Happy Birthday, Soda
Whenever I think of my father's birthday, I consider a few stories where he laughed hard at our relationship.
I had a college buddy who got sick of hearing people from other parts of the country make fun of him for calling the soft drink, Pop, as we do here in Buffalo.
"I call my father, pop," one of his critics said.
"Well, I call my father, Soda," Rosie answered.
I told my father that story about twenty years ago, and he reminded me of it the other day.
Then there was the trip home from Connecticut about twenty winters ago. It was just me and Soda and the wind was whipping the snow all around I-90. The car he was driving, my old black Capri - which he affectionately called the crappy - was dying every few minutes. We were in some real trouble as we were hundreds of miles from home.
Now those of you who know me well understand that I have no mechanical aptitude whatsoever - I'm lucky if I know where the windshield washer fluid goes if I'm fortunate enough to open the hood. Anyway, after the car stalled for the 10th time, my father, on his birthday, turned to me.
"The solenoid is bad," he said as he went to sip his coffee.
"That's what I was thinking," I responded.
He spit coffee all over the front windshield.
A couple of years earlier, on my birthday, I was talking on the phone with my college friend, Lisa, who coincidentally shares her birthday with my father. Soda went to the oven to baste the turkey when pan and all, it slipped out of the oven and hit the floor. The juice from the pan spilled on the floor, and my father, in a desperate attempt to save everything, ended up in the center of the kitchen floor with the turkey sliding on by. Thankfully, my brother Jim was there because the three of us have laughed for twenty years at the sight of my father flat on his back.
The turkey was saved, but as we were eating it, my father said - "you better eat it all, I broke my ass making it."
The third story that always seems to come up was of a time when I was a strapping lad of 17 - all right, I know what you're saying - I was strapping - compared to now.
Anyway, I was working as a construction laborer in California, and my father was dressed in a suit walking by with about seven other big shots. I got to the end of the ramp with my mobile garbage cart, saw my dad, and attempted to wave, calling out his name.
I ended up in the dumpster, on top of my cart and I distinctly heard my father tell the gathering, "I don't know who that stupid son-of-a-bitch is."
Through the years, we've laughed a lot - and I hope we have about fifty more years to share our stories.
Have a good day, Soda!
I had a college buddy who got sick of hearing people from other parts of the country make fun of him for calling the soft drink, Pop, as we do here in Buffalo.
"I call my father, pop," one of his critics said.
"Well, I call my father, Soda," Rosie answered.
I told my father that story about twenty years ago, and he reminded me of it the other day.
Then there was the trip home from Connecticut about twenty winters ago. It was just me and Soda and the wind was whipping the snow all around I-90. The car he was driving, my old black Capri - which he affectionately called the crappy - was dying every few minutes. We were in some real trouble as we were hundreds of miles from home.
Now those of you who know me well understand that I have no mechanical aptitude whatsoever - I'm lucky if I know where the windshield washer fluid goes if I'm fortunate enough to open the hood. Anyway, after the car stalled for the 10th time, my father, on his birthday, turned to me.
"The solenoid is bad," he said as he went to sip his coffee.
"That's what I was thinking," I responded.
He spit coffee all over the front windshield.
A couple of years earlier, on my birthday, I was talking on the phone with my college friend, Lisa, who coincidentally shares her birthday with my father. Soda went to the oven to baste the turkey when pan and all, it slipped out of the oven and hit the floor. The juice from the pan spilled on the floor, and my father, in a desperate attempt to save everything, ended up in the center of the kitchen floor with the turkey sliding on by. Thankfully, my brother Jim was there because the three of us have laughed for twenty years at the sight of my father flat on his back.
The turkey was saved, but as we were eating it, my father said - "you better eat it all, I broke my ass making it."
The third story that always seems to come up was of a time when I was a strapping lad of 17 - all right, I know what you're saying - I was strapping - compared to now.
Anyway, I was working as a construction laborer in California, and my father was dressed in a suit walking by with about seven other big shots. I got to the end of the ramp with my mobile garbage cart, saw my dad, and attempted to wave, calling out his name.
I ended up in the dumpster, on top of my cart and I distinctly heard my father tell the gathering, "I don't know who that stupid son-of-a-bitch is."
Through the years, we've laughed a lot - and I hope we have about fifty more years to share our stories.
Have a good day, Soda!
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