Observations and Ramblings from a Cranky Old Guy

Observations and Ramblings from a Cranky Old Guy – by Jeff Spaulding.

Last time, in celebration of May being Mother’s Day Month, I put the spotlight on my mom. Not being sentimental, if you will, but more to show what a character she was, and how much of an influence she had on my life. This month, in honor of Father’s Day, it is time to pick on the old man.

My father Sam left us in 1969; he was in his mid-50s. I was just 13. I was closer to Marie than Sam, but each of them left me with their essence. Marie gave me her wonderful sense of humor, her sense of adventure, her high blood pressure, and let us not forget my potential for getting Alzheimer’s. Let us not forget my potential for getting Alzheimer’s. See, it is happening already.

As for Sam—the diabetes and the heart stuff, if we are staying in the medical field. But there are two parts of him I proudly wear as a badge of honor. This man, 125 pounds soaking wet, and sickly most of his life, had the biggest set of stones on him, and he let you know it. You could be twice as tall, twice as strong, twice as intimidating, but it did not matter to Sam. In his words, he would spit in your eye and drown you. The other part of Sam I carry to this day is his temper. You could time it to a fraction of a second when something pissed him off, and his face got redder than a commie flag, and you could smell the smoke coming out of his head.

One example of the Hurricane Sam experience was a year or so before he passed. Sam and Marie got me the coolest present— a gold Stingray bike, including the sissy bar (we could say that back then), banana seat (which still crushed my 12-year-old nuts), and it was a three-speed as well.

One afternoon I was riding around the neighborhood, and one of the school bullies approached me, saying he wanted to ride my bike. Back then I was a very weak and intimidated little fat kid, so I let him. He started popping wheelies when the handlebars snapped off my brand-new bike. As I walked it back home, Sam was on the front porch with a Camel nonfilter in one hand and a Seagram’s-and-Vichy in the other. From two blocks away, I saw the red face brighter than a hooker’s windowsill.

Two words: “What happened?” I answered. Three words: “Where is he?” I told him. We walked to where the bully was. Sam grabbed him by the throat and escorted him home (this is the ‘60s, stop freaking). When we got there, he let go, ran up to the bully’s dad, and said, “Your kid f—ked up my kid’s bike. You’re gonna replace it or I will f—you up.” This guy could blow Sam over just exhaling but Sam did not care. This was David taking on Goliath. Two days later I got a brand new bike, and the bully has not spoken to me after all these years.

My last Sam story seems fake, but give me a stack of Bibles, and I will testify to the truth. Sam had a bad habit of falling asleep in his recliner while smoking a cigarette. If the ash fell off in any other place, all that would happen would have been a cigarette burn on the carpet or the chair. One time, it was close to a 911 moment. And that moment came when the hot, lit ash landed on Sam’s pants. Not the leg of his pants, rather, the sweet spot part of his pants.

Sam suddenly wakes up, smelling something burning (insert Oscar Mayer Wiener jingle here), and starts screaming, “Marie, help me quick, my d—k is on fire!” Marie runs over and tries to beat the fire out (huh huh huh), after which Sam, in all seriousness says, “Rub some butter on it!” With that thought in mind, I will give you the picture of my mother, with help from the Land O’ Lakes girl, bringing my father to a satisfying, some say happy, ending.

Next time I will recap my trip to Buckeye State and my adventures with Vinylthon weekend.

Be hearing you.

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