LIFE WITH THE COWBOYS

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Growing up in the 1950’s there were many times my parents or aunts and uncles used phrases that gave me imaginary moments of interpretation. In other words, they would often describe something by using examples of something totally unrelated, but you got the sense. Of course there were some interpretations because of my age I could not translate. For instances…

I think his shoes were involved

Mom to her younger sister about some actor or celebrity: “He can park his shoes under my bed anytime”

???

At the age of 5, that had no sense to it at all, yet it left a lot of questions.

Why would someone leave their shoes under Mom and Dad’s bed?

And if they do, will I get to meet them?

How come it was always a man, not a woman?

How come Dad NEVER said it?

My grandma Frances had one she said in broken English. “OOOH Cowboy”

The people who lived down the block from us had a messy outside landscape, with garish drapes, and an unfinished carport. The door was usually wide open and kids running about. When Grandma came to visit, we would pass the house and grandma would say: “Oooh Cowboy?” She would then laugh a short chuckle.

Speaking of cowboys, that ran in the family, since Grandma’s son, my Dad used it to describe a bad driver, one who would cut into and out of traffic, weaving about the road as: “Driving like a cowboy.”

Then there is this one, once heard as a youngster while Dad was driving on Conduit Avenue in Brooklyn. Every time I see a bus I think of it. Dad is behind a bus, Mom is a little nervous, and says: “Anthony, don’t kiss the buses ass!” She would realize what she said and explain away where she heard it.

The sauce of my troubles

Mom was a truly great cook, extraordinary in all she did, except for one meal. When we were very young, 3 or 4 kids was a lot of mouths to feed and keep them from complaining. Rather than hear us complain about being hungry, she would rather hear us complaining about the food. We were poor, and although we didn’t get what was being served at the Waldorf, we ate nourishing meals and made with a lot of love. But the only dish I hated in those days was stew. Most moms made it with brown

Starving Armenians on TLW's side

gravy: mine made it with red sauce. To me, potatoes and green peas in red stew sauce was not to my liking, as it wasn't a pasta sauce but a red tomato gravy. I would pick out the meat to eat it and not eat anything else but the bread and butter that she put out, that being the only occasion I complained about the food. Now TLW (The Little Woman) tells me about that as a kid she had to deal with the starving Armenians who would gladly eat what she didn’t want to eat, and for me it was the Chinese. One particular conversation with Mom went like this:

I don't know, these Chinese don't look all that hungry to me!

“Ma, do you HAVE to make stew again? I hate stew!”

“Really? Well you just think about the poor Chinese children who would love it.”

“Well Ma, why don’t we send them the stew and we can eat something else?”

“Because I like stew, Ummm, so good!” She was really unlikeable when she did that to me. This went along with another conversation we always had.

“Ma, why do I have to throw out the garbage all the time, I hate it!”

“Because I said so, that’s why.”

Well, maybe I’ll make some nice stew tonight, and when I’m done, clean up and throw out the garbage. She'd be proud of me.