My sister was in town the other day, and tried to tell me a joke.
"Hey Andy, what's the difference between jam and jelly?"
"Uh, well Sarah, jelly is made with juice and jam is made with fruit."
"Oh. I was gonna say, 'I can't jelly my dick up your ass,' but that's cool."
Friday, July 17, 2009
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Fudge and the Freedom Trail
The summer after I graduated elementary school my family had a bit more money than was usual and took a trip to New England. We went first to Danbury, Connecticut to see the grave of my father’s hero Charles Ives. I still have a picture of my mother, her face full of comic over-sincerity, standing beside my father, who had his arm around her and looked more genuinely moved. My father has always loved Charles Ives, and the trip was something of a pilgrimage for him. We saw the grave, we saw the site of a reproduction of the cottage he grew up in that was not due to open for several years, and we went to New Haven, Connecticut so dad could look through original Charles Ives manuscripts. This was a special thrill for the old man—Ives was notoriously messy, and left ink blotches all over the page, scratched through things, and left little notes to his editor in the margins saying things like, “Don’t change a goddamn thing.”
I later grew to like Charles Ives too, but at the time of our vacation the whole thing was baffling. His music is difficult even for adults, and even though I tried to like it for my dad’s sake I didn’t get very far. I was more taken with the stories of Mr. Ives screaming at airplanes as they passed over his house and calling his audiences “old ladies.” Anecdotes aside, the trips to Danbury and New Haven were only a distraction from what really mattered to me: the four days we spent in Boston.
Back in the early nineties I was a diehard Red Sox fans. For some reason a station in Norfolk carried all their games, and I watched them whenever they were on. I knew all the players names and positions, I collected their baseball cards, and I wore t-shirt with a picture of Roger Clemens pitching above the legend- “Rocket Roger!” The highlight of the vacation for me was seeing Rocket Roger pitch against Juan Guzman and the hated Blue Jays. That night a player I can’t remember stole home plate, and for the rest of our trip my father told many passing strangers about it, and that “you only see that once in a blue moon!!” I had yet to cross over into adolescent embarrassment of my parents, and the remark seemed full of wisdom to me, and worth repeating.
The day after the game was our last in the city, and after doing seeing lots of Boston Common and Quincy Market in the morning, my sister’s legs gave out on her that afternoon. Growing up, my sister often had a problem with her legs. If she stood for too long the blood would collect in them, she would become light-headed, and pass out. We discovered this in church one Sunday when, after repeatedly pleading with my mother to be allowed to sit down, she collapsed, smacking her head on the pew on the way down. She never had to stand in church again, and many was the Sunday that I looked at her jealously, certain the entire thing was an elaborate ploy to make the Nicene Creed more bearable.
Now she was tired of walking around Boston, and she declared that if she went any further she would pass out. My mother, taking this very seriously and also fairly tired herself, volunteered to stay with Sarah while I went with dad for the afternoon’s business—a long walk to the Old North Church and the Bunker Hill Memorial. I was delighted. Let these women sit and fan themselves! The men were not tired, and we would undertake a serious visit to very important historical landmarks that would improve our knowledge of the Revolutionary War.
My dad’s legs were, of course, significantly longer than mine, and once we got under way his stride was hard to keep up with. I spent much of the time running behind him, too embarrassed for long intervals to ask him to slow down. I was winded quickly from this, and maybe my dad noticed, because he suggested we stop and buy some fudge. This was almost too much for me. First, I get to go on a special man trip, and now fudge? My father’s generosity overwhelmed me, particularly when I saw how much he bought me: two pounds!
Well, we started walking again, and while two pounds of peanut butter fudge was a lot even for the chubby ten-year-old version of myself, I willed myself to eat it all. Every bit. It took roughly ten minutes, and I was running behind my father the entire time desperate to keep up, and afterwards I felt fairly sick, but I couldn’t do something so ungrateful as to not finish my father’s gift, to throw it away. What would he say? So I wolfed the entire package, and struggled to keep up.
We were approaching the famous statue of Paul Revere on his horse when my father said from several feet in front of me, “How about some of that fudge, Andy?”
“What about it, Dad?” I asked tentatively, confused. “It was really good.”
“Can I have a piece of it?” he asked, not breaking stride.
And then I realized that I had eaten all of what was supposed to be for our entire family. I don't exactly know how it happened-- maybe he had underestimated the rate at which his son could eat, maybe he had given instructions on how much I could have and I couldn’t hear him from his position several feet in front of me. Whatever the reason, there had been failure to communicate, and I was miserable over it. I apologized several times. Dad was nice about it and said “Don’t worry,” but he couldn’t completely hide the look in his eyes that said, “Holy shit, my kid is disgusting.” I felt it keenly, and as we headed towards Bunker Hill the afternoon was soured for me.
I think I was still able to eat dinner later.
I later grew to like Charles Ives too, but at the time of our vacation the whole thing was baffling. His music is difficult even for adults, and even though I tried to like it for my dad’s sake I didn’t get very far. I was more taken with the stories of Mr. Ives screaming at airplanes as they passed over his house and calling his audiences “old ladies.” Anecdotes aside, the trips to Danbury and New Haven were only a distraction from what really mattered to me: the four days we spent in Boston.
Back in the early nineties I was a diehard Red Sox fans. For some reason a station in Norfolk carried all their games, and I watched them whenever they were on. I knew all the players names and positions, I collected their baseball cards, and I wore t-shirt with a picture of Roger Clemens pitching above the legend- “Rocket Roger!” The highlight of the vacation for me was seeing Rocket Roger pitch against Juan Guzman and the hated Blue Jays. That night a player I can’t remember stole home plate, and for the rest of our trip my father told many passing strangers about it, and that “you only see that once in a blue moon!!” I had yet to cross over into adolescent embarrassment of my parents, and the remark seemed full of wisdom to me, and worth repeating.
The day after the game was our last in the city, and after doing seeing lots of Boston Common and Quincy Market in the morning, my sister’s legs gave out on her that afternoon. Growing up, my sister often had a problem with her legs. If she stood for too long the blood would collect in them, she would become light-headed, and pass out. We discovered this in church one Sunday when, after repeatedly pleading with my mother to be allowed to sit down, she collapsed, smacking her head on the pew on the way down. She never had to stand in church again, and many was the Sunday that I looked at her jealously, certain the entire thing was an elaborate ploy to make the Nicene Creed more bearable.
Now she was tired of walking around Boston, and she declared that if she went any further she would pass out. My mother, taking this very seriously and also fairly tired herself, volunteered to stay with Sarah while I went with dad for the afternoon’s business—a long walk to the Old North Church and the Bunker Hill Memorial. I was delighted. Let these women sit and fan themselves! The men were not tired, and we would undertake a serious visit to very important historical landmarks that would improve our knowledge of the Revolutionary War.
My dad’s legs were, of course, significantly longer than mine, and once we got under way his stride was hard to keep up with. I spent much of the time running behind him, too embarrassed for long intervals to ask him to slow down. I was winded quickly from this, and maybe my dad noticed, because he suggested we stop and buy some fudge. This was almost too much for me. First, I get to go on a special man trip, and now fudge? My father’s generosity overwhelmed me, particularly when I saw how much he bought me: two pounds!
Well, we started walking again, and while two pounds of peanut butter fudge was a lot even for the chubby ten-year-old version of myself, I willed myself to eat it all. Every bit. It took roughly ten minutes, and I was running behind my father the entire time desperate to keep up, and afterwards I felt fairly sick, but I couldn’t do something so ungrateful as to not finish my father’s gift, to throw it away. What would he say? So I wolfed the entire package, and struggled to keep up.
We were approaching the famous statue of Paul Revere on his horse when my father said from several feet in front of me, “How about some of that fudge, Andy?”
“What about it, Dad?” I asked tentatively, confused. “It was really good.”
“Can I have a piece of it?” he asked, not breaking stride.
And then I realized that I had eaten all of what was supposed to be for our entire family. I don't exactly know how it happened-- maybe he had underestimated the rate at which his son could eat, maybe he had given instructions on how much I could have and I couldn’t hear him from his position several feet in front of me. Whatever the reason, there had been failure to communicate, and I was miserable over it. I apologized several times. Dad was nice about it and said “Don’t worry,” but he couldn’t completely hide the look in his eyes that said, “Holy shit, my kid is disgusting.” I felt it keenly, and as we headed towards Bunker Hill the afternoon was soured for me.
I think I was still able to eat dinner later.
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