddled with a less than inconspicuous hole. I then looked at my wife with a smile and didn’t say a word. We never spoke of her intellect again.

For eight years, this warm and wonderful dog warned us when people were in our driveway. If she liked you, she’d rest peacefully at your feet. When having fun, her laughter was a gregarious bark. Although not bred for swimming, she would happily retrieve tennis balls in the Puget Sound on a sunny day just to please us. After inadvertently passing wind in our living room, embarrassed, Etta would quietly excuse herself to her own doggie timeout, even though we didn’t mind. When Britt or I were sick, she’d sense it and huddle close to comfort us. When Jack, six years older than Etta, needed to go outside for a break, she’d come upstairs to let us know. Up until the day of her passing, I don’t remember her tail not waging. She may not have been the smartest dog on the block, but no one who met her, whether it be at home, the park, the vet clinic, or on vacation could present an argument that she wasn’t the sweetest dog in our world.

Dancing with the Pirates

Posted on March 31, 2016 by Ben Gannon

Convincing my wife to watch “Dancing with the Stars” with me the other evening caused her to look at me as though I’d finally started taking hallucinogenic drugs. Of course, I don’t use drugs. That still remains years and blocks down the path of my bumpy life. She was surprised, because I’d never made such a suggestion. Late at night, it’s usually Seinfeld or Jaws putting us to sleep.

For years, my mother and one of my brothers have watched this dazzling show and find it entertaining, so I thought we’d give it a shot. It was entertaining. You put a pair of dancing boots on Geraldo Riviera, and it guarantees entertainment, in the most sinister of ways. Not that I can dance, but if Geraldo’s partner just brought a carry on cardboard cutout through customs of him on stage, you wouldn’t have known the difference. I don’t mind making fun of Geraldo. I felt he owed me after making me suffer through three hours of mindless television regarding an Al Capone vault not providing any substance or resolution as to why we paid for television.

Years ago, when this delightful program began to air, my mother immediately took interest. So, living in another city and speaking to her only once a week, I always wished to take interest in her leisurely activities. Watching “Dancing with the Stars” and “Little House on the Prairie” was one of her activities.

Not giving a Yankee dime about the outcome of the dancers’ demise, I loved my mother’s commentary. Similar to rooting for a baseball, football or basketball team you don’t give a crap about, you wish to support the ones you love, even if it involves dancing or soccer. I wanted to root for her horse in this race.

“Who are you pulling for, mom?”

“I’m rooting for the girl with the wooden leg.”

With my sister laughing in the background, I replied with some distraction and incredulousness. “What? Is this dancing with the stars, or dancing with the pirates? Does she dance with an eye patch, and is the parrot on her shoulder taking lessons as well?”

Turns out, Paul McCartney’s ex wife was participating in the event, and I had no clue she had a wooden leg, or “prosthetic” now used in times following ancient Greece. Loving my mother, unconditionally, I had to root for the lady with the wooden leg.

Seuss, Capone, and The Babe

Posted on March 23, 2016 by Ben Gannon

The other evening, I was ridiculed by my wife for reading a takeout menu in bed just before the we turned the lights off. Laughing, she inquired, “Did your parents read menus to you at bedtime when you were a child?” Even though the options on this Asian menu were fascinating to me, admittedly, it probably looked a little silly. It did make me think about what they read to me at those impressionable ages. The stories certainly varied depending on the parent.

Most people believe reading to their children before bedtime is a key ingredient to their development. Even without having human children of our own, I tend to agree with that philosophy. Yet, it’s not just the reading, it’s that precious one on one attention you may receive before actually having sweet dreams or selective nightmares.

My mother would fall asleep reading me two pages of a Dr. Seuss book or two sentences of a Sesame Street novella. I watched her eyes droop while trying her best to complete a rhyme or reason. Who could blame her? She was awake at four o’clock in the morning doing laundry in the basement for eight to ten of her children, still remaining in the home, before they went to school.

When my mother drifted off while reading, I would creep into my father’s bedroom many nights hoping he would read to me. (At this point in their lives, my parents slept separately, because thirteen children were plenty.) After he worked his twelve hour shift, I knew he’d be in bed reading something to relieve his stress. It was never about a cat in a hat or Oscar being a grouch, and I didn’t care. With him working such long hours, it was the only time to be next to my father. My father’s bedtime reading was a little different from what my mom would choose to read to me. He would be reading about, amongst others, Al Capone or Babe Ruth, two of the most infamous and famous people in the world.

After my well received interruption, my father would proceed to read as I cuddled next to him. He would also delicately paraphrase… “And then, prohibition began and while men were massacred on Valentine’s Day, Capone never harmed any women or children.” Or, when speaking of The Babe, he might say, “Although he was known for his womanizing, immense drinking and voracious appetite for everything, he would sign autographs for any child wishing to receive one.” Stressing the positive rather than the negative, it made me feel at ease, wishing to take a trip to baseball’s Hall of Fame, followed by a journey through Alcatraz.

Depending on which book they held while reading to me, I would either fall asleep to dreams of calling my own home run shot, bipedal cats with gigantic hats, or nightmares of a Valentine’s Day massacre. These days, I simply wake up hungry.

Catch of the Day

Posted on March 9, 2016 by Ben Gannon

My wife and I recently won the sweepstakes and decided to take a trip to a place where it only rains once a day. Sometimes, it may rain every other day, but since I used to be a betting man, there is only one guarantee on an island other than the time: The fish is always fresh.

One of the most glorious and, to many others, seemingly meaningless pleasures in my wonderful world is ordering something off the menu without actually looking at the menu. (I take the menu home later for leisurely bedtime reading.)

“What will you have to order?”

“The catch of the day.”

“How will you like it prepared?”

“However the chef prepares it.”

This is why I carry Benadryl in my wallet at all times preparing for uncomfortable and life threatening allergies. If the fish is fresh, there is a slight chance, twenty minutes later after eating it, my throat may be shutting similar to the bars at Alcatraz, and my face may look similar to the puffer fish I may have consumed. Either way, well worth it.

I do feel safe when my wife is with me to witness this production and keep her ” well charged” cell phone with her at all times in case 911 may come in handy.

Sometimes, I wonder if the catch of the day is the fish or my wife. I’ll take the latter.

Meet the Pork

Posted on February 26, 2016 by Ben Gannon

Growing up with twelve older siblings, I just assumed we were poor. We lived in a modest house large enough for us to sit collectively for a turkey dinner, and bunk beds in our basement providing space to sleep at least eight, uncomfortably, with or without the farts. Yet, being young and ignorant, witnessing people living in neighborhoods within close proximity bathing in their backyard pools, I believed we must be impoverished.

Now, let me be clear. We were never poor. Yet, even though mom and dad provided three square meals a day, when I’d see friends talk about their nightly adventures to Burger King or McDonald’s, I looked at them as the rich. Up until high school, I don’t remember ever sitting down for a Whopper or a Big Mac. It was tuna on toast every Friday night, fried burgers on Saturday night, and Sunday through Thursday, we ate potatoes and vegetables surrounded by some form of meat. How could they expect me to live in such poverty?

When I began maturing at the age of about ten, I started thinking we were far from poor when my father replaced his old car with a slightly newer one. (His former car was totaled by one of my older brothers.) He even took me to the used car dealership to help him pick it out. I then discerned the only reason we didn’t have a pool was because our father knew that six or seven of us might drown in it, even though he taught us how to swim at early ages. Then, with an exclamation point, he put a definitive end to my thoughts of being poor. He took the ones remaining in our house out to Chinese dinner. It was pay dirt for me, and I’ll never forget it.

Without any disrespect to our mother’s cooking, dining out, since it was so infrequent, was always a treat. It was actually a treat for our mother as well, always opting to remain at home for a dash of peace. Yet, until I was introduced to the Far East, a pizza parlor was as far down the culinary road we’d traveled thus far, which was just dandy with all of us.

Entering the foreign parking lot of just one of the ten million Chinese restaurants in Spokane, Washington, I have to admit, my stomach was a little apprehensive. Whether it be food or a baseball game, my dad always knew when I was nervous. I didn’t have to say a thing. As the youngest of thirteen, you never actually get a say in anything, but he looked at me with great confidence, and said, “Don’t worry.” That’s all I needed. Well, not really, but it was either I follow them into the restaurant or starve for the evening in the car.

Before being seated, I surveyed the atmosphere. Immediately making me feel at ease was the giant Buddha sitting behind one of the waitresses. I’d recognized him from pictures in a National Geographic. He was wearing a smile, and by the looks of him, I thought Chinese food must be divine. Shortly after being seated, several bowls of won ton soup were placed in front of us. Nothing special, but ok. I’d eaten better soup at home, but we lapped it up nevertheless. Without having time to read the menu, dad began ordering. First dish: Fried Won Tons. They looked harmless, but dad clearly pointed out the bowl of sweet and sour sauce to dip it in on the side. One dip, and I was hooked like a Mongolian on a grill. Holy Chinese Checkers! We’re eating dessert before dinner! I could have sat and drank that sauce like egg nog on Christmas or Thanksgiving. It was absolutely delightful. To this day, I have never met its equal. My father, when not stressed, always had the most pleased grin matching his smiling eyes when something made him happy. We were happy.

Next came the BBQ pork. Since birth, I don’t think I’ve ever turned anything down which was barbecued, so my excitement level remained on high. Although the pork’s presentation made it look as if its outer lining was painted with some phony candy coating, I didn’t care. Bring on the sweet with the meat. All of us reaching for a piece, my first instinct was to dip it in what was left of the sweet and sour sauce. Dad moved the sauce away quickly, and said, rather persuasively, “No, no, no. Try these other dips reserved for the pork.” So far, he was batting a thousand with the won tons, so I had no problem listening and paying attention to his calm order. He then told us to dip it in a sauce resembling ketchup, followed by what looked like standard mustard, although he referred to it as “special mustard”, and finish by submerging it in the sesame seeds. No problem. Just before concluding the process with the seeds, he waved at my hand and said, “You need more mustard than that. Your brothers are going to lap that good stuff up if you don’t eat it while it’s hot. Putting a healthy dose of mustard on my piece, then cramming it in my mouth, I thought it odd the mustard was actually cold. I didn’t know exactly what he meant my hot then, but I did within about three seconds after swallowing. With tears floating in my baby blue eyes, dad handed me a napkin as he and the others were laughing. The napkin wasn’t for my tears. Rather, it was for my nose which began to drip, and although the sting was quite a surprise, I hadn’t expected some strange eating euphoria to follow. It felt like a quick dose of sinus hell followed by heaven, or relief. I loved it. My brothers and father, when eating their pieces, all had similar whiplash responses as mine, but we were all laughing. My father loved to eat, entertain and be entertained. The pork and, hot as sweet hell mustard, was gone in seconds. “Really clears out your sinuses, huh?” our father barked with laughter.

Eating family style, he went on to order the usual gang of Americanized Chinese splendor: Chicken chow mein, pork fried rice, and sweet and sour prawns, which became my personal all time favorite. I didn’t know what a doggie bag was back then, and I didn’t learn that evening. I think we even devoured our fortunes in the cookies they brought us after the meal. That night in China was, indeed, a rich experience. Not remembering if he took us again as youngster, I just have to guess it was our trip to Spokane’s culinary Disneyland.

Returning home from college one year, keeping in shape with the standard mac and cheese, Top Ramen, and beer diet, I was assuming I’d arrive to a home cooked meal. Rather, I was greeted by three of mom and dad’s grandchildren at our door. They included one of my nephews and two of my nieces ranging from ages perhaps in the neighborhood of 7 to 11. (My oldest sister Mary’s three children.) It was a Friday night, and they were in no mood for tuna on toast. Dad came out to greet me, and quietly asked, “How about Chinese tonight?? Don’t tell these little shits. They think we’re going to McDonald’s.” I didn’t even have to answer. We drove to the exact same place he’d taken us years ago, and their look of fear made dad and I laugh. I used to keep my mouth shut proper back then, but they were a little more bold than I. One of them even yelled, “THIS ISN’T McDONALD’S!!!” Knowing their mother, there could have been some profanity amidst the panic.

Dad requested the same items, including the BBQ Pork with hot mustard. It was nice to be on the inside of that joke. They all winced in pain, made fun of, and laughed at one another. Dad and I each had a beer and enjoyed part of the food. With smiles all around the table, once again, there was no reason for a doggie bag.

Swing Like a Wild Man

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