I remember as a kid I would hear the thumping of the shoes in the morning and the close of the door. It was six o’clock in the morning in our quiet suburban hood. We were getting ready for school and a warrior was getting ready to go to the boxing ring. Like Rocky he was ready to fight the enemy, but unlike Rocky the arena was not a boxing ring but in the world of corporate law…..and he had all of his brain cells. His name was Dad.
Yes Dad. At the end of the day we would scramble to tell him the tales of our conquests in school whether it was a fitness award, an academic award, or an A on a math test. However if we were in trouble we hoped to God our mother would catch us. Whenever we got caught red handed we would act like the crook who had been Mirandized and thrown in a jail cell pleading, “Please don’t tell Dad.”
My parents had a great way of playing good cop bad cop. After we had been accused we would be dragged into the living room which would be turned into the interrogation booth. Much like an episode of Homicide Life on the Street we would go in acting all hard and tough denying our sin whether it was not doing the dishes, breaking something, or lying about a missing report card. My mother would play good cop telling us if we told the truth it wouldn’t be so bad. My dad on the other hand was the bad cop informing us, “I know you are lying. I can tell by your eyes. I do this all day you know.” Finally we would break. We would break hard. There would be dramatics. There would be crying. It was like, “Yes Asi, we did it. We lied. But we did not act alone.” And then we would proceed to name names. Then the accomplices would be called in, which in my case was usually my sister. And then the punishment would be dealt accordingly. Sometimes we would be denied television or telephone. But the worst was the stick.
I remember one of my most famous meetings with the stick. I was eight and was a bit of a brat, surprise. I was refusing to listen to my elderly babysitter, gave her a hard time about doing my spelling words, and was downright ornery. To boot I had learned “yinz” “warsh” and “red off the table”, popular slag in my hometown of Pittsburgh, we not real words. My babysitter of course barely had a high school education and I proceeded to correct her. From there I decided to impress everyone with my new vocabulary which included some interesting four letter words. The last straw came after a family day out when I informed my family dinner filled me so much I had to take a dump. Needless to say I met the stick and got my ass beaten. After that day I never disrespected anyone with little education ever again. And I still watch my language in front of my dad. Sure, it may not have pleased Dr. Spock but I know right from wrong and that is more than I can say for a lot of people.
As a kid my Dad was a real history nut. Whenever we would go downstairs Big Battles would be on. The Americans would be storming Normandy Beach yet again. However my favorite were my Dad’s renditions of the Civil War. He read every book pertaining to the time period there was. And the way he would talk about it was brilliant. My Dad forgot more history than anyone ever knew. I remember we were all talking once and my dad informed me that Jefferson Davis attempted to escape from the Yankee soldiers wearing his wife’s dress. I remember being twelve at the time and asked my Dad if his wife ever got her dress back. To which my dad replied, “I don’t know. We could ask him but he’s not here.” To this day I still love history and documentaries. I suppose I have my dad to thank for that one.
Another thing my dad was invested in was our educations. On occasion he even tutored us which was a trip in itself. I remember I had trouble reading and we started reading the paper together which I still read to this day. One thing about my dad though was he knew the value of hard work. As a kid he had a paper route and saved the money. The money put him through college. My Dad was the first in his family to go to a four year college and then he went on to earn an MBA and a law degree. Mind you my grandpa, despite being a master machinist in the mills of Pittsburgh, did not graduate high school. My dad actually worked one summer with my grandpa in the mill. It was the summer Premier Kruschev came to town. Kruschev apparently gave his Timex to this character my dad worked with, a man who was half black half Cherokee. The guy of course being nuts pawned it for forty dollars. Whenever I hear the story it still makes me laugh, but it also makes me realize how lucky I am to have a dad who was invested in making me get an education.
Just as education was big with my family so was fitness. As kids we would all go on family runs. My mother had been a swimming star and had been a captain of her college team while my dad had been a track star. On their second date my dad showed my mom how to do a track relay for her high school gym class and she fell in love with the sport. So we ran as a family. My brother would be forced to run up to the track with my dad, and was usually ragged on for being his less than enthused partner. My sister and I would ride up with our mother and as a family we would all complete a three mile run. We would run rain or snow, my dad didn’t care. One time when my sister was little and it was snowing we made a bend around the track and she disappeared in a snow drift. We went to find her and fished her out. Ironically she would become the star runner of the brood. The crazy thing is, for as much as I hated it as a kid I run every day now. Guess there is no shaking somethings.
My Dad was big into commitments when I was a kid. We would rise every Sunday at seven thirty in the morning for mass….I yawn just thinking about it. My Dad was an usher. He wasn’t just any usher, he was the one to get things going. Until he came to church mass couldn’t start. It was like a Broadway play. My Dad was in charge of deciding who took what aisle for collection and what aisle for communion. He was always catching some old person who fainted as they tended to do, because after all mass must go on. Then there was the taking up of the gifts. Not just anyone could do it, you had to be right for the part. It was something Fosse would have wept at the sight of. Mass was moving smoothly and my dad was the director. Finally there was the giving out of the bulletins at the end of mass. Occasionally my sister and I were drafted. What better touch than kids, right? To my dad’s credit I still go to church every Sunday and even sometimes serve as a reader.
Being from Pittsburgh I am a big football fan, and so is my dad. As a kid the high school game was one we would follow every Friday because my brother played defensive line. Saturday was college and Sunday and Monday, depending on the Monday, were Steeler football. Every Friday we all went to my brother’s games and were usually decked out in buttons in typical Western PA style. One time my dad won the fifty fifty raffle and the announcer requested for Bill Brucker to come to claim his prize. Of course my dad and my brother have the same name so they both looked up at the same time. Finally the announcer had to clarify it. That was just a typical Friday night for us.
But everyone on the booster staff, an organization where my parents were both quite active, appreciated my dad not only for his hard work but his honesty. One year my folks were drafted to do the program, which means selling ads and taking pictures of the kids. One of the football players, actually the quarterback, had taken a picture that was pretty bad. It was probably after a night of partying with the cheerleaders. Because the picture was God awful my parents were going to take it again. My mom called his mom and tried to be the diplomat. This mother was resisting because she too was a bit of a goofball, surprise surprise. That’s when my dad took the phone and informed her, “Maureen, frankly, your son looks like hell.” Needless to say the picture was retaken. My Dad once said it best, while it is best to be brutally honest you shouldn’t enjoy the brutality of the honesty. In essence tell the truth but don’t be nasty about it.
My dad was a football dad all the way, even when he went to see my musicals. One time we were there and he informed me he had met my musical director during half time. Then he also informed me that he had met the parents of some of the kids I was in the musical with at half time. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was intermission. Then again despite being an actress and a comedian and knowing the terms and rules I don’t have the heart to correct him. He’s my dad.
When it came to life advice growing up my dad still has some gems I quote. One was when I went to him about a friend. I had to have been early in high school. It was actually a guy I dug. He was always getting into trouble and was risking being thrown out of school, the juvenile version of my current dream man. I remember saying to my dad, “But nobody understands him.” To which my dad replied, “That means he’s an asshole and everybody knows it.” Let me tell you my dad was right on.
For years I thought I got my love for performing and comedy from my mom who is a bubbly outgoing little woman. But now I think I got it from my dad. When he was in school he actually was a soloist for his church choir and apparently they made a record. He was so good the nuns used to nab him out of class to sing wedding a funeral masses. As a kid he used to sing some of the old Latin hymns for us in his deep base baritone voice. Ironically now, one of my survival jobs involves singing for a living. Who would have thunk it?
But my dad loved comedy and he loved standup. Growing up I learned to love the Marx Brothers and the Three Stooges, partly due to my dad and I enjoying them together. My dad was also a fan of early George Carlin and Dennis Miller. As a matter of fact my parents had met Dennis Miller before he made it big while he was still playing the Pittsburgh Funnybone and had a few drinks with him. In addition my dad was also a fan of Rodney Dangerfield and went so far as to read his autobiography. And then of course he also liked Norm Macdonald and his style of comedy. But nothing beats the biggest surprise of all….his love for Beavis and Butthead. I remember my dad saying to some of his corporate friends, “I don’t know what the big deal about this program is. Its so funny.” Of course my dad, brother, and I would be watching Cornholio and his latest exploits much to the chagrin of my mother and sister.
My dad could also tell a story when I was a kid. It was the wording and the voices, he did it all. He read joke books and still reads them, and when you come to the house he will even tell you a few. Of course these days he has taken it to the next level, he is even writing his own jokes. Whether or not he busts out the notebook at an open mic night has yet to be seen, but who knows, I may have a willing opener when I tour.
Bottom line is, parents do the best they can with what they have, and my dad didn’t do bad with us. My brother, sister, and I are all well educated, God fearing, tax paying, responsible citizens. I would have posted this later but I will be at the brother’s wedding this weekend. With that Happy Early Father’s Day. Love April
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