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There are stories in a family that are best
told only a generation later because then the perspective is just right
– we can then laugh at was once held as a sacred secret.
This story will help my son, Karl, when his talent is applauded and
recognized in ever wider circles and he stands as the tallest tree in a
forest of entertainers.
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Back in Christmas of 1978 my son was two and half years young.
Our family headed from New Jersey to Auburn, New York to visit the
grandparents for the holidays. This was the first time the grandparents
had seen our son start to walk. When we arrived, I spent about a half hour unpacking
all luggage and Christmas gifts. When
I finally got the last load in, my mother in law was standing in the kitchen
with a ladle in her hand thrusting it into my mouth.
“Is this sauce as good as Ragu?”
She put on her distinct German accent and demanded an immediate answer.
Nobody was around to warn me that I just fell into the Donohue trap.
“I suppose so, are you entering a
contest?” I stumbled to find an acceptable answer in the midst of
this interrogation. Jane
came into the kitchen and said “Yes it’s a contest and you just got the
booby prize, this is mom’s best home-made spaghetti sauce recipe that has
been in the family for generations.”
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“Why
didn’t you give me a warning?” My
feeble comeback had failed dismally.
“Merry Christmas.” The
women of the house were having a little fun.
In that house, in that kitchen, women ruled supreme - I was just
being given a reminder to surrender gracefully. |
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The atmosphere was set
for Karl, our son, to take center stage.
It was the night before the night before Christmas and we were settling
in. Karl was in rapture tucked between his grandma and grandpa
and they were taking turns reading him bedtime stories. Jane and I were downstairs frantically wrapping presents
and we realized in our entire cross checking that there was no gift from
Karl to his grandma. “This
is a disaster”, Jane declared.
“We have to get up early and take Karl to town to pick up something
mom needs.” “But she’s got everything already”, I interjected.
“Shush, there must be something muffer
(our name for Karl) can get that would please her.”
“Think, think”! “Maybe
another ladle, it looks like she wanted to bop me over the head with the
one she put in my mouth”, I said sarcastically.
“No, I am serious”. She,
who was always obeyed, had set her mind on the morning trek to the stores
on Christmas Eve. |
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Karl loved the
glare of lights, the shiny sparkle of the holiday cheer and busy shoppers
buzzing about as he was getting a free ride in the shopping cart.
We were in the kitchen section of what larger cities might think
of as Pier 1. He was
fascinated at this huge pot that looked like it could hold enough food to
feed a squadron of grown soldiers.
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Jane insisted I buy
it without any word of protestation of price.
Of course she had to pick up a couple of other dozen of smaller presents
to disguise this monstrous aluminum caldron.
All the other gifts in fact fit inside the pot with room to spare. |
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Now the game was afoot. How were we going to smuggle this grandiose container into
the house so that the grandmother would not notice? Jane got this idea on the ride back from town that
she would drop Karl and I off in the adjacent
woods, under the plausible pretext that I was showing
Karl the beautiful frozen finger lake of Oswego. I would bring him on my shoulders
back to the house when she signaled from atop a lookout spot in the guest’s
bedroom where we slept. The
blinds would go up and come down twice in case I missed the first go around.
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I got the signal all
right but nature intervened first.
Karl and I were in the narrow strip of woods next to a large tall
pine tree and I was pointing out the scenery of the vast still frozen lake
and keeping one revered eye out for the blinds.
But the warm breakfast drinks of hot cocoa, milk and orange juice
had bloated the boy’s blatter and mine.
He was squeezing himself in the crotch because he did not want to
wet himself. So I took the
liberty of showing how males hide themselves away and urinate on the trees.
This unseemly violation of forest etiquette was much like wolves
marking their territory. Karl,
in total innocence, followed his father’s example to the mark, well almost
to the mark. |
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But some taming force
of New Jersey city life or the rigorous hours of perpetual patience in toilet
training changed his course. Instead
of pissing on the tree he was urinating in the new highly priced pot.
I couldn't’t help notice the distinct sound of squirted urine on
metal. It’s a sound I had known
since my boyhood cleaning out the outhouse with a shovel. Today only airplane and train passengers know this distinct
pinging sound. But nature has
its way and it was too late to undo the deed or admonish him for being so
grown-up. I could not
take the pot to the lake for washing out of fear of Karl playing too close
to dangerous deep cold water. So
I emptied the piss out on the forest floor. Karl and I made a game of filling
it with snow and heading to the house now that the signal was given. |
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Jane had
gotten grandpa to take grandma in their bedroom
for romantic gift exchange midday.
This would give us about a fifteen minutes to exit the forest and
cross the road and smuggle the pot into the basement.
Karl was making a game of throwing more snow at me and in the pot.
Now I had to think of what to say.
As we approached the driveway, I had Karl on my shoulders and held
a pot handle to show it was full of snow.
“All it needs is a quick rinse, Karl decided to give it a unique
baptism all his own - look
at all this snow, Karl”. I
was pretending to be talking to both of them at once.
Jane sensing something was wrong helped me empty the snow out of
the pot into the washer sink in the basement of the house. |
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She put the pot up to
her nose and said. “Something
smells funny.” “Maybe we can
take it back to the store”, I suggested.
“No, no – the label is stained.”
She was very observant. All
her senses were especially keen around the Christmas season.
Karl, looking very pleased with himself, then told his mommy
that he had learned to pee in the forest with daddy. |
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He repeated his pleasurable story
to grandma that night when we observed the ritual of opening up one present
on Christmas Eve. Karl beamed
as he gave grandma the pot. Needless
to say we could hear grandma excuse herself and try to muffle her laughter
in grandpa’s arms. And that’s
the story of Karl’s Christmas gift of a piss pot to grandma |
