Three Blind Mice

Like any family with a father, my dad's destiny is to be the unwitting contributing source of my physical confrontations during my elementary years. As a small child, dad would play a couple of karate flicks - mostly those staring Bruce Lee - to shut me up. As a baby, he made all of the crucial decisions; feed me or play Enter the Dragon. Needless to say, I would occasionally accuse my crazy teachers of coming “straight out of a comic book”.

As time progresses, my fascination with my father[1] would increase. I would, of course, talk - well brag - about how cool my dad was and how he could take on anyone’s dad while balancing a cup on his nose. Somehow, one particular boy thought this was a cue to slug me in that very spot.

Finally, there was one incident that no one could top and it starts with a secret; dad has a sword.

Sometime in the Spring of ’93, we hear this high-pitched, scary-movie-type of scream coming from near our front door. Not-so coincidentally, we also hear mom running away from the door, towards our neighbors’ house, screaming dad’s name mixed with a colorful array of words that Bruce Lee and the Ninja Turtles failed to teach me. Dad inspects the scene then runs back inside to his bedroom. I watch him return a moment later with his sword still in its black sheath, creeping slowly out of the front door; naturally I follow. I approach the door, my bowl of popcorn in hand, expecting to see three sword-wielding ninjas holding mom hostage, hoping to restore honor to their fallen dojo. Then, I imagine that it’s really, Chuck Norris returning from his grave with revenge on his mind; looking for his nemesis’ star pupil to even the score. What I find, however, are three tiny white mice scurrying around the little garden…

I see mom, far away with a group of neighbors approaching behind her. Their faces range from curiosity to worry, yet as if choreographed, they all fall into disappointment with hints of hiding a laugh. Dad notices this and takes a deep breath - or perhaps a prayer - and watches the little fellows crawl around. In a couple of swift swishes, he removes the tails of the minuscule opponents and the silence that follows echoes across the street. He sheathes his sword and bows at the stunned audience, walking back into his dojo to meditate on the day’s lesson.

“Do NOT touch those filthy things!” Mom demands.

“I was only going to turn these into a necklace!” I say pointing at the tails, but mom glares. “Ok, maybe hang them up around here as a message?”

“Boy, get inside. NOW,” I oblige, reluctantly.

As I walk inside, I couldn’t help but smile.

My dad can slice your dad’s tail in one quick swing.

I think about this a I start to sing a new version to “Three Blind Mice.”

[1] I pray this is the only time I refer to him as "Father”, ew.