The Gypsy and the Pocket Knife

About a million years ago I accompanied my Grandad to the big county fair at Harrodsburg, KY. They had all the usual rides and games and 4H and FFA competitions. Grandad loved to go because they had a horse show and a big dog show for foxhounds.

One day during the fair, Grandad was heading out to the stable area with some friends to look at a horse. He asked me if I wanted to go, or just wander around the rides and games. I opted for the latter. He gave me a pocketful of change and told me to meet him at the dog show when it started. I looked over all the games to see which one had the best prizes. I found one that you operated a little derrick and clamshell inside a plexiglass box. You tried to pick up a toy and drop it down a slot. If you succeeded, you won the little toy.

Well, I saw a pocketknife in amongst the toys. So I tried the game over and over. I was a smart kid, but try as I might I couldn't get the little knife to drop straight. The clamshell seemed to always jerk at the last minute and the pocketknife would bounce clear of the slot. I used up all the nickles Grandad had given me and walked away pretty sad.

Met up with Grandad at the dog show and he immediately knew something was wrong. I explained to him what had happened and that I suspected the whole game was rigged so you couldn't win. He didn't say much, just told me to take him over to the game tent. When we got there he gave me another coin and told me to try again. Same results. Almost. Grandad was in his seventies but still a good man. He politely asked the Gypsy running the game to walk over to where we were standing. When the ne'er-do-well finally came down there, Grandad got a hold of him and spoke softly into his ear. The Gypsy reached right down into the plexiglass box and pulled the little knife out and handed in to me.

Little Kevin has that knife now. It's probably 50 years old by now.

We still don't know exactly what Grandad said to the Gypsy, but apparently he got his attention.

Parenthood

I didn't know how to be a parent. Nobody touched me with a magic wand and taught me how to be a good Father. As a matter of fact, I don't ever recall anybody telling I was a good Father. Hell, I guess maybe I was a really bad Father. But one thing I know for sure; I didn't raise any weak children. My daughter is tougher than most NFL linebackers, and most of the civilized world probably considers my sons to be downright dangerous.

As a parent, you handle the day-to-day education of your children using little bits of knowledge you have stored away in your brain. If a mean dog comes close to you, you kick it as hard as you possible can. You try to kill it. That is just instinctive. Well, at least for me that is instinctive. So I passed that life lesson on to my kids. Maybe at the time I thought I was teaching them not to ever take a chance with something that could possibly harm them. The lesson they learned was "if someone or something threatens your family - kill it".

OK, they learned. Did I possibly display too much anger, too much hatred, too much violence? Maybe so. But the Brannen children learned, and they learned well.

Just yesterday, I was visiting with one of my sons and his family. His wife came in from town and brought him a Philly cheese steak sandwich. He was very appreciative and immediately opened up the wrapper and started eating the sandwich. I could see the sandwich had no cheese on it. A high dollar sandwich from a high dollar restaurant and they had left the cheese off a cheese steak sandwich. He handled the situation a little differently than I would have. He simply added some cheese.

I commented that I wasn't all that surprised that he had been screwed, told him that I don't eat restaurant food because I got tired of the order always being wrong. He laughed and told me he knew very well that I was highly intolerant. So I asked him what he was talking about.

He told us that as a child growing up he understood that money was tight. I was an enlisted man in the Marine Corps and my wife didn't work. So we ate at home. Kevin said that he remembered a few occasions when I had taken him and his brother hunting or shooting and had a little extra money and stopped to get fast food. A real treat for young boys who never got out. But alas, he never got to eat any of the food. Invariably the order was wrong, and I got mad about some halfwit screwing things up, when it was very difficult for me to treat my sons to a hamburger, and I got UPSET.

He said he could still picture me bouncing sausage biscuits off the MacDonald's manager's forehead because I didn't get the egg and cheese that I had paid for. Said he could remember he and his brother straining to get in position to watch through the "drive thru window" as I disassembled a sandwich that I had not ordered and stuffed it down the shirt front of the manager of a Hardies. He went on to say that the only four times I ever had the money to be able to stop and get my sons something to eat the order was wrong and I made them do without their meal because I went back inside and "fed" it to some employee who had failed to listen.

Wow. I remembered some of those events, but he remembered them vividly.

Was he upset because I had been a bad Father? Not at all. He was extremely proud of me for sticking up for the "American public" and showing people that we wouldn't accept anything less than what we paid for. Now he lives his life by that creed. He is a hard man to deal with. He demands that people work as hard as he does. Boy, that really makes it tough on the slackers in our society.

So, I guess I was a good Father after all. My son just wishes I would have gone to the next restaurant we came to and gotten him a hamburger.

No Burgers

Once upon a time in London, England, a group of US military men went to a steak house to get a little break from the food on board ship.

We were greeted at the door by a well dressed man that asked us what our business was. We replied that we wanted to have a nice meal. He summoned his boss who took a quick look at us, made a small "sweeping away" motion with one hand, and told his hired man to "Tell them we have no burgers."

Needless to say, we weren't able to get any supper. I doubt anyone was able to eat there for a month or so, after we completed the "renovations".

Don't recall what happened to Mr Snob and his assistant. I believe I did see them swimming hard for the far shore of the Thames...

But I'm not sure.

The Truth

Back in the time of World War II, some German prisoners of war were brought to Mason County, Kentucky and placed in a work camp. They were sort of at the disposal of the citizens. If you needed work done, you simply "checked out" a few prisoners and they worked for you for the day. You just provided them with food and water and they were at your disposal.

Well, Russell "Fatty" Galbreath was never too big a fan of working himself, so this sounded like a good plan to get his farming done. He went down and got a group of the German prisoners to work on his farm. All morning they worked hard, each one doing far more work than Fatty could do. He was very pleased. At dinner time he brought them up to his back yard and served them a big meal of fried chicken and potatoes. They hadn't had a meal that good in a long time and they were very appreciative. When they finished eating, they were ready to get back to the afternoon work, but Fatty needed a little time to relax and let his huge lunch digest, so they all lounged around under a shade tree for a while.

Fatty's normal work clothes consisted a a pair of bib overhauls, usually with no shirt, and the cheapest shoes he could find. This particular day he had a pair of really cheap leather shoes on. He didn't have any laces in them because he couldn't get in position to tie them anyhow. As he lay relaxing he noticed a fine pair of boots one of the Germans was wearing. The German saw him looking and hiked up his pant leg to show the well worn, but still good looking military issue hobnails they referred to as "jack boots". The soldier looked over at Fatty's shoes and with sort of a half grin he pointed to them and said "Jewey", then he pointed to his own boots and said "No Jewey". Even though he was just a simple Wehrmacht soldier, he knew the Truth.

Language Barrier

Mike Devine and I sat in a bar in Copenhagen one night, enjoying a few bottles of Tuborg and our hard earned liberty. We sat and drank and smoked and shot the bull for a couple of hours and both of us started feeling some hunger pangs.

We had noticed a couple of the waitresses serving some sort of a meatball on a stick. Hadn't seen any other food being consumed in the joint, so we were both craving some of those "meatball things".

I went up to the bar to get a couple more beers and asked the bartender about the "meatball things". He made a puzzled face and said he spoke no English. We drank another couple of beers and I told Devine we were going to have to leave and find someplace to eat, because I was starving. He laughed and said he would order us some of the "meatball things". Said he had been paying attention to the Danish language our entire time in port and that I should have too, so I wouldn't, once again, appear to be the Ugly American.

He flagged down the nearest waitress and made a lot of gestures with his hands and then shouted "meatball things" at the top of his lungs. She jumped back and started to run, but a passerby laughed and spoke to her in her native tongue and she quickly went to the kitchen and brought us our snack.

Devine was very pleased with his mastery of the foreign language. I was pleasantly surprised with the flavor of the "meatball thing".

Another liberty stop was in Oslo. Mike Devine and I were once again out on the town and got hungry. We had tried a couple of restaurants over the past few days and usually met with disdain from the proprietors. They immediately figured us for ruffians and were very rude. So we were just mainly drinking beer in town and eating back aboard the ship. Well, anyhow, we came across a little mobile kitchen. Like the Roach Coach you see around industrial areas at lunchtime. We walked up and saw the menu board was in English. Cheeseburgers and fries! We were in hog heaven. We each ordered some good old American style food and proceeded to a little side bar that held the condiments. There was red and yellow. Not anything like ketchup or mustard, but they looked the part. Whatever, we were chowing down when Devine saw a little picture someone had scratched into the paint on the end of the food truck. Rather an obscene little drawing of a stick man and woman and underneath the words "do pic" were scratched.

Of course, old multi-lingual Devine decided "do pic" would be a good opening line when and if we met any girls. I had my doubts, but I was along for the ride, good or bad.

That evening, in a beer joint, Mike tried out his new opening line on one of the local lovelies. He may very well still have the red outline of that girl's hand on his face (and it happened 40 years ago). We may never know what "do pic" means, but I think it is better off left out of conversation with Norwegian women.

The Fiddler

Back around the turn of the last century, the Brannen's frequently attended the local county Fairs. Many times they entered the competitions, showing their horses and mules and cattle. Sometimes they raced their horses. It was often the biggest event of the year. Carried on for a couple generations.

One year Bob Horde, a close family friend, had bought a prize horse and was ready to race him in every event that he was eligible. Even bought his wife some expensive ladies riding attire so she could compete in the ladies' events.

Before the final night's big event, the Ladies Fine Harness Category, Bob Horde took Puzzler out to warm him up. Well, Bob was drunk and when the crowd saw him they cheered and went crazy. That excited Bob and Puzzler and they really put on a show, until Bob passed out and fell forward on Puzzlers hips. That scared the horse and he crashed through the side rail of the track and ran back to the stable area.

My Grandad ran back there to help out and when he ran into the stable, there stood Puzzler fighting the gag reign, Bob still slumped forward on the horses hips, and two older black men who worked the stables. They too were drunk, one sitting on a bale of hay pretending to play the fiddle with two stalks of fodder while the other one danced.

I think my Grandad saw it all in his life.

Can't you drive her?

About a hundred years ago, my Grandfather and his brother Jack hitched up a brand new, fancy buggy and headed for church on a Sunday morning. They had on their best suits and were looking sharp in their Father's fancy, expensive buggy.

Down the pike came their Uncle Jimmy. He was a hardbitten old Irishman. His wife and children had all died from tuberculosis and he hadn't much left to live for. Just his whisky and his prize horse, a trotter named Spokane. They say that Jimmy used to spend the weekend on the road, racing with anyone who came by. So when he pulled up alongside my Grandad and his brother, the race was on.

Jimmy and Spokane had already raced a few other buggies and old Spokane was worn out, or he would have won easily. But it turned into a very close race. With Grandad and his brother Jack (who had the reins) ready to turn into the churchyard and win the race, Uncle Jimmy cut them off. They wrecked the buggy, tore it all up, skidded through the crushed stone, shredding their clothes and bloodying their knees and elbows. They came up fighting mad.

Uncle Jimmy circled around and drove right up to them. "What's the matter, buddy, can't you drive her?" he said to Jack. Put the bud to Spokane and away they went.