One of my very favorite memories of my father involves a
bottle of ketchup.
First of all, some background: my sister and I were big-time
bickerers back in the day. It wasn’t until we were 15 and 18 that we each decided
that the other wasn’t so bad. We would pick and poke at each other to the point
that our mother was entirely convinced she had done something wrong while she
was pregnant that caused us to be born loathing our only sibling. The backseat
of the car was never big enough. The air one of us breathed always offended the
other. She would ask to borrow my clothes, I’d say no, she’d borrow them
anyway. She blinked loudly. I tapped on things just to make her crazy. When Mom
went to work when I was in 7th grade, we would come home after
school to a house devoid of parental supervision and for that 2 ½ hours before
they got home, we would beat the ever-lovin’ snot out of each other.
This particular story took place on a day when for some
reason Mom was gone and Sis and I were eating a meal with Dad. We were sitting
at the bar that divided the kitchen and dining room – Dad at the end, me to his
right, Sis to mine. I got up to get a drink. Sis said, “Hey, could you grab the
ketchup while you’re up?” I ignored her and came back to the bar. A moment
later I got up to get something else. Again, Sis asked, “Could you grab the
ketchup while you’re up?” I once again ignored her. Not long, I again got up.
Now, you’ve probably realized that at this point I probably didn’t really need
to get up as much as I did. I was merely taunting her. I literally went to
the fridge, got something out and ignored her request for ketchup. Apparently
that was the breaking point for her. She exclaimed, "REALLY? You couldn’t
just get the ketchup? WHILE YOU WERE AT THE FRIDGE??” And I can remember smugly
grinning and plopping back down onto my barstool.
The fight was on.
And in the midst of our fussing and name-calling, our
father, who had been perfectly silent the entire time, simply got up, went to
the fridge, plucked the ketchup from its appointed spot on the shelf, walked
calmly to the bar and slammed the ketchup down so hard that America’s favorite
condiment burst forth from the lid, shooting upward in a tomato-y geyser that
splattered the ceiling and ceiling fan with a spray of red not unlike that seen
at crime scenes.
He then sat back down and resumed eating his meal while
ketchup dripped from the ceiling and Sis and I sat staring at the broken bottle
with eyes as wide as saucers. In unison, we looked up, looked at him, looked at
each other and then at our plates. Nary a word was spoken through the entire
debacle.
Maybe five minutes later Mom came home. There we were, the
three of us, sitting at the kitchen bar, eating dinner like it was our job, not
speaking, not looking around. Mom stopped, immediately sensing that there had
been a shift in the Force somewhere. Then she caught a glimpse of the ceiling. She
inquired as to why the ceiling fan was covered in ketchup. No one answered. Eventually
the mess was gone, I assume Mom cleaned it up. It was awhile before we spoke of
it. Of course, we found humor in it after the fact.
Dad, thank you for the advice that those who hurt me in high school weren't worth the tears, the butter rum lifesavers at Speech competitions, the ability to make me so mad I could drive a standard through my tears, for giving me the desire to learn giant scientific words and their meanings, and for the gray hair. I really appreciate that one the most.
Happy Father's Day. I love you.
Dad with mine and Sis' kids on Father's Day 2009
