My Dad Knew Stuff

My Dad Knew Stuff

 My daughter was an extra sensitive, fussy baby, probably because she was our first.  She was very difficult to put to bed, always wanting one more story even when she was too small to even know what the story was about.

When I thought she was asleep, I would silently creep out of her room.  As soon as I pulled the door almost closed, she would burst into tears.  We were told just let her cry, she will tire and fall off to sleep.  My limit was about 73 minutes before I would give up and go in to comfort her…she never tired and fell off to sleep.  Experts!

For any new parents out there, this only lasted for about two years, so hang in there.

Anyway.

When Mary Beth was maybe 7 months old we were visiting my parents on The Eastern Shore, Maryland.  We went out sight-seeing with my dad and the baby was sound asleep as babies tend to be when riding in the car.

When we parked to check out a Chesapeake Bay view, Mary Beth woke up, and she woke up cranky.  It was nap time and she had only slept about a half hour so we knew she was still tired.

My wife rocked and rocked her.  Still she cried.  She tried to breast feed her.  Not working.  She tried singing.  Still crying. 

I took over. I played peek-a-boo and only got boo-hoo.  I tried bouncing and that only made the crying worse.  Holding tight…nothing, funny faces…made things worse.  After about 20 minutes of 7 month old howling my wife and I were at our wits end.

“Hand her to me.” My pop said.

“It won’t do any good dad, she just keeps crying.”

“Give me a shot, I know stuff.”

“Here, take her, but it won’t do any good.”

My dad put Mary Beth on his lap in a sitting position, and proceeded to rub her toes and the arch of her foot.  She stopped crying instantly. Her eyes started to droop; in less than three minutes she was sound asleep.

“How the Hell! What did you do?”

“Like I said; I know stuff.”

I have fathered three other infants, all who had similar fits of uncontrollable crying.  In each case, I would put the child sitting upon my lap and massage their foot and toes.  At no time did this technique ever work for me.

THIS IS JEOPARDY

     THIS      IS      JEOPARDY

Why do people sometimes gravitate towards TV personalities that annoy them? 

Howard Cosell, the third wheel on the original “Monday Night Football,” was famous for being despised by football fans.  Many people claimed to turn down the sound on Monday Night Football and listen to the radio feed instead of Howard.  They claimed that, but they didn’t.  Oh lots of people tried, but they ended up listening to the train wreck that was Howard Cosell.

Not that Cosell was a fool, far from it.  He knew exactly what he was doing when he would make a stupid football comment in his unforgettable staccato announcing style.

“Giff, there are on-ly five min-utes left.  They have got to go for the on-sides kick right here.  Don’t you agree?”

Every TV fan screamed out at the same time, “NO HOWARD!  You idiot, there is still plenty of time.”

Howard knew there was plenty of time; he also knew exactly what he was doing.

I hated Howard Cosell, but I sure tuned in to his broadcasts and when he left the sports world, I missed him.

Similar to Howard Cosell is the it-seems-like-forever host of the TV show Jeopardy, Alex Trebek.  This is the absurd quiz show where you must word your answer in the form of a question. 

I hate this smug annoying know-it-all. 

I hate when he over pronounces foreign words or names and expects contestants to question the obscure answers...(see what I did there?) 

“This man was the first to fly over the English Channel with a chair held up by party balloons.”

When no one knows the answer he divulges it with his annoying exact French pronunciation in a way that assumes the contestants all knew it but the answer just slipped their mind.

“And the answer of course is…Maurice Ponpernpfoontermon…  Maurice Ponpernpfoontermon.  The key to that was ‘party balloon.’ Ponpernpfoontermon which you all must know is French slang for party balloon.”

Sometimes a contestant gets excited and does not answer in the correct format.

“This man was the first elected leader of the new United States.”

“GEORGE WASHINGTON”

“Oh, I’m sorry, that needs to be ‘Who was George Washington.”

Contestants get about 2 seconds to hit a buzzer and answer these questions.  Often they have to guess.

“This humorist was known for his rope tricks.”

“Oh...oh, darn, um.”  (The dude hit his buzzer too soon and has to blurt out a guess.) “Mark Twain!”

“Heh, heh, Oh I’m sorry, I thought everyone would know Will Rodgers…Will Rodgers.  Mark Twain was the author from Missouri.  His real name of course was Samuel Clemons.  It was Will Rodgers who did rope tricks.”

Meanwhile, I’m watching at home yelling,

“Enough already you dick!  He was guessing.  We all know about Mark Twain you pompous jerk!”

Or

“Are you kidding, no one has ever heard of Maurice Ponpernpfoontermon and neither had you until you read the script.”

Or

“Fuck that, you prick!  He got the answer…George Washington!  WHO was George Washington is asinine!”

I absolutely hate Alex Trebek, and yet I always watch the show.

I think maybe he knows exactly what he is doing.

“THOSE KIDS DON’T HAVE ANYTHING!” - a cranky re-run

“THOSE KIDS DON’T HAVE ANYTHING!”*

This cranky re-run is from February 2013

My 40 yo son just had a 1957 Schwinn stolen; probably by a junkie scumbag! 

 As a young lad, my family was affluent.  Well looking back, my father who was a chemical engineer, did very well.  My ex-wife would tell you we were filthy rich.  In truth we were comfortable and my dad worked his ass off to create that comfort.  As a kid, of course, all you see is people with more stuff than you have, and you never feel the least bit privileged.

When I was seven years old, I got a bike for Christmas.  It was a green, one-speed Schwinn with skinny “Racing wheels.” The bike did not have hand brakes; it stopped when you slammed backwards on the pedal.  I preferred this method of braking because it allowed you to slam and lean at the same time and come to a really cool sliding stop, much like a skier. (We called the sliding stop a “Brody.”  I have no idea why we called it that.)  It was my first bike.  I loved that bike.  I went everywhere on that bike (in those days, seven year olds got a lot of leeway.)

In 1955 when I was nine, our family moved from the West Coast to the East Coast.  Relocation was part of the life of a Chemical Engineer.  The summer of my ninth year was spent at my grandparent’s house in Ocean City, New Jersey; summer at the Shore; me and my bike.

I went everywhere on that bike.  I would ride to the store and shop for candy and comics.  I would ride to my friends.  I would ride to the beach.  I never locked the bike.  People did not steal bikes in the fifties.

One day I rode my bike to the Ocean City Boardwalk to meet a friend.  I left my bike by the boardwalk at the “Colored Beach.”  That’s right, in those days, even in New Jersey, the beaches were segregated.  “Coloreds” had their own beach and were not allowed on a “White” beach. 

For you young folks, “Colored” people became “Blacks,” and then became “African Americans.”  Today, one person who would have been called “Colored” is now called “Mister President!”

Anyway, I thought nothing of leaving my unlocked bike on the “Colored Beach.” 

When I returned from the boardwalk I could not believe that my bike was gone.  I looked all over.  I was sure I left it right by the entrance.  What could have happened?  Then it hit me.  My bike was stolen.  I never heard of anyone having anything stolen before.  It just did not happen in my neighborhood.

I walked home in tears.  I loved that bike.

The next day my dad took me to the police station to report the theft.  I was sure the police would find and return my bike.  Whoever stole it would be going to jail and deservedly so.

An officer took the report.

“Describe the bike.”

I described the bike.

“Where did you last see it?”

“I left it on Sixth Street by the entrance to the boardwalk.  It was at noon.”

“Sixth Street!  That’s the ‘Colored Beach!’  Those kids don’t have anything!  You can’t leave a bike there; it will be gone before the kickstand sinks in the sand!”

“But that’s stealing!”

“Kid…they don’t care, it is the only way those people will ever have a bike.”

“Will you be able to get it back?”

“Ah…sure kid…we’ll be on the lookout for it.”

I don’t think they tried very hard.  We checked every day for a week, but their all-points-bulletin did not turn up my precious Schwinn.

I got around the rest of the summer on an old beat up bike my cousin Dex lent me.  For a while I was really upset and in disbelief that someone would just take someone else’s property, but in my head I kept hearing something the policeman said:

“Those kids don’t have anything!”

Anyway; I learned a lesson, and it was nice that at least one of “Those Kids” had a Schwinn.


For a little history that many want to forget:
http://articles.philly.com/2008-08-01/entertainment/25257133_1_beach-restrictions-segregation-small-towns

*The first time I published this, several commentors were clear that stealing is stealing and poverty is not an excuse.  While I understand that sentiment, if I lived all year long in a town and come summer a bunch of rich people came and would not allow me on their beach, or their boardwalk, or to take the many summer jobs that opened up just because of my race, I think I would certainly consider taking a rich white kid's bike if he was so stupid as to leave it on the only beach I was allowed to use.  By the way it was the crappiest beach in the town!