My father had a movie theater ritual. Before we’d hit our seats he would buy both buttered popcorn (extra butter) and a box of chocolate covered raisins. Then he’d sprinkle the raisinettes over the popcorn, place a napkin atop it, and shake them down and through. Every movie; every time.
He loved Woody Hayes, High Street, and the old Neil House Hotel, but didn’t trust Art Modell, even then.
Smoked Lucky’s, then Camels…but nothing filtered.
Couldn’t stomach Elvis, but loved Buddy Holly.
Liked Mort Sahl and Jack E. Leonard, but not George Gobel.
Insisted that Jack Paar was a phony, and never quite understood why more people watched Johnny Carson than Joey Bishop.
He saw no use for female comedians whatsoever.
And he liked the “Rat Pack,” and the original “Ocean’s Eleven,” but would be late for dinner, Cub Scouts, or even card games for “Sgt. Bilko” or “Maverick.”
He liked Martin, but certainly not Lewis and years later Newman but not Redford. My father would insist that “The Sting” was great in spite of Redford.
My Dad loved “The Music Man” and no one, absolutely “…No one could shine Robert Preston’s shoes…”
He bet football and basketball, but not the ponies.
Liked the Four Tops and the Beatles.
Could “do without” the Supremes.
He revered his mother, but would demand that each Sunday night at 8:30 she switch from Ed Sullivan on CBS to Car 54 Where Are You? “Ma, please.”
When I was young, my dad told me that I had the “best set of friends” in the world, and loved Stuart, Bob, Joel, Mark, Alan, all of them…
Even in college when Wieder’s hair was long.
And try as he might he could never stay mad at Randy. Ever.
Fact is though, back in the day, when I’d be riding with him and whenever we passed some hippie-type college kid wearing the very same sweatshirt I’d have on, (but with hair down to his waist), my dad would always exclaim: “I’m sure his parents must be so proud of him!”
My dad taught me how to swing a bat, shuffle a deck, and respect my elders.
He would correct my grammar relentlessly.
And when I would bite my nails he would take his palm and flip my hand out of my mouth shouting “Fingers!.” “Bruce,” he’d harangue, “Some day you’ll be in public and you won’t even realize what you are doing or how it looks.”
He urged that I “Have compassion for those less fortunate…”
He would sometimes tear up, and tell me that I wasn’t obligated to make the same mistakes in life that he had.
And to his dying day he called me “Bruce The Goose.”
Some days I miss my Dad more than others.