Sometimes, The Truth Hurts Part II

Last Sunday in this space, I wrote a tongue-in-cheek but fairly accurate assessment of how generations of curmudgeonly bloodlines can affect one’s psyche several decades later.

The piece was written for three reasons – to illustrate the cliche that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, to further illustrate what a saint my wife is for recently marrying me and for entertainment value.

Since the story remained on the Upper Macungie Patch Top 5 Most Viewed list for a good portion of the week, we figured a follow-up was definitely in order.

One again, these vignettes are true and recounted mainly for entertainment value but with a purpose–- be mindful of what you say and do in front of your kids. It really does sink into their psyche.

(On politics): I spent my childhood in Brooklyn, N.Y., living above my grandparents in a three-story brownstone. My grandfather took me to church every Sunday at 9 a.m. I was seven years old when I got my first political lesson.

We arrived home from church and Grandma served Grandpa the usual cup of espresso as he flicked on the television. I’ll never forget the baritone voice of the announcer: “And now, “Meet the Press with today’s guest, Sen. Hubert Humphrey, Democratic candidate for President.”

My grandfather looked at me, pointed to the set and loudly proclaimed: “You know, this no good (so-and-so), this lying (so-and-so).”

I was seven years old. What did I know? I remember my father bounding down the steps and scooping me out of harm’s way as Grandpa swore and cussed through two hours of “Meet the Press,” and “Face The Nation,” with Holy Communion remnants still in his mouth. 

(The daily blog): My father will turn 76 in two weeks. He wakes up at 5 a.m. every morning and after watching ESPN for about 30 minutes, spends two hours watching cable news. My mother rises around 8 a.m. By then, the old man is fuming over the political mess of day. The poor woman has to listen to him vent every day over her coffee.

(Reality check): Recently, my father didn’t realize his youngest granddaughter was within earshot when he was watching one of these cable news shows. She was age 19 at time and aghast.

“Grandpa! I never heard you talk like that!”

On the way home she said, “Dad, I’m scarred for life. I never heard my Grandpa talk that way." 

I shrugged and nodded. If I had a nickel for every time my father broke the Third Commandment...

(The N.Y. Mets): I don’t know why my grandfather sat in front of the TV for four hours every Sunday afternoon and watched the N.Y. Mets play (and lose) doubleheaders through the 1960s. It only gave him agita.

But, we’d never have heard great one-liners like: “This no good (so-and-so) couldn’t hit the side of a house with a plank.”

And Lord forbid someone ever took a called third strike: “Swing, you no good (so-and-so). Next time, they oughta send you up there without a bat.”

My father and I continue this family tradition each and every summer, losing year after losing year. One particular Sunday, he incensed my mother by putting his fist through an expensive handmade wicker ottoman she’d purchased for his birthday after “The Mutts,” botched another one. She really gave him heck for that one. 

(On patience): Patience? In my Italian family? It didn’t exist.

One Saturday afternoon, Dad and I were driving to Shea Stadium on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. A broken down car up ahead backed up traffic. Game time was quickly approaching.

The vehicle was spewing steam from a broken radiator hose when we passed by and the owner looked forlorn.

Dad rolled down the window and exclaimed, “If you regularly serviced your car like you were supposed to -- things like this wouldn’t happen.”

And my wife wonders why I sometimes lack compassion.

Compassion? My favorite commercial is the one about the learning center where the kid brings home a sub-par report card. You’ve seen it – talking about it doesn’t work, ignoring it doesn’t work.

I laugh out loud, because whenever that happened in my family, a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica over the top of the head was the preferred method of dealing with the problem.

That worked.

It’s no wonder that I turned out curmudgeonly. I never stood a chance.