Sandy Supposes....

Things I Learned From Father B.

PROMPT: Motivational Monday! Prince Charles (the oldest child of England's Queen Elizabeth II), born on this day in 1948, once said "I learned the way a monkey learns... by watching its parents." What is something you've learned from either of your parents, using only the power of observation?

          I suppose only an heir apparent to the English monarchy could describe , or allude to his mother as being a monkey. I wonder if the Royals hunkered down, back to back, and picked the nits from each other's hair?

          LESSONS I LEARNED TRAILING AFTER MY FATHER

         My sartorial splendor is based upon my father's example. Plain, all one colour socks are boring. Sock colour must compliment, or co-ordinate with the shirt, always. Coral, not quite pink because real men did not leave the house in any shade of pink when I was a child, created a few gasps in our neighbourhood especially when my Dad flaunted it in all its glory with both a shirt and socks. He repeated this with purple, green, red, whatever. Other fathers preferred white, or grey socks.

          From years of study only clouded by an occasional wisp of smoke, I learned to stuff a pipe, and light it. It was quite the time-consuming, precise procedure. First the old burnt tobacco had to be coaxed from the pipe bowl with the aid of a pocket knife. Then it was discarded with whacks, taps, and some muttering, not unlike burping a stubborn baby. Next the pipe had to be clenched between the teeth while air was blown through it. Cradling the bowl, pinches of fresh tobacco are pulled from a battered pouch, and stuffed, pushed, tamped tightly together. The pipe stem is returned to the vise of the teeth while a wooden match is struck and held to the tobacco. Inhaling is important for air flow, and draft. Stare at the end of the pipe, and concentrate. Wave the flaming match to extinguish it, and deposit in a waiting ashtray. Remember to puff. Keep spare matches nearby for re-lights.

          Father B. loved to cook, with his hands, his mechanic's grease-stained hands. Stirring with spoons was for sissies, he liked to feel what he was mixing, work the dough, the mixture, the sauce with his hands. He cooked by instinct. If he thought to pair certain ingredients, or attempt to re-create a restaurant dish without a recipe, so be it. Measurement, what was that? He created the smidgen, the pinch, the handful, the " that -looks-about-right". One of his signature treats was a sublime melt-in-your-mouth bread/bun thingy we dubbed Father B.'s Biscuits. Oh, I studied his methods, his ingredients, his baking times. I did hit one snag. My two hands combined are still not the size of one of his hands, so, how much flour did his handful translate to in my baking re-creations? Onions, they were a staple in Dad's cooking, they had to be included in everything. Oh, he also sprinkled black pepper liberally. Yep, I too cook with them. Nothing could be denied, or left untasted. Oysters, squid, mussels, brussel sprouts, cabbage, mushrooms, bison, bear, moose, venison, hot peppers, garlic, curries, whatever, it had potential to be edible.

          To relax, Dad needed noise, loud noise. He would warm up the stereo, the type encased in a large , burnished piece of oak furniture, a cabinet. He would select several LPs, and stack them on the turntable. As the needle made contact with that first album, he would make himself comfortable on the floor. He would lie on his back in front of the six-foot tall speakers, and float along with the music. Often , he fell asleep. I attempted this once. The whole relaxation becoming -one-with-the-notes-thing failed me. I may have been reclined for a few brief seconds before the kids found me . Crawling all over me, poking, and tickling me, prying my eyes open, they asked questions. "Mom? Mommy? Whatcha doin'? Are you sweepin'? I wanna drink. What's that ? You singin' Mommy? When's Daddy comin' home?" Apparently, I missed something during my observation.