Dad,Tom and Jeff exist solely on a diet of Hungry Man TV dinners.
When my little sisters leave home, any semblance of order at the old house leaves with them. Dad remains meticulous about his laundry and continues to prepare scrambled eggs and sausage every Sunday morning after Mass, just as he has every Sunday of our lives. But if it's not Sunday, Dad's too tired to cook, too tired to clean, and certainly too tired to ride herd on our two youngest brothers.
My sisters and I worry incessantly about this state of affairs. Especially about the rodents. Mice, which always pose a problem because of the field across the street, now run rampant and even pause in the middle of the kitchen to ponder whether mashed potatoes or salisbury steak sounds more appealing. The remnants of stacked Hungry Man TV containers line the counter tops like a buffet line for rodents. Dad sets traps in every corner of the house.
One weekend, Mary and Terri come home from college and invite a few old high school friends over. In the middle of their laughter and chatter, Jeff strolls through the living room in front of the visitors delicately holding at arm's length a trap with a dead mouse locked in its hinge.
"Fourth one today!" he crows.
Mary and Terri wish only to die never to be recuscitated.
Something has to be done. If Dad and the boys refuse to clean the house, clearly my sisters and I will have to do it for them. In other words, we will be guilty of enabling terribly bad behavior. But what choice do we have? Mary points out that Dad's nearly 60, and the boys don't care. It would hardly be worth it to discover mice gnawing on their three dead carcasses one nightmarish day in the distant future.
And that's how the institution of Friday Night Pizza begins. Every Friday night, the entire family troops over to Dad's house to clean. The boys vacuum, Terri and Carry dust, Deb and Mary tackle the kitchen, and I clean the bathrooms. I can hardly believe Dad's talent for stuffing seven days of newspapers and an occasional Reader's Digest into one small bathroom waste basket.
Fortunately, if we all work together, it only takes an hour to clean the old house. Then Dad springs for pizza and drinks for everybody. Friday night pizza is a tradition that continues for many years and is destined to become our favorite night of the week.
Truthfully, my sisters and I would like nothing more than to overhaul the entire bachelor pad. Short of moving back in, however, we don't have much influence over the day to day lives of Dad and our little brothers. The most exasperating issue, Dad confides, is persuading Jeff to get out of bed for school.
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| Tom and Jeff |
My sisters and I worry incessantly about this state of affairs. Especially about the rodents. Mice, which always pose a problem because of the field across the street, now run rampant and even pause in the middle of the kitchen to ponder whether mashed potatoes or salisbury steak sounds more appealing. The remnants of stacked Hungry Man TV containers line the counter tops like a buffet line for rodents. Dad sets traps in every corner of the house.
One weekend, Mary and Terri come home from college and invite a few old high school friends over. In the middle of their laughter and chatter, Jeff strolls through the living room in front of the visitors delicately holding at arm's length a trap with a dead mouse locked in its hinge.
"Fourth one today!" he crows.
Mary and Terri wish only to die never to be recuscitated.
Something has to be done. If Dad and the boys refuse to clean the house, clearly my sisters and I will have to do it for them. In other words, we will be guilty of enabling terribly bad behavior. But what choice do we have? Mary points out that Dad's nearly 60, and the boys don't care. It would hardly be worth it to discover mice gnawing on their three dead carcasses one nightmarish day in the distant future.
And that's how the institution of Friday Night Pizza begins. Every Friday night, the entire family troops over to Dad's house to clean. The boys vacuum, Terri and Carry dust, Deb and Mary tackle the kitchen, and I clean the bathrooms. I can hardly believe Dad's talent for stuffing seven days of newspapers and an occasional Reader's Digest into one small bathroom waste basket.
Fortunately, if we all work together, it only takes an hour to clean the old house. Then Dad springs for pizza and drinks for everybody. Friday night pizza is a tradition that continues for many years and is destined to become our favorite night of the week.
Truthfully, my sisters and I would like nothing more than to overhaul the entire bachelor pad. Short of moving back in, however, we don't have much influence over the day to day lives of Dad and our little brothers. The most exasperating issue, Dad confides, is persuading Jeff to get out of bed for school.
"Jeff!" Dad hollers every morning, "For the last time, get up!"
Jeff's always been notorious for sleeping past the alarm. My sisters have sometimes dragged him out of bed and shoved him, half asleep, into the bathroom. For the first time in his life, however, Jeff is reveling in the freedom of a household devoid of females.
"Yes, Mother Dearest," he whines sarcastically whenever Terri or Carry nags him to pick up his room or take out the garbage. But those days are now behind him. Jeff regards himself as a 14-year-old free agent, and fortunately for him, Dad makes few demands on his time. Except in the mornings.
"Jeff!" By now Dad's lost all patience. Every school day, it's the same scenario. Seething with fury, Dad will eventually be forced to lay on the horn as he and Tom wait in the running car in the driveway. It's the sound of the horn that at last rouses Jeff. He falls out of the house in various stages of undress always clutching his shoes.
On this particular morning, Dad's had enough. After five minutes of blaring the horn, a sure sign Jeff's unable to locate his shoes, Dad pulls out of the driveway.
"That's it!" he hisses. Just as he accelerates down Capital Avenue, Jeff appears half naked running toward the car. Dad drives on. Tom can hardly bear the sight of Jeff frantically sprinting after them in the middle of the street. Jeff must foot the three miles to school and doesn't arrive until 10 o'clock. After that terrible morning, however, he's much better about rising with the alarm.
Except for the drama-filled mornings, life is pretty much a breeze. Dad and my brothers toss their Hungry Man dinners into the oven and flop in front of the TV every evening. They bond over The Cosby Show, Miami Vice and even an episode or two of Dynasty.
On Sunday afternoons, Dad's only day off from the travel agency, the three of them while away the hours mesmerized by televised golf tournaments. One such afternoon, Tom - who's grown suddenly tall and feels the heady confidence of his 16 years - issues a casual challenge.
"I'm pretty sure," he muses almost to himself, "that I could drive a golf ball farther than you, Dad."
The words are barely out of his mouth before he realizes his mistake. It would never occur to any of us - indeed, it would be unthinkable - to bait our proud, zealously competitive father. Tom and Dad, however, are more than father and son. Over the last several tumultuous years, they've become relaxed friends and boon companions. Even Tom, though, hasn't thought this one through.
Ten minutes later he finds himself with Dad and Jeff at George Park a few blocks away.
"I'll out-drive you by 50 yards, Mr. Cocky," Dad throws Tom a club. "You first."
It doesn't matter if it's basketball, checkers or a card game. Dad always tries to mess with our heads. He'll do anything to win.
"Don't be nervous, Tom," Dad repeatedly clears his throat in a ruthless attempt to distract him. "I'll try not to humiliate you." Just as Tom starts his back swing, Dad breaks wind. It's a peculiar talent that never ceases to amaze us. Dan can pass gas like a thundering explosion at will - any time he chooses. He chooses now.
Tom, in a surge of teenage anger, does his best to ignore Dad and instead concentrates on Jeff who's acting as ball marker 250 yards away. Swinging with focused fervor, he blasts the golf ball. Straight as an a arrow, it arcs into the sky, sails over Jeff's head, and finally drops some 10 yards behind Jeff. Tom looks over at Dad flashing a smile of triumph.
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| Jeff and Dad having fun with the camera. |
Decidedly feeling the pressure, Dad sets his jaw in determination and steps up to the ball. "You'd better back up another hundred yards, Jeff!" he bellows for Tom's sake.
Dad lines up, and after a moment of deliberate concentration, swings with everything he's got. The golf ball takes off and rises quickly in altitude. Tom looks on with a sinking heart. It lifts into a cloudless blue sky just like it does for the pros teeing off on television. Dad grins gleefully looking 30 years younger. In an instant, though, he's frowning. At the pinnacle of its ascent, the ball takes a sudden veer to the left in one of the worst hooks Tom's ever witnessed. Like a rocket, it changes course and swerves directly to a cluster of neighborhood homes. Homes with lots and lots of windows.
Dad wastes no time. "Grab the clubs and get in the car," he orders. He shouts to Jeff to hurry back, and without a backward glance, the three of them hustle into the car and beat it out of the park.
It's only as they're nearing home that Dad dares to glance sheepishly at my brothers. Like guilty school boys, the three of them burst into laughter.
"Technically," Tom suggests as they pull into the driveway on Capital Avenue, "I guess you could say I did win the contest."
The laughter and good natured ribbing ends abruptly. Dad gazes back at Tom with steely blue eyes. "Maybe," Dad acknowledges. "If I'd had a good club, though, we both know I would have murdered you."
The moment is over, and Tom sighs.
Our father is back.
Dad lines up, and after a moment of deliberate concentration, swings with everything he's got. The golf ball takes off and rises quickly in altitude. Tom looks on with a sinking heart. It lifts into a cloudless blue sky just like it does for the pros teeing off on television. Dad grins gleefully looking 30 years younger. In an instant, though, he's frowning. At the pinnacle of its ascent, the ball takes a sudden veer to the left in one of the worst hooks Tom's ever witnessed. Like a rocket, it changes course and swerves directly to a cluster of neighborhood homes. Homes with lots and lots of windows.
Dad wastes no time. "Grab the clubs and get in the car," he orders. He shouts to Jeff to hurry back, and without a backward glance, the three of them hustle into the car and beat it out of the park.
It's only as they're nearing home that Dad dares to glance sheepishly at my brothers. Like guilty school boys, the three of them burst into laughter.
"Technically," Tom suggests as they pull into the driveway on Capital Avenue, "I guess you could say I did win the contest."
The laughter and good natured ribbing ends abruptly. Dad gazes back at Tom with steely blue eyes. "Maybe," Dad acknowledges. "If I'd had a good club, though, we both know I would have murdered you."
The moment is over, and Tom sighs.
Our father is back.
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