There’s lots of stuff in this life that I simply don’t understand. What’s at the top of my list, you may ask? Why would any parent feed a 5-year-old child broccoli? “Sit down and eat your broccoli or no dessert” is what my Dad said to The Sister, my three brothers and me at least twice a week during those seven years we spent growing up at 110 Flamingo Street. I loathed broccoli back then. Things are different now.
Now that I’m older, I understand. That green stuff resembling miniature trees is actually good for you. It’s rather tasty battered, drenched in buttermilk, and then deep-fried. I love the stuff cooked that way.
Something else I didn’t understand while we lived on Flamingo Street was the different reactions from Mom and Dad when we did something really really wrong.
After working well into the night at the 3-year dig we all called Cliff Condos, I rode my bike home to a huge surprise: blue lights from three police cars bouncing off the trees in front of our house. So busy digging at the condo site, I had lost track of all time and forgotten Mom’s last words, “Be home by 6 for dinner.”
I rode up the driveway just a little after 10 that night. As I walked through the front door, Mom ran over and hugged me with tears streaming down her face. I told her I was sorry for being late. Dad’s reaction was not tears.
After making sure I was all right, Dad took me by the arm and led me down the hallway to the bedroom and to my punishment. Once there, he took off his belt and said, “This is going to hurt me more than you.” Only 9 years old, I never forgot that illogical statement Dad said that night. How could he hurt more than me? He was the one wielding the belt. I was the one turned over his knee.
I’m older now and a parent. I understand. As you hold your child for the very first time and their little hand wraps around your finger, you vow never to let anything hurt them. My dad cried twice that night. Once when he thought I was lost forever. And once again after he left my bedroom.
There were times when our parents didn’t punish us or even try to teach us a lesson. They let us learn by ourselves. One of those lessons I learned over 40 years ago this week.
I remember graduating from Briarwood High School, home of the Mighty Buccaneers, like it was yesterday. Graduation night, Dad and I fell into another argument about nothing. Our arguments had gotten longer, louder, and more frequent the closer we got to that day. This time it didn’t end with me being yelled at, grounded, or punished like before. Oddly it ended with a smile.
I had just informed him that I was glad to finally be out from under his oppressive thumb. Off at college I would be able to do anything I wanted. There would be no curfew. No rules. No one would be harassing me about homework being done or not done. I could eat anything for dinner I wanted. Above all else, there would be no broccoli. When my tirade was over, Dad just smiled.
It was 30 years later that my son and I had the same year-long argument about nothing that came to a head on graduation night. Like with my dad, it also included a tirade and a promise to never return and “live under your oppressive thumb.” The argument ended that night with a smile. This time it was from me.
My advice for all those who have just graduated: after over 58 years on this spinning blue globe, I have learned if I don’t understand something, given enough time, I will.
Just wish I’d realized that back on Flamingo Street. Perhaps that plate full of broccoli would’ve tasted better.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
