As I am sure they were for most, vacations were something that my entire family very much looked forward to. Typically we would travel up to Maine because the rents were cheap, we’d be able to visit some old family friends, and it wasn’t crowded like other local vacation spots such as Cape Cod (and we certainly didn’t have the money to fly the family anywhere – my first experience on a plane was on my honeymoon). My Mom would start researching where we would stay around January or February. This one particular year she found the perfect spot.
“Dick- this sounds great. Lake Osapeke. Converted Boy Scout cabin – sleeps 12. Lake front property. Basketball/tennis courts. Animals welcome. Only $150/wk. It’s almost too good to be true!”
But true it was. My parent readily forwarded the down payment and off we would go to Lake Osapeke, Maine, home of the mosquito, and the northern most southern state in the union. The reservations were made, the down payment sent, and six months later the station wagon was packed, the roof rack filled, and 4 kids corralled one-by-one through the bathroom. The kids were packed as elaborately as the luggage: Keith, and Amy in the backseat, Beth, golden retrievers Candy and Missy, and I crammed into the very back of the wagon along with pillows, sleeping bags, and a plastic lawn & leaf bag full of towels and bathing suits, and other clothes that wrinkles were not a concern. The finest clown car in Ringling Brothers Circus had nothing on the Goodwins. Ready to go…
Well, almost.
My mother approached me with IT: The Dreaded Spoonful of Raspberry Jam.
“Open up Ralphie – before we go I want you to eat a spoonful of this delicious jelly.”
“Yuck – I’m not taking medicine.”
My mother knew that I would never swallow a pill for my car sickness; it made me gag. Mom had figured this out after spending a winter pondering why penicillin didn’t have the quick effect on me that it would the other kids. Not until months later in a spring cleaning did she move the bed to find all of the pills stashed under the mattress).
So, Mom would grind up a pill in jelly and try to convince me that I, and I alone, should eat a spoonful of jelly just prior to a long trip (she cleverly tried this ruse very year). I glanced down on the spoon with contempt, and could see the crushed white pill shining through the rubbery purple mountains of jam.
“There’s no medicine in this jelly. Just eat it so we can get going!”
“Uh uh,” I didn’t even like raspberry. Couldn’t she try putting it into a peanut butter sandwich?
“C’mon Ralphie, just take the pill! It’s hot!” yelled Keith from the backseat.
“Now, Ralph,” my mother intoned.
Despite the glowering resentment growing from the inside of the Ford, this time I was determined. “Na uh,”
“It’s not medicine!” my Mother clung to her ridiculous lie.
The others groaned there displeasure with my resistance until finally the law was laid down.
“Don’t make me come back there and give it to you.” Dad’s booming baritone threatened from behind the steering wheel.
I certainly didn’t want that. Certain of hurling, I swallowed the mouthful, gagged a couple of times to make my point and to make my sisters squirm. Mom slammed the back door shut, jumped into the front seat, and we made our departure from 7 Pine Grove Road.
By the time we hit the Pike the smell of Dad’s fresh coffee and the not-so-fresh odor of his 2nd Chesterfield Regular permeated the air as the wind rushed through the open windows. The first arguments of who was touching who had just begun to surface when Dad broke into his first song, “Lucille”. By the time we’d hit the halfway mark, all the Goodwin standards would be covered: The “Sound of Music” songs of “My Favorite Things”, “Climb Ev’ry Mountain”, “I Have Confidence”, “Do-Re-Mi”, “16 Going on 17” and “Edelweiss” (Mom’s favorite); Simon & Garfunkle’s “Sound of Silence”, “Feeling Groovy”, and “Keep the Customer Satisfied”; novelty songs “The Witch Doctor”, “The Rubber Tree Plant”, “…and they Swam Right Over the Dam”, “Ants go Marching”, “Sixpence” (featuring the kids yelling the always hilarious “Dad’s drunk!” instead of “Dead drunk”), “Dip, Dip and Swing them Back” (the song Keith learned at camp one year), and “Mares Eat Oats”; and of course “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” (my personal favorite, any time of year).
By the time we tired of singing it was time for Dad to step up with the Dad Greats; “Wagon Wheels”, “Without a Song”, and the show closing “Old Man River”, which Dad marveled us by shouting out “Tote that Barge! Lift that bail! You get a little drunk, and you land in jaaaaiiiiil”.
One of the glorious things about vacations is the traditions. Not only was it pretty much the one time of year we’d get to drink soda (multiple cases of Fanta would be purchased once we were up there), but a bathroom and coffee stop at Howard Johnson’s provided me the opportunity for Archie Comics and HoJo’s own salt water taffy (during the rest of the year I was much more sophisticated and read only serious comics like Spiderman, X-Men, and the Fantastic Four).
Finally, after all the songs were sung, the taffy eaten, and “How many more miles?” had been asked for the 573rd time, the weighed down Ford groaned onto our first Maine dirt road, which was the sign that we were almost there. The excitement was palatable. Arguments were forgotten and faces pressed against the windows to take in the view of pine trees as far as one could see broken up by the occasional shack or a 1950’s model car up on blocks. Then we passed the sign that told us we were really almost there – Jimmy’s Variety Store. Every lake region has a multitude of these – a small variety store that sold all the basics from milk and bread for the kids to night crawlers for the fish.
Now the anticipation was really building – we were almost there! As we approached we came across a clearing that was apparently once a tennis court, only there were many cracks in the cement and there weren’t any nets. No matter – likely those weren’t our courts, and, even if they were, we didn’t have any serious tennis players in the bunch – basketball was our game.
Those courts were next, again displaying the cracked cement with 3’ grass clumps protruding. The rusty backboards hung from the slightly leaning poles like monuments to a once great but past civilization. The nets were missing here as well, which would have been ok if only the rims were there.
“Those are probably the old courts kids – don’t worry. ‘sides that, you’ll probably be swimming more often than not,” Mom countered. She was right of course – we could play basketball all day long back in Medfield, but if you wanted to swim you had to go up to the Medfield Swim Pond, which was affectionately known as “Polliwog Pond” when it was open a couple of times a year.
Now the wagon pulled to a stop next to a large cabin with the number 7 hanging upside down by a rusty nail. The screened in porch had lost its battle to the mosquitos long ago, as the happily buzzed back and forth through the gaping holes. “Ok you kids you have to help us unpack before you go down to the lake” Mom yelled after us as we ran down to the lakeside.
“Cool – look at the float!” Amy shouted. Sure enough – 20 feet out there was a wooden float built of planks and empty gallon jugs that called to us. Keith had his sneakers off and was already wading in the water as I leaned up against a wooden post and took in the sight. Two weeks of swimming, eating junk food, swilling soda’s and generally living the life of Reilly. The shortest two weeks outside of Christmas had begun, and I was ready.
Amy stared at me from behind, mouth agape. Her brow crinkled as she stare.
“What?!?” I demanded, “What did I do?”
“Swim at your own risk!” Amy warned, pointing at me.
“Whaaat? Yeah, right, like I can’t swim”
“No, that’s not it – that sign your leaning on – it says “Swim at your own risk!”
Amy was not pointing at me, but at the sign that I was leaning against. When I stepped back, I saw the hand written words “Swim at your own risk” was painted on it. I quickly glanced at my brother wading in the water, sure to see an eruption of bubbles such as I had seen in a movie they showed us in science class the previous year of a cow entering an African river only to be disintegrated by piranha.
No bubbles. But from the look in Keith’s eyes, he’d seen the movie too. He jumped out of the water, glad to see his feet still intact. What we weren’t as happy to see was a small worm-like creature clinging to his ankle.
Leaches.
We ran back to the wagon and was handed luggage as we explained the sign to the folks and how Keith has nearly lost an appendage. They exchanged knowing glances like Dragnet’s Joe Friday as they loaded us luggage to trudge in.
As you entered the cabin you were immediately deposited into the kitchen. The first thing that was evident was wood. It was everywhere – wood floors, wooden walls, wooden counter tops. There was a large two basin sink and a 3’ foot portable gas stove sitting next to it on the counter top. The walls were around 8’ high, but the ceiling was open so that you could see the rafters extending high to the underside of the roof.
The rest of the cabin consisted basically of 5 rooms: The master bedroom (or, at one time, presumably the head counselor’s room), a bathroom consisting of sink and toilet (it had a fenced-in, cold water only, outside shower), a small living area with two couches, a wicker chair and a wood stove, and two large bedrooms with three set of bunk beds each. Because of me penchant for sleepwalking, I was not allowed an upper bunk, so I threw my pillow on the bed under the one that Keith had already crawled on to. The girls were set up in a similar scenario in the other bed room, although when the older kids arrive later in the week we were told it may be rethought.
“Joyce, did you remember to get the blue steam?” I heard Dad call out as I thumbed through a “Casper the Friendly Ghost” comic on my bed.
“No, I thought you got it.”
Dad appeared in the doorway. “Ralphie, it looks like your mother forgot the blue steam. Let’s drive up to Jimmy’s and you can run in and pick up a bucket.”
“Can I come too, Dad?” Keith beamed.
“Sure”
“What’s blue steam?” I quizzed. I was 11 years old and was pretty worldly, but this was new to me.
Dad frowned and looked at me disappointed, “It’s for heating an unheated cabin. You put it under the house, and at night it keeps it from getting too cold. It may seem warm now, but these Maine nights can get pretty darn chilly.”
As we boarded the station wagon, it occurred to me that maybe we should pick up a couple of buckets for our unheated bedrooms in the winter. On the short trip over, Keith seemed pretty excited, ok almost too excited for him, and gave me lots of advice on what to ask for when we got to the store.
“So remember Ralphie, ask for the blue steam. And just a regular bucket – if we don’t stick around we don’t want to waste it,” he instructed, “The blue steam.”
Ok, enough already. I’m not a moron. It’s not like I’m going to ask for the red steam. And what’s with Mr. Helpful all of the sudden? Since when does Keith take such a big interest in me, other then when he’s spitting chewed up ice cubes from a straw at me?
Jimmy’s was your typical Maine variety store. Everything you could possibly want, from night crawlers to Budweiser to pop-tarts, all crammed in a 8x10 room, crowded onto ancient shelves. Everything, that is, but blue steam.
After leading a fruitless search, I finally looked back to my eager brother, “What does this stuff look like anyway?”
“Ask the guy! Just ask the guy!” Keith demanded.
The ‘guy’, apparently Jimmy, looked to be about a zillion years old. Despite the hot August weather, he wore a red flannel shirt and overalls, with a dusty Red Sox cap covering his bald head.
“Blue steam?” Jimmy’s thick eyebrows perched. “What the heck is blue steam?”
“You know, the stuff you put under the floor to heat the house” I looked back to Keith for support, but he was suddenly gone around an aisle, inspecting the latest in Pet Rock technology.
“Son, I think somebody’s pulling your leg. I’ve run this store for 15 years, and ‘fore that I was a general contractor. I never heard of such a thing.” That’s when I heard the sound of muffled laughter from the Pet Rock department.
I’d been had.
“Crazy kids – I don’t know where they get such ideas,” Dad’s voice suddenly boomed from behind as his giant hands clutched my shoulders. “Hey, we just rented the old Boy Scout camp on Sander’s – the tennis & basketball courts look to be in pretty bad shape. Do you know if there is another set of them somewhere?”
“Nope, sorry mister. And you gotta be careful with the swimming over there too. Leaches, ya know.”
“Yes, we saw”
“The key is to take the row boat and swim off the dock – ain’t no leaches out there.”
“Did you get us the blue steam?” Mom smiled as we entered the kitchen. Apparently I just had fallen for the “initiation” that Dad loved to play on anyone gullible enough to fall for it, which included all of my older brothers and sisters before me, not to mention a half dozen of other various tagalongs.
“Very funny” I mused. But certainly everyone in the room felt it was. Personally, I couldn’t wait to try it on the next person who visited.
We were instructed to put our suitcases next to the bureaus but not to unpack, as Mom and Dad were going into town to not only pick up some groceries for the next couple of days but also look into another place to stay. We were also told that under no circumstances were we to go into that water, or at least until the old man had a chance to inspect the boat.. This wasn’t really necessary – I’m not sure if a killer piranha was worse than leaches. Besides that, I had pretty much decided that there probably were piranhas in there, considering how the rest of the place had turned out. My Mom thought the place was too good to be true, and she was right.
Propped up on my elbows and depressed, I thumbed through an “Archie & Jug Head” anthology comic when I heard Keith exclaim “Cool!” above me. Briefly forgetting our dilemma, I jumped off the bed to see what had excited him, and to my surprise saw him sitting on the top of the wall, legs dangling. As I scurried to the top bunk, Keith stood up and pulled himself into the rafters, and like a spider crawled across a beam to my sisters’ room next door. This was cool indeed, and I hurried after him.
Below us Amy looked up and laughed as I took a right and headed towards the bathroom, where Pooh sat on the toilet.
“RALPH! Get out of here!” Beth screamed as she attempted to cover herself without standing up, nearly slipping into the bowl. “Mo-omm! Ralphie saw me naked!”
“Mom’s not here, and I didn’t see you naked!” I didn’t, and I certainly didn’t want to, but the opportunity to tease my little sister was too much to pass up. But Amy yelled at me to get out of there and I scurried off, swinging off the rafter onto Amy’s bed next to her, giggling.
We spent the rest of the afternoon climbing in the rafters. Before long we heard the station wagon pull back into the driveway and Mom and Dad entered, arms full of groceries and arguing. Dad claimed that he would be getting 100% of that money back for this Goddamn place or he would ring that sonovabitch’s neck. Once they settled into the kitchen and started emptying the bags, we shouted out “Surprise” from high on our perch, which, it turned, wasn’t such a great idea to do to someone who had driven 6 hours to what turned out to be a dump. After a couple of choice words from Dad and Mom, we came down.
Saturday night is hot dogs and beans night in New England, and we were New Englanders. Amy and I set the table as Mom cooked it up on the portable gas stove when Keith came barreling in from outside.
“Well, your Mother and I have a place that we are going to go check out tomorrow, so don’t get too infatuated with this dump,” Dad warned. Dad liked to use words like “infatuated”, which, while I hadn’t heard it before, I could figure out what it meant from the context. Dad so loved “big” words that he routinely had a “word of the week” for us to learn and use. As a former “morning man” DJ, Dad loved the English language, and had often bragged to us about his degree in the “Spoken Word”. To this day I am not sure if that was some sort of certificate he had earned, but it sure seemed real enough to hear him talk about it.
The next day after Mom & Dad left to find a new place, and, after a quick inspection from Dad, we took the row boat out to the dock that floated about 25’ from shore. We crawled onto the floating construction and, after cautiously dangling out feet over the side, slowly discovered that the leaches did not indeed like deep water – they seemed to hang out in, at best, waist deep water. So, we spent most of late morning and early afternoon diving and swimming off the floating dock, then took the boat back in and spent the rest of the afternoon climbing exploring the rafters in the camp house.
So there was no basketball, no tennis, and plenty of leaches, but provided you knew the rules of camp this was a pretty cool camp after all.
Or at least until Mom and Dad returned from their search.
It was about 5:00 when they returned, Dad carrying a bag of groceries. “Ok you guys, we’ll eat dinner here tonight, pack up, and tomorrow morning we are heading out to a brand new vacation house!”
“Oh man!” I contended, “but this place is so cool.”
But, even after we explained all of the extra benefits that we’d discovered, my folks were unimpressed. They were not about to spend good money on a place that was so poorly misrepresented. We argued and argued to no avail – we would leave in the morning.
Heads hung, my siblings and I headed back to our rooms to start packing and perhaps take another swing through the ceilings. My folks were on edge and continued to argue about whose fault it was in choosing the camp while Mom prepared hamburgers on the grill.
Keith and I threw our dirty clothes into a bag while planning our strategy to escape one last time out to the row boat for an hour or so of diving (perhaps after our food “went down” after dinner so we didn’t die of cramps).
That’s when we heard the crash from the kitchen.
By the time we bolted around the corner, we found Mom and Dad standing on either side of fire jetting out of the wooden floor. Someone had knocked the gas grill off the counter, and flames now shot up 3 feet from the floorboards. Anger gone, Mom and Dad stood on either side of the 3’ wide conflagration, shouting out “Dick” and “Joyce”. Keith grabbed the empty cooler and bolted out the kitchen door headed for the water, followed by and empty handed Amy. Candy and Missy did the best they could, as they barked at and cowered from the inferno. I turned towards the road, and ran as fast as I could down the dirt road towards Jimmy’s variety to seek help (which was 2 mikes away), Beth following me and calling out for me to “wait!” and “slow down!”
It seemed as though I had run for miles and was down to a stumble when I heard the sound of tires on a dirt road behind me. I turned around to see the station wagon pull up beside me. “Get in,” Dad shouted through the window, “The fire’s out. Beth put it out with a blanket.
Beth? Two adults, two teenagers and a preteen, and the 8-year-old knew how to put out a gas fire. Apparently she doubled back when she couldn’t keep up and showed up in the kitchen with her sleeping bag draped in her arms.
After dinner we repacked the station wagon with everything but night’s necessities. Tomorrow we would leave my most memorable two-day vacation, the cabin with the neat rafters, the barren courts, the leech infested beach and the combustible floorboards.
It could only be anticlimactic from here.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Dad Versus the Balsam Fir
My Old Man was very simple in some respects; and one of those was in his tools. I think his basic philosophy was that if he couldn’t fix something with a hammer or a screwdriver, then he would ultimately “fix it good” with the hammer or the screwdriver.
Now, it wasn’t always an actual hammer or a screwdriver; if one or the other was missing, then a coin or a butter knife would fill in nicely for a screwdriver, or maybe the handle end of the screwdriver or any palm sized rock would become an adequate substitution for a hammer.
But in December of ’71 Dad took his annual battle in his war against the Christmas trees to a new level, and even employed new weapons to his arsenal.
It started on a rainy, gloomy Sunday. It had been decided a couple of weeks prior that we’d get the tree two Sundays before Christmas, and the day arrived under a shroud of heavy rain and fog. Dad suggested we put the selection off for a couple of days, but we knew that the car sales business filled up most of his nights and if we didn’t get the tree today then it would likely be next weekend before we got it, and by that time all of the good ones would be gone. So, after much whining by us kids Dad finally conceded, and packed Mom, Bethy, Amy and I into his ‘71 Ford Torino Squire station wagon for the Lion’s Club Christmas tree sale in the Super Duper parking lot.
Now normally this wasn’t a big part of the battle, but the weather made for a miserable experience, especially for Dad and I who had to drag the wet, sticky trees through the pouring rain for Mom, Amy & Beth’s approval. After several unsuccessful selections, Dad brought over a nearly 8-foot Balsam Fir. It was a beauty of a tree; full and round and tall and proud.
“Oh Dick! That tree’s way too big – we should pick something a little smaller,” Mom argued.
The man scowled and wiped the rain from his brow; he’d had enough of this torture. “It’s the best tree in the lot. And, I’ll have the guy cut off a piece of the trunk,” his eyes darted back and forth between the warm, dry, females, “C’mon, this one will do it – Ralpie and I are getting soaked.”
The edge in his voice told Mom that the selection had been made.
So it was decided; we got 3” cut off the trunk and the guy helped Dad tie the monstrosity to the roof rack of the car. We pulled into the driveway and beeped for Rick to come out and help us take it off the car, and dragged the tree under the sagging car port attached to the house. Mom hustled the kids in to get into some dry clothes while Rick and Dad planned the entry.
Now meanwhile the house was a cornucopia of Christmas sensations. Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters be-bopped through “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” while the smells of ginger bread wafted from the kitchen and mixed with comforting piquancy of the fire that glowed and popped in the fireplace in the back of the living room. The architect of the conflagration, my older brother Keith, was decorating the lighted wagon wheel that hung from the ceiling of the room with small pine branches and tiny Christmas lights and miniature red sleighs. Soon the traditional elf dolls would be added to the decoration, perfecting the scene.
This was Christmas Goodwin style. Nothing could break this moment.
I raced through the living room, stripping off the wet jacket and tossing it by the front door as I headed for my room by way of the warm kitchen. My sister Kathy lay across the couch, her head resting on her boyfriend Mark’s knee as she read. Mark is working on a plate of chocolate chip cookies, his curly hair drooping over his glasses. Neither look up at me as I pass; at this stage in my relationship with Mark I am nothing more than a pest. In the kitchen I find my sister April hard at work armed with rolling pin and apron, flour dotting her features as she beamed up at me, wax paper and raw gingerbread stretched across the counter top.
“Did you find a good tree?” she asked, licking a bit of the delicious concoction from a finger tip.
“Yeah it’s really really cool and really really big!” I exclaimed, “I gotta get changed so I can help with it.”
“Well don’t forget that once the cookies are cooled we will be decorating the gingerbread men!”
Like I could forget. April’s gingerbread men were like the fireworks at the Pop’s 4th of July concert or a “Shamrock Shake” at McDonald’s during St. Patrick’s Day; a singular item that crystallized a holiday, but without consuming it.
As I exploded from my room with my dry blue jeans and flannel shirt, I heard the sound of arguing from the living room. I skidded to a halt as I entered to find the Christmas tree lying in the center of the room like a giant beached whale, the red and green tree stand clinging crooked to the trunk, leaking its collected rain onto an old sheet that Mom had spread over the floor. Rick, Dad and Keith loomed over it, frustrated. Dad had removed his jacket, standing now in a clinging tee shirt, wet from the rain and perspiration.
Kathy glances up at Mark, then over at my Dad, and back again to her boyfriend. Without a word, she closes her book, and they both move to the dining room. Lying at their feet, our old Black Labrador Herman has the good instincts to follow suit.
Mom stood off to the side and in front of me, arms crossed. “I told you it was too big,”
Dad shot her a glance, and then over to Rick, “Guy, go out and get the axe from the shed”
“You’re not using that axe in my house!” objected Mom.
“Quiet Joyce – I am not going to break anything”
“No way. Rick, DO NOT get that axe.”
“Rick, GET THAT AXE.”
Now, of course Rick was in the classic “no win” situation. He knew Mom was right; swinging the axe in the house was a bad idea, but on the other hand he wasn’t eager to get that tree back out through the front door to do it outside. Besides, he heard Dad’s tone, and even as a 6’3” senior in high school, he knew better to cross him. Instead he stood confused, perhaps hoping to blend into the good-time Christmas vibes that were rapidly diminishing from the living room.
Keith quickly re-busied himself with his pine twigs as I slipped to the back of the room. I heard Amy and Beth wisely engage April in the kitchen in the business of cookie making.
Meanwhile, Bing sang of good will to man.
Mom and Dad stood glaring at each other for a moment, “Ok, fine. If you don’t want to use the axe I’ll get something else. There’s nothing wrong with the tree; I’ve just got to trim it a little bit.”
With that, he tossed on his overcoat and slammed through the door outside, muttering barely audible profanities.
Mom motioned at my brother, “Rick, go out and help your father. Make sure you two numskulls don’t wreck the living room.”
10 minutes later, after Nat King Cole had replaced Bing, Dad and Rick re-emerged with a mini-hack saw, a hammer, and the usual spool of fishing wire that was necessary for tree-installations at our house (how else do you keep the tree up when the cats climb what is an unsteady structure to begin with?). Dad barked instructions at Rick, imploring the teen to wrap both arms around middle of the tree and lift, exposing it’s underbelly to the crazed tannenbaum terrorist.
Cussing in a more than audible way, the old man trapped the end of the tree between his arm and his torso and began rapidly sawing another 6” from the bottom of the tree.
Now, anyone who has ever worked with a hacksaw already understands that it just isn’t built for a 4”, sap filled tree trunk. Especially a hacksaw that had already been abused in the past, cutting everything from metal to rubber to a woman’s high heel. The old man sweated heavily as he worked through the bark, then rubbing violently against the inner wood, with no more success than if he were employing a rainbow trout. He exclaimed another obscenity as he hurled the useless saw against the floor.
“Dick stop it! You are making a fool of yourself”
“Oh be quiet – I know what I am doing!”
“Yeah, you know that you are embarrassing yourself in front of your children!”
My brothers and I all looked away – no children here.
Dad turned to Rick and grunted that he’d be right back and headed out through the kitchen, rustling and slamming sounds following in his wake. Mom looked at Rick as if to implore him to fix the problem, Rick shrugged his shoulders while Keith headed outside to find some more twigs for the wagon wheel.
A minute later Dad stormed back in the room with IT:
The electric carving knife.
“Tell me you are not thinking about using that on the tree,” Mom objected.
“This will do fine,” Dad insisted as he plugged the electronic culinary device into the outlet, “You’ll see.”
“Oh Dick – you’ll ruin i-”
But before Mom could finish her complaint the motor buzzed on and the dual blades began cutting their way into the wood. Rick couldn’t help it – a wide smile crept across his face; the humor of the situation causing him to betray the concerned face he had employed since the escapade started. He briefly made eye contact with Mom, who wasn’t smiling, and looked away with a frown. Meanwhile, the device labored and smoked as the old man worked it around the base of the tree, pausing only to pry sap from the double blade.
Surprisingly, Dad was making progress, alternating between the electric device and the overmatched hacksaw. Sweat poured freely from his pores as he wrestled through the last quarter of the wood, preparing himself to remove another 8” of tree from the holiday symbol. Flashing a satisfied grin at my mother, he broke the rest of the trunk off this his beefy hand and extended it to her, “See? Easy.”
My Mother grunted and turned away towards the kitchen, “…and just what are you going to cut the roast with today? A chain saw?”
Dad ignored her as he and Rick struggled to stand the tree upright – success! We had 4-5 inches to spare.
“Ralphie – get over here and get the stand under the tree while your brother and I get it upright. Ok, now move it over… perfect!”
We jointly struggled for a few minutes, maneuvering the tree back and forth as we tried to force it into the stand. The old man directed me to stand up as he took my place on the floor, lying on his side, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, muttering more complaints and expletives. Finally, Dad’s realization was complete; he’d removed too much; now the bottom branches were preventing what was left of the stump to enter the stand.
So, Dad broke off a couple of bottom branches, but still no luck; without removing a major level of the very full bottom branches, there was no way to get the tree into the stand. The big man laid on his side for a few minutes, soaking in the situation. The tree wasn’t the only thing you could cut in the room; the tension was palatable.
Suddenly, with an “ah ha!,” the Old Man scrambled to his feet and forced the dissected tree stump into my oldest sibling’s hand.
“Big Guy, hold both ends of this tree part against the TV so I can cut it in half. Ralphie – run out to the shed and get me a couple of nails.”
I came back into the house just as the electric knife bounced against the edge of the television set as it cut through the remainder of the stump. The old man grinned madly as he re-took his place on the floor, asked for a nail, and proceeded to drive it though the stump back into the tree. The stump split a couple of times, but by the time he was done Dad had managed to nail three individual pieces of the split stump back on to the tree; just enough to get the trunk deep enough into the tree stand. Keith was summoned back into the room and the four of us carefully stood the shaky tree into its stand.
The tree fell over only once more that day, but we were able to get the lights strung and garland and ornaments hung and fishing line affixed, and as darkness ensued the tree glimmered brightly, cooling tempers and adding to the growing festive aura.
As for the meal that Sunday? Well, I’ve had mesquite grilled New York Strip in Dallas, Beef Wellington with Dijon Greens in Chicago, and Peppercorn Porterhouse in New York. I’ve eaten at some of the finest restaurants up and down the east coast, but I’ll always maintain that the pot roast with a hint of balsam fir my family enjoyed that day at 7 Pine Grove Road as the most memorable meal I’ve ever had.
Now, it wasn’t always an actual hammer or a screwdriver; if one or the other was missing, then a coin or a butter knife would fill in nicely for a screwdriver, or maybe the handle end of the screwdriver or any palm sized rock would become an adequate substitution for a hammer.
But in December of ’71 Dad took his annual battle in his war against the Christmas trees to a new level, and even employed new weapons to his arsenal.
It started on a rainy, gloomy Sunday. It had been decided a couple of weeks prior that we’d get the tree two Sundays before Christmas, and the day arrived under a shroud of heavy rain and fog. Dad suggested we put the selection off for a couple of days, but we knew that the car sales business filled up most of his nights and if we didn’t get the tree today then it would likely be next weekend before we got it, and by that time all of the good ones would be gone. So, after much whining by us kids Dad finally conceded, and packed Mom, Bethy, Amy and I into his ‘71 Ford Torino Squire station wagon for the Lion’s Club Christmas tree sale in the Super Duper parking lot.
Now normally this wasn’t a big part of the battle, but the weather made for a miserable experience, especially for Dad and I who had to drag the wet, sticky trees through the pouring rain for Mom, Amy & Beth’s approval. After several unsuccessful selections, Dad brought over a nearly 8-foot Balsam Fir. It was a beauty of a tree; full and round and tall and proud.
“Oh Dick! That tree’s way too big – we should pick something a little smaller,” Mom argued.
The man scowled and wiped the rain from his brow; he’d had enough of this torture. “It’s the best tree in the lot. And, I’ll have the guy cut off a piece of the trunk,” his eyes darted back and forth between the warm, dry, females, “C’mon, this one will do it – Ralpie and I are getting soaked.”
The edge in his voice told Mom that the selection had been made.
So it was decided; we got 3” cut off the trunk and the guy helped Dad tie the monstrosity to the roof rack of the car. We pulled into the driveway and beeped for Rick to come out and help us take it off the car, and dragged the tree under the sagging car port attached to the house. Mom hustled the kids in to get into some dry clothes while Rick and Dad planned the entry.
Now meanwhile the house was a cornucopia of Christmas sensations. Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters be-bopped through “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” while the smells of ginger bread wafted from the kitchen and mixed with comforting piquancy of the fire that glowed and popped in the fireplace in the back of the living room. The architect of the conflagration, my older brother Keith, was decorating the lighted wagon wheel that hung from the ceiling of the room with small pine branches and tiny Christmas lights and miniature red sleighs. Soon the traditional elf dolls would be added to the decoration, perfecting the scene.
This was Christmas Goodwin style. Nothing could break this moment.
I raced through the living room, stripping off the wet jacket and tossing it by the front door as I headed for my room by way of the warm kitchen. My sister Kathy lay across the couch, her head resting on her boyfriend Mark’s knee as she read. Mark is working on a plate of chocolate chip cookies, his curly hair drooping over his glasses. Neither look up at me as I pass; at this stage in my relationship with Mark I am nothing more than a pest. In the kitchen I find my sister April hard at work armed with rolling pin and apron, flour dotting her features as she beamed up at me, wax paper and raw gingerbread stretched across the counter top.
“Did you find a good tree?” she asked, licking a bit of the delicious concoction from a finger tip.
“Yeah it’s really really cool and really really big!” I exclaimed, “I gotta get changed so I can help with it.”
“Well don’t forget that once the cookies are cooled we will be decorating the gingerbread men!”
Like I could forget. April’s gingerbread men were like the fireworks at the Pop’s 4th of July concert or a “Shamrock Shake” at McDonald’s during St. Patrick’s Day; a singular item that crystallized a holiday, but without consuming it.
As I exploded from my room with my dry blue jeans and flannel shirt, I heard the sound of arguing from the living room. I skidded to a halt as I entered to find the Christmas tree lying in the center of the room like a giant beached whale, the red and green tree stand clinging crooked to the trunk, leaking its collected rain onto an old sheet that Mom had spread over the floor. Rick, Dad and Keith loomed over it, frustrated. Dad had removed his jacket, standing now in a clinging tee shirt, wet from the rain and perspiration.
Kathy glances up at Mark, then over at my Dad, and back again to her boyfriend. Without a word, she closes her book, and they both move to the dining room. Lying at their feet, our old Black Labrador Herman has the good instincts to follow suit.
Mom stood off to the side and in front of me, arms crossed. “I told you it was too big,”
Dad shot her a glance, and then over to Rick, “Guy, go out and get the axe from the shed”
“You’re not using that axe in my house!” objected Mom.
“Quiet Joyce – I am not going to break anything”
“No way. Rick, DO NOT get that axe.”
“Rick, GET THAT AXE.”
Now, of course Rick was in the classic “no win” situation. He knew Mom was right; swinging the axe in the house was a bad idea, but on the other hand he wasn’t eager to get that tree back out through the front door to do it outside. Besides, he heard Dad’s tone, and even as a 6’3” senior in high school, he knew better to cross him. Instead he stood confused, perhaps hoping to blend into the good-time Christmas vibes that were rapidly diminishing from the living room.
Keith quickly re-busied himself with his pine twigs as I slipped to the back of the room. I heard Amy and Beth wisely engage April in the kitchen in the business of cookie making.
Meanwhile, Bing sang of good will to man.
Mom and Dad stood glaring at each other for a moment, “Ok, fine. If you don’t want to use the axe I’ll get something else. There’s nothing wrong with the tree; I’ve just got to trim it a little bit.”
With that, he tossed on his overcoat and slammed through the door outside, muttering barely audible profanities.
Mom motioned at my brother, “Rick, go out and help your father. Make sure you two numskulls don’t wreck the living room.”
10 minutes later, after Nat King Cole had replaced Bing, Dad and Rick re-emerged with a mini-hack saw, a hammer, and the usual spool of fishing wire that was necessary for tree-installations at our house (how else do you keep the tree up when the cats climb what is an unsteady structure to begin with?). Dad barked instructions at Rick, imploring the teen to wrap both arms around middle of the tree and lift, exposing it’s underbelly to the crazed tannenbaum terrorist.
Cussing in a more than audible way, the old man trapped the end of the tree between his arm and his torso and began rapidly sawing another 6” from the bottom of the tree.
Now, anyone who has ever worked with a hacksaw already understands that it just isn’t built for a 4”, sap filled tree trunk. Especially a hacksaw that had already been abused in the past, cutting everything from metal to rubber to a woman’s high heel. The old man sweated heavily as he worked through the bark, then rubbing violently against the inner wood, with no more success than if he were employing a rainbow trout. He exclaimed another obscenity as he hurled the useless saw against the floor.
“Dick stop it! You are making a fool of yourself”
“Oh be quiet – I know what I am doing!”
“Yeah, you know that you are embarrassing yourself in front of your children!”
My brothers and I all looked away – no children here.
Dad turned to Rick and grunted that he’d be right back and headed out through the kitchen, rustling and slamming sounds following in his wake. Mom looked at Rick as if to implore him to fix the problem, Rick shrugged his shoulders while Keith headed outside to find some more twigs for the wagon wheel.
A minute later Dad stormed back in the room with IT:
The electric carving knife.
“Tell me you are not thinking about using that on the tree,” Mom objected.
“This will do fine,” Dad insisted as he plugged the electronic culinary device into the outlet, “You’ll see.”
“Oh Dick – you’ll ruin i-”
But before Mom could finish her complaint the motor buzzed on and the dual blades began cutting their way into the wood. Rick couldn’t help it – a wide smile crept across his face; the humor of the situation causing him to betray the concerned face he had employed since the escapade started. He briefly made eye contact with Mom, who wasn’t smiling, and looked away with a frown. Meanwhile, the device labored and smoked as the old man worked it around the base of the tree, pausing only to pry sap from the double blade.
Surprisingly, Dad was making progress, alternating between the electric device and the overmatched hacksaw. Sweat poured freely from his pores as he wrestled through the last quarter of the wood, preparing himself to remove another 8” of tree from the holiday symbol. Flashing a satisfied grin at my mother, he broke the rest of the trunk off this his beefy hand and extended it to her, “See? Easy.”
My Mother grunted and turned away towards the kitchen, “…and just what are you going to cut the roast with today? A chain saw?”
Dad ignored her as he and Rick struggled to stand the tree upright – success! We had 4-5 inches to spare.
“Ralphie – get over here and get the stand under the tree while your brother and I get it upright. Ok, now move it over… perfect!”
We jointly struggled for a few minutes, maneuvering the tree back and forth as we tried to force it into the stand. The old man directed me to stand up as he took my place on the floor, lying on his side, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, muttering more complaints and expletives. Finally, Dad’s realization was complete; he’d removed too much; now the bottom branches were preventing what was left of the stump to enter the stand.
So, Dad broke off a couple of bottom branches, but still no luck; without removing a major level of the very full bottom branches, there was no way to get the tree into the stand. The big man laid on his side for a few minutes, soaking in the situation. The tree wasn’t the only thing you could cut in the room; the tension was palatable.
Suddenly, with an “ah ha!,” the Old Man scrambled to his feet and forced the dissected tree stump into my oldest sibling’s hand.
“Big Guy, hold both ends of this tree part against the TV so I can cut it in half. Ralphie – run out to the shed and get me a couple of nails.”
I came back into the house just as the electric knife bounced against the edge of the television set as it cut through the remainder of the stump. The old man grinned madly as he re-took his place on the floor, asked for a nail, and proceeded to drive it though the stump back into the tree. The stump split a couple of times, but by the time he was done Dad had managed to nail three individual pieces of the split stump back on to the tree; just enough to get the trunk deep enough into the tree stand. Keith was summoned back into the room and the four of us carefully stood the shaky tree into its stand.
The tree fell over only once more that day, but we were able to get the lights strung and garland and ornaments hung and fishing line affixed, and as darkness ensued the tree glimmered brightly, cooling tempers and adding to the growing festive aura.
As for the meal that Sunday? Well, I’ve had mesquite grilled New York Strip in Dallas, Beef Wellington with Dijon Greens in Chicago, and Peppercorn Porterhouse in New York. I’ve eaten at some of the finest restaurants up and down the east coast, but I’ll always maintain that the pot roast with a hint of balsam fir my family enjoyed that day at 7 Pine Grove Road as the most memorable meal I’ve ever had.
My First Job
I’ve always hated lobster.
Not that it mattered in the big picture, but not only did I not like the taste of the cooked ones, but the live ones gave me the heebie jeebies; what with their little cockroach like bodies, hundreds of little tentacles sticking out this way and that, those big mustache thingies blooming out of whatever it was that they considered a face, those lifeless bits of coal posing as eyes looming overhead. And then there are those big flat claws with their serrated interior edges, just waiting to break off a finger and bring it back to the deep with them.
But when Steve Papp told me about the position opening at Pat Garbone’s Italian Restaurant I jumped at and landed the dishwasher job. Outside of a paper route and a summer job doing construction in the city with our church, this was my first real employment, and my excitement was only overshadowed by my anxiety.
I was like Mary Tyler Moore. A 16-year-old, tall, skinny, acne-dotted male version to be sure, but like Mary Tyler Moore nonetheless. I would have to make it on my own. Neither my Mom nor the church would be there to bail me out if I screwed up.
It was a balmy early June Friday afternoon at 4:30 when I stepped out of my bedroom nattily dressed in my blue jeans and Bruce Springsteen concert tee shirt, ready for the big night. From her stove front location Mom stopped me, looking from head to toe for a quick final inspection, and reminded me to be respectful to my new boss, and to work hard.
A half hour later I was in the kitchen meeting the new boss and head chef, Joey Scarbosi. Joey had that whole Steve Buscemi-look going for him, if one considers that to be a look that would “go” for oneself. He was a weasily-looking fellow of about 5’5”, greasy, stringy black hair and mustache, and his bugged out eyes were underlined by the numerous dark circles under them. He nervously wiped his hands on his apron as he sized me up. Finally he extended a hand to me and said, “Nice to meet you, Stretch!”
With this the other cook waved happily from behind the grill. Apparently once Joey had labeled you with a nickname then you were part of the team.
Joey brought me over to my dishwashing station whereupon I was introduced to the other dishwasher, Meatball, or, for short, Meat. He was everything I wasn’t; short, round, and blond. Meat eagerly shook my hand, and as Joey instructed him to show me the ropes, he leaned in and whispered, “Bill Livett, nice to meet ya.”
“Joey seems like a good guy huh, not a bad boss.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty cool – its Pat Carbone you gotta watch out for. When she comes in here, just keep your eyes down and let Joey do the talking. You’ll be allright so’long as she doesn’t notice you.”
And with that dire warning we were off to the orientation. There really wasn’t much to it; within a half hour, I learned how to load the dish rack and push it into the machine, how to clean the big lobster pots at the end of the night, the subtleties of scouring melted cheese from the onion soup bowls, where the dumpster was and how frequently I should be checking trash barrels, and, finally, the proper method for using the mop.
As I donned my first uniform (a graying apron) and eagerly stepped towards the dish washing station, Bill summoned me to the large walk in freezer. As I entered he was carrying a large silver pot overflowing with a tangle of orange tentacles, claws and eye-balls. He smiled up to me and said, “Oh, and I nearly forgot - of course when Joey needs ‘em you and I get him the lobsters!”
I looked down on the floor of the walk-in and there, smack in the middle between the tubs of mozzarella cheese and the frozen vegetables, lay a wooden crate full of the vilest collection of crustaceans I ever had the displeasure to lay two eyes upon. I looked down at them, full of a mixture of loathing, disgust, and outright terror. They looked back at me with contempt with their cold eyes; all heaped on top of each other; their little leg thingies moving in various directions, their rubber-bandless claws slowly opening and closing, their little eyeballs unblinking, their antennae alert and probing, as if searching the room for fear. I couldn’t be sure but I thought I saw the biggest and ugliest one, the one who currently maintained the position of king of the crawling hill, was smiling at me menacingly, if such a creature is capable of doing so.
“You ok Stretch?”
I stared back at the arthropods; fear slowly washing over my body. I was too stunned to speak. How could this particular facet of the job be worthy of almost forgetting? What was next? “Oh, and you’ll also be responsible for cleaning up the occasional radio-active spill”?
“Stretch?”
I looked up at Bill. Oh, right, I was Stretch.
“Uh, yeah, sure – ok.”
Joey didn’t need me to get them now; Bill just got ‘em, right? So for now I could push it out of my mind and concentrate on the more pleasurable aspects of the new job, such as scrubbing pots and emptying stinking trash cans. Good luck, a positive mental attitude, and perhaps a little prayer would no doubt encourage tonight’s patrons to frequent the veal and the scrod and allow me to leave the armored denizens of the walk-in in peace.
But alas, it was not to be. Two hours later, Joey banged the empty silver pot Bill had previously collected the lobsters on the metal counter in front of him, “Stretch – 10 lobstahs, stat!”
I looked about nervously, “Um yeah – I’ll get Meat…”
The little chef frowned at me, “Meat is doin’ a trash run Stretch. I need them lobstahs now.”
I opened my mouth to protest but thought of Mom’s earlier advice on respecting management, and instead trudged around my station and took the silver pot from the cook’s outstretched hand.
I turned towards the walk-in and began the long, lonely trek. This must be what it was like for death row inmates as they prepare for the end, I mused. My mind raced as I pictured the scene; surely they would get loose and have me cornered by the frozen meatballs; the big lobster boss silently relaying crustaceous commands by antennae as his minions hung from various parts of my body. By the time had I pulled open the handle, religion had overtaken me. Please God, pleeeease. I’ll do anything; just not the lobster. Please!
I stood over the crate; the big silver pot serving as the only buffer between me and the clanking sea of barbs, grapplers and pincers that awaited me. I attempted to reach behind the biggest one, but one of his brethren had his back (or his tail, or whatever they called them) and chased me away with its jagged, can opener-like appendage.
Please Lord Jesus Christ. Puhleeze. C’mon, I’m a good guy, aren’t I? Anything…
It was then that I heard the dining room door bang open behind me, and there she stood: the meanest, nastiest, not to mention fattest woman I had ever seen: Ol’ Pat Garbone herself. I’d not seen her prior; but based on Bill’s warning, I knew instantly it was the restaurant owner. She stormed into the kitchen, a slab of lasagna clutched in her porky first; sauce sputtering from her lips as she barked.
“Joey I need a dishwasher now!”
She was the only person Joey was afraid of, it seemed. “Uh, ok Patty; just one second – both of the boys are doing something right this moment. Can it wait just a min-”
She waved him off abruptly with her open hand as she crammed the remaining clump of lasagna into her mouth. “No time- you! Pimples!”
My heart leapt as I realized that I was Pimples! I was saved, rescued by the one woman, no, the one force of nature that Joey wouldn’t dare cross. Whatever task she had for me, surely it was a better fate. I shot the lobsters a victorious glance – they would not be dining on my fingers tonight! I turned to my savior with gratitude seeping from my pores – she wasn’t so bad after all, “Yes ma’am. What would you like me to do?”
“Some kid just puked up chicken alfredo all over the rug at the front desk; grab a bucket and a sponge and get out there!”
I could swear I heard a craggy snicker from the wooden crate behind me.
Over the 30-some odd years since that evening I’ve held a variety of positions and learned many life lessons professionally and personally along the way. I've learned how to treat people, how to make friends, give and earn respect, and generally how to identify what the "right thing" is and when to do it. But the lesson I learned that night about wishing away your responsibilities was among the most powerful I can recall.
Perhaps matched only by the one Pat Garbone learned about the unbridled vigor of a teenager’s gag reflex.
Not that it mattered in the big picture, but not only did I not like the taste of the cooked ones, but the live ones gave me the heebie jeebies; what with their little cockroach like bodies, hundreds of little tentacles sticking out this way and that, those big mustache thingies blooming out of whatever it was that they considered a face, those lifeless bits of coal posing as eyes looming overhead. And then there are those big flat claws with their serrated interior edges, just waiting to break off a finger and bring it back to the deep with them.
But when Steve Papp told me about the position opening at Pat Garbone’s Italian Restaurant I jumped at and landed the dishwasher job. Outside of a paper route and a summer job doing construction in the city with our church, this was my first real employment, and my excitement was only overshadowed by my anxiety.
I was like Mary Tyler Moore. A 16-year-old, tall, skinny, acne-dotted male version to be sure, but like Mary Tyler Moore nonetheless. I would have to make it on my own. Neither my Mom nor the church would be there to bail me out if I screwed up.
It was a balmy early June Friday afternoon at 4:30 when I stepped out of my bedroom nattily dressed in my blue jeans and Bruce Springsteen concert tee shirt, ready for the big night. From her stove front location Mom stopped me, looking from head to toe for a quick final inspection, and reminded me to be respectful to my new boss, and to work hard.
A half hour later I was in the kitchen meeting the new boss and head chef, Joey Scarbosi. Joey had that whole Steve Buscemi-look going for him, if one considers that to be a look that would “go” for oneself. He was a weasily-looking fellow of about 5’5”, greasy, stringy black hair and mustache, and his bugged out eyes were underlined by the numerous dark circles under them. He nervously wiped his hands on his apron as he sized me up. Finally he extended a hand to me and said, “Nice to meet you, Stretch!”
With this the other cook waved happily from behind the grill. Apparently once Joey had labeled you with a nickname then you were part of the team.
Joey brought me over to my dishwashing station whereupon I was introduced to the other dishwasher, Meatball, or, for short, Meat. He was everything I wasn’t; short, round, and blond. Meat eagerly shook my hand, and as Joey instructed him to show me the ropes, he leaned in and whispered, “Bill Livett, nice to meet ya.”
“Joey seems like a good guy huh, not a bad boss.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty cool – its Pat Carbone you gotta watch out for. When she comes in here, just keep your eyes down and let Joey do the talking. You’ll be allright so’long as she doesn’t notice you.”
And with that dire warning we were off to the orientation. There really wasn’t much to it; within a half hour, I learned how to load the dish rack and push it into the machine, how to clean the big lobster pots at the end of the night, the subtleties of scouring melted cheese from the onion soup bowls, where the dumpster was and how frequently I should be checking trash barrels, and, finally, the proper method for using the mop.
As I donned my first uniform (a graying apron) and eagerly stepped towards the dish washing station, Bill summoned me to the large walk in freezer. As I entered he was carrying a large silver pot overflowing with a tangle of orange tentacles, claws and eye-balls. He smiled up to me and said, “Oh, and I nearly forgot - of course when Joey needs ‘em you and I get him the lobsters!”
I looked down on the floor of the walk-in and there, smack in the middle between the tubs of mozzarella cheese and the frozen vegetables, lay a wooden crate full of the vilest collection of crustaceans I ever had the displeasure to lay two eyes upon. I looked down at them, full of a mixture of loathing, disgust, and outright terror. They looked back at me with contempt with their cold eyes; all heaped on top of each other; their little leg thingies moving in various directions, their rubber-bandless claws slowly opening and closing, their little eyeballs unblinking, their antennae alert and probing, as if searching the room for fear. I couldn’t be sure but I thought I saw the biggest and ugliest one, the one who currently maintained the position of king of the crawling hill, was smiling at me menacingly, if such a creature is capable of doing so.
“You ok Stretch?”
I stared back at the arthropods; fear slowly washing over my body. I was too stunned to speak. How could this particular facet of the job be worthy of almost forgetting? What was next? “Oh, and you’ll also be responsible for cleaning up the occasional radio-active spill”?
“Stretch?”
I looked up at Bill. Oh, right, I was Stretch.
“Uh, yeah, sure – ok.”
Joey didn’t need me to get them now; Bill just got ‘em, right? So for now I could push it out of my mind and concentrate on the more pleasurable aspects of the new job, such as scrubbing pots and emptying stinking trash cans. Good luck, a positive mental attitude, and perhaps a little prayer would no doubt encourage tonight’s patrons to frequent the veal and the scrod and allow me to leave the armored denizens of the walk-in in peace.
But alas, it was not to be. Two hours later, Joey banged the empty silver pot Bill had previously collected the lobsters on the metal counter in front of him, “Stretch – 10 lobstahs, stat!”
I looked about nervously, “Um yeah – I’ll get Meat…”
The little chef frowned at me, “Meat is doin’ a trash run Stretch. I need them lobstahs now.”
I opened my mouth to protest but thought of Mom’s earlier advice on respecting management, and instead trudged around my station and took the silver pot from the cook’s outstretched hand.
I turned towards the walk-in and began the long, lonely trek. This must be what it was like for death row inmates as they prepare for the end, I mused. My mind raced as I pictured the scene; surely they would get loose and have me cornered by the frozen meatballs; the big lobster boss silently relaying crustaceous commands by antennae as his minions hung from various parts of my body. By the time had I pulled open the handle, religion had overtaken me. Please God, pleeeease. I’ll do anything; just not the lobster. Please!
I stood over the crate; the big silver pot serving as the only buffer between me and the clanking sea of barbs, grapplers and pincers that awaited me. I attempted to reach behind the biggest one, but one of his brethren had his back (or his tail, or whatever they called them) and chased me away with its jagged, can opener-like appendage.
Please Lord Jesus Christ. Puhleeze. C’mon, I’m a good guy, aren’t I? Anything…
It was then that I heard the dining room door bang open behind me, and there she stood: the meanest, nastiest, not to mention fattest woman I had ever seen: Ol’ Pat Garbone herself. I’d not seen her prior; but based on Bill’s warning, I knew instantly it was the restaurant owner. She stormed into the kitchen, a slab of lasagna clutched in her porky first; sauce sputtering from her lips as she barked.
“Joey I need a dishwasher now!”
She was the only person Joey was afraid of, it seemed. “Uh, ok Patty; just one second – both of the boys are doing something right this moment. Can it wait just a min-”
She waved him off abruptly with her open hand as she crammed the remaining clump of lasagna into her mouth. “No time- you! Pimples!”
My heart leapt as I realized that I was Pimples! I was saved, rescued by the one woman, no, the one force of nature that Joey wouldn’t dare cross. Whatever task she had for me, surely it was a better fate. I shot the lobsters a victorious glance – they would not be dining on my fingers tonight! I turned to my savior with gratitude seeping from my pores – she wasn’t so bad after all, “Yes ma’am. What would you like me to do?”
“Some kid just puked up chicken alfredo all over the rug at the front desk; grab a bucket and a sponge and get out there!”
I could swear I heard a craggy snicker from the wooden crate behind me.
Over the 30-some odd years since that evening I’ve held a variety of positions and learned many life lessons professionally and personally along the way. I've learned how to treat people, how to make friends, give and earn respect, and generally how to identify what the "right thing" is and when to do it. But the lesson I learned that night about wishing away your responsibilities was among the most powerful I can recall.
Perhaps matched only by the one Pat Garbone learned about the unbridled vigor of a teenager’s gag reflex.
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