Writings
So I told big bully Billy Brisbois that I was not afraid of him, when he cornered me on the playground of Noble School. But I was. Afraid of him, that is. But either I hid it well, or he had bigger fish to fry that day….meaning that I escaped a beating by my bluffing (something that has served me well on any number of occasions, since). “Don’t let them see or smell your fear,” they told me….with reference to both animals and enemies. So I didn’t. Still don’t.
What do you say to someone when you are angry at them? I mean, really angry, and you want to reach into your arsenal of weapons for words that will hurt as they hit and poison as they penetrate. If it’s a marriage, you can always drop the “D” word. That usually gets attention. And if it’s not a marriage, there are words that begin with letters other than “D,” but I won’t enumerate them here. My favorite way of venting my spleen is with the “G” word….as in “grow up”…. “are you ever going to grow up?”….or “come back and talk to me when you decide to grow up.” It really gets to people when you question their maturity. It really gets to me when anybody questions mine.
Once upon a time, preachers survived on the food that parishioners left on their porches. Chickens….eggs….sacks of string beans….portions of pigs….all backing the claim of the Pastoral Relations Committee which promised, at the time of hiring: “Even when we can’t pay you, Reverend, we will always feed you.” And, in their own way, they always did. Thankfully, that day is done. Today’s preachers are paid in checks rather than chickens. Although I did come home from church on a recent Sunday to find a key lime pie in my front door….hand carried from Sanibel Island by Jane Pettibone, because….well….she knew I’d like it.
Whenever we have a discussion in our house about the realignment of chores….especially when that discussion centers around the enormous number of things that Kris is responsible for, measured against the miniscule number of things that I am responsible for….I find myself making the grand gesture of offering to do the laundry. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it sounds easier than the rest of the stuff she does. Maybe it’s because I did my own laundry in college. Maybe it’s because the penalty for failure seems lower in the laundry than in the kitchen. Having heard Julie say (on more than one occasion): “Oh no, Dad’s gonna cook,” I can’t remember her ever saying (on any occasion): “Oh no, Dad’s gonna wash.”
