Happy Father’s Day Weekend to all involved, whether it be you, your parent, relative, a step-father, grandpappy, great-grandfather, or an adopted dad through friendship.
This can apply also to mothers who are raising a child or a bevy of kids by themselves, and having to play both roles due to whatever circumstances put them into that position in the first place.
Speaking of which, today, June 17, was my mother’s birthday. Like mine does with Mother’s Day—or is it “Mothers’ Day”? I can never remember which, but anyway—Mum’s birthday always fell around Father’s (Fathers’?) Day. Guess the same can apply to the latter as well.
In a previous post, I wrote about how my dad at one time combined the two occasions, Mother’s Day and my birthday, and gave us both the same present: a typewriter.
Around the time my parents split up, Mum suggested I give her and Pop the same present for their annual celebrations, which both fell on the same day that year, as payback; adding, however, to make it something beneficial for each of them, and I can save some cash in doing so, like he did.
Taking money from that which I had saved from my newspaper route, I decided to buy them a blender. I don’t think that was quite what she had in mind, based on her reaction while removing the wrapping paper; but Mum rewarded me by making the best ice-cream milkshake with it that evening. You see? There was a method to my gift-giving.
Dad really liked it and made margaritas afterward, as a celebratory libation for himself and my mother. He seemed to have been a bartender-wannabe, so I knew he’d appreciate my effort.
My father ended up buying a couple of bars in years to come, at which he finally practiced his ambition on many nights to cut costs. I even acted as a barkeep from time to time, like when he was in a jam.
One of his taverns was in Paterson, NJ, not exactly in the most fashionable section of that city, but in an area where people loved to drink and wallow away their desperation. They loved it so much that someone had bored a hole in the floor of a vacant apartment above the bar, right through the ceiling, and stole all of his liquor.
From that point forward, he kept his bar’s stock in cartons on our living-room floor, much to my hedonistic enjoyment as a teenager. My friends and I became bartenders in our own right, making such concoctions as “Instant Paralysis,” which included sloe gin, rum, vodka, Ouzo, tequila, Bosco, heavy cream, and a couple of bananas, mixed in the blender Pop still had from that illustrious Father’s Day.
Note that the drink contained only white liquor except for the sloe gin that was red, mainly from the sloe drupes with which the liqueur is made. Ironically the plum-like ingredient is also called “stone fruit,” for reasons we found out, although the alcohol used is clear.
An old adage states that white and dark liquor shouldn’t be mixed, for untold horrors and a dreadful hangover will occur if imbibed together, hence the logic for our choice of liquor in the bombshell cocktail.
Pop is no longer with us. He would have been 100 years old in December. He made it to 89, seven months shy of 90, which gives me hope for longevity. Mum, unfortunately, wasn’t so lucky, making it to 43, dying way too young. She would have been 95 this year.
As stated before, when holidays occur, I try to think of the humorous times spent with those whose attendance at these annual festivities are no longer in existence, which gives me plenty of fodder for my weekly diatribes.
Again, Happy Father’s (Fathers’) Day and thanks for your continued support. By the way, I’m presently working on a duet with my good friend, Rie Waits, which I’ll place here when finished for the weekly cover when available.
Never mind… you don’t seem to care one way or the other it seems. You want to hear it, it’s on Twitter.