Memories...

Was in the hospital yesterday visiting dad, who'd had chest "pressure" most of the day before. With his history of heart problems I was glad he got over there. Turns out it was stress related and not the heart. Good. But in the waiting room I got reminiscing. Here are a couple of my favorite childhood memories that may explain why I was sitting in the coronary unit on a fine Friday afternoon.

• My grandmother passed while I was a junior in college. We traveled to Pennsylvania to attend the memorial and funeral. It was a nice visit, full of emotion, my regret over having chosen to spend my time with TV rather than my beloved grandmother, eating, sharing, claiming property, etc. It was so nice, in fact, that I suggested we stay for another day. They listened! and we did. After a nice extended stay we left very early for our lengthy journey back to NC. We had no idea. The skies broke open, people started driving into each other, traffic stopped, and we sat. My dad stewed. We could all feel it. No one spoke, blinked, sighted, or shifted. Any wrong move would bring forth the wrath, and no one wanted to be the victim (as we all knew, the victim was on their own.) As we sat in traffic, watching the night arrive and the rain fall, I felt a drop on my head. Another and another and another fell from the end of a strap which ran from the roof-rack into the door frame so as to avoid scratching the paint. I was getting drenched, and there was no room to move. I knew I was the one who'd suggested staying longer, so I was not going to be the one to ask to pull over. I sat. I got wet. I didn't say a word. Finally, my mom timidly passed Wendy's embossed napkins over the seat to dry my head. No words were said. Dad fumed, I got wetter. Finally my mom yelled, "pull over!!" "There's no time, we're late as it is," "Would you look at your son?" My dad quickly turned to absorb and dispel this flimsy evidence which would fuel his fury and stubbornness against stopping. There sat his 23 year old first born son staring blankly into his lap with a mound of soaked napkins spread across his head. We pulled over.

• I remember sitting at our kitchen table one time eating tacos (a family fav. before I went vegetarian, and then gay.. thereby cutting out ALL versions of the taco. Now we eat vegi dogs.) As is typical of a 10 year old boy, I envied my dad's use of hot sauce . I saw fit to utilize this unknown red sauce on my own meal, and apparently without prejudice. After taking a bite into this crunchy ball of beefy flames I tearfully explained that it was too hot for me to eat. Turmoil ensued, of course, and I was told, in no uncertain terms, to eat that taco. I'd made it, I'd eat it. I couldn't do it, so my dad hastily grabbed the taco, made a comment about eating it himself (that's the first time I recall using the phrase, "knock yourself out," even if it was only in my head), and jammed it into his mouth. As everyone kind of stared at their plate to avoid the wrath, I watched. His eyes got pink, the milk was drunk, tears came. We had tears! And then the profanity... "This shit is hot!! Oh my god!!" It would be years before I learned the word vindication, but I understood the meaning at that moment.