Observations and Ramblings from a Cranky Old Guy – An Xperience Column

Observations and Ramblings from a Cranky Old Guy – May – An Xperience Column – by Jeff Spaulding.

Over the next two issues, I’ll be reflecting on my parents, in honor of Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. I‘m going to share what I call “unusual memories” of who they were and how they made me the idiot I am today. I’ll start with my mother.

Marie, who departed in 2005, was born in Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania, one of three children, along with her sister Helen and her brother Charlie. They and my grandfather Patrick were 100 percent Irish and from them, I got my … unusual … unique … occasionally inappropriate, and slightly ribald sense of humor. Grandpa was an actual coal miner till the day he died. I was told that the day his wife (my grandmother) died, his hair went white overnight. One day he laid down in the mine and just passed away.

Marie was close to Patrick, and on many a Saturday night (especially after my grandmother passed) the two of them were at the local pub knocking down a pint or twenty and holding each other up walking home. Like me, they couldn’t hold their liquor either.

After Patrick passed, Marie moved East. During those days as a young bobby-soxer, she spent many a night at the Paramount Theater, swooning to ol’ Blue Eyes. Decades later, she had a chance to see Sinatra on opening night of the (then) Knickerbocker Arena in downtown Albany. I asked her how excited she was to see him after all these years. She told me if she got close enough to the stage, she would bang him right then and there. Knowing my mother, it was quite possible she would in fact attempt that.

I’ll tell you a couple of things about Marie so that, if you know me, you will understand why I am like I am. Like when I was 12, and it was Mother’s Day. Mom loved animals of all kinds, so my sister gave her a nice ceramic cat, which she displayed on top of the television. As I went to look at it and attempt to pet it, she screamed my name and said, “Get your hands off of my p—sy!” I knew what she meant, she knew I knew what she meant, but I didn’t want her to know I knew what she meant. I excused myself and ran to my bedroom to laugh my head off and piss my pants.

My favorite Marie story took place around the same time at our suburban Loudonville paradise. The back of the house was on the North Colonie/South Colonie border, so one block over and I would have been a Colonie Red Raider instead of a Shaker Blue Bison (shoutout to the Class of ’74). Anyway, Sam and Marie bought their first barbeque and wanted to christen it by cooking a duck. We did not know it was impossible to barbecue a duck but went at it they did. While it cooked, Sam downed his Seagram’s and Marie, a bottle of Wild Turkey. It was a warm summer afternoon and the drinks were going down smoothly, if not faster than normal. Finally, the time had come and the duck, at least on the outside, appeared done if not close to being burnt. We brought it in, and when Marie cut it open, it was still quite raw and bloody. Pissed off, she put it back in the barbeque to cook more, while she herself was getting more cooked on the Wild Turkey. After a bit, my sister and her husband came over, and it was time for another duck check. Off the barbecue, back to the kitchen, and still raw and bloody. Now Marie was really pissed. She turned the heat up and increased the Wild Turkey. After the third unsuccessful check, she gave up and had my brother-in-law take her—and the duck—to Shop Rite on Wolf Road, where my cousin Jeanette was working the Customer Service Desk. In comes Marie, raw and bloody duck in hand, takes said duck and throws it on the counter—blood and loose duck parts flying everywhere—and screams at the top of her lungs repeatedly, “This f*cking duck sucks!” Jeanette quickly gave her her money back (even without a receipt), and we had hot dogs for dinner.

Next month, my dad Sam will be in the spotlight.

Be hearing you.

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