It seemed wherever my Father went; he could do something to get into trouble. It was after the Cooperstown fiasco in the German restaurant, that history repeated itself.
The setting was beautiful Williamsburg. The restoration village had a Governor’s mansion, and we lined up like lemmings on the edge of a cliff to view the historical furnishings of the era.
We gathered along in a hallway, a bunch of tourists, along with #1 Son and Dad.
Along the walls were paintings from the period, big old oil paintings that needed my Father’s touch, or so he thought. At the end of the hallway sitting on a stool was (I swear) a remake of Fraulein Hilda of Cooperstown fame! (See yesterday’s blog) Almost a dead ringer was this big old broad, that I was tempted to ask her if she was in Cooperstown at any time.
Well Tony, as Dad’s friends and Mom called him, was “Explaining” to his grandson the painting that stood within his grasp. As I watched, a sickening feeling was coming over me, and like in slow motion, he went into action, all my being I tried to stop him. Alas, (Who ever says that, anymore?) it was too late. Dad was touching the canvas! Fraulein Hilda was jumping out of her blond pigtails yelling: “SIR, PLEASE DON’T TOUCH THE PAINTING”.
Sheepishness set in. Mom and I moved about two miles away from them, trying desperately to disassociate us from them. Poor #1 Son now had a first hand view of being Grandpa’s son.
As we left the building that afternoon, my Mother was giving dear old Dad, HELL. Sheepishly he tried to defend himself, and to make matters better: I said: “Well Dad, she called you SIR!”
Wish someone would call this blogger away from his computer to miss a blog? Then write to: joedelbroccolo@yahoo.com. Tell him: “Don’t blog me, I’ll blog you.”
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