The Dating Rules:

My dates had to come to the door for me and meet my parents rather than honk their car horns. They had to get Dad’s stamp of approval or I wasn’t going anywhere with them. [Did I mention Dad was hard to please?] If any of my dates made the mistake of discussing politics with Dad, look out. One of my dates and Dad got into a discussion of FDR, one of Dad’s personal heroes. My brainy honor student date opined that FDR was a socialist whose policies were undemocratic. Dad nearly burst a blood vessel, called my date a communist, told him not to return unless he apologized and was waving the American flag, and then Dad gave him the bum’s rush out the door [Use your imagination to guess how popular I was in high school.]

If the date involved a form of entertainment of which Dad did not approve, I remained at home for the evening. I wasn’t allowed to patronize the neighborhood’s family tavern with my friends until I turned eighteen. All they did was dance to the music from the jukebox and drink Coca Cola. Big whoop.

If my date brought me home after my curfew [10:00 p.m.], there would not be another date with him, and I would be grounded for a month. On one occasion when my date and I were out with two other couples, the car in which we were riding broke down about an hour from home. Cell phones weren’t available yet, so we split up and went from house to house asking permission from homeowners to use their phones. They must have thought we were gang members because they either peeked out their windows at us or wouldn’t open their doors. Finally, one woman opened her door a crack to one of us girls, leaving the security chain on, and eventually agreed to call for help for us. We got a tow, and I arrived home after midnight. No excuse was good enough, not even when the other five backed me up. [At that point, I believe I resigned myself to being an old maid.]

Safety and Self Defense:

When out on a date—group, double, or single—if I left my beverage unattended, Dad said I was not to drink from it upon my return. It might be drugged. I was to leave it and get a fresh beverage.

Should a date get too familiar, Dad said the knee is a very effective weapon if directed at a certain part of the male anatomy. [He even demonstrated the technique and had me practice, protecting himself of course.]

Dad advised me not to believe everything my dates told me. He assured me that a guy would say anything and promise everything to get a girl to go to bed with him. [I had to wonder if Dad’s was the voice of experience talking, but I didn’t dare ask.] Dad said to take flattery with a grain of salt and keep those legs crossed.

I was also to beware of the guys who were perfect gentlemen on the first date. Dad said it was a safe bet that they were lulling me into a false sense of security. Then he mentioned one more thing, and it seemed almost like an afterthought, “And whatever you do, never trust a hand kisser.”

Dad never got around to explaining in greater depth at the time. Why would Dad warn me not to trust a hand kisser? I didn’t get it, not until we were watching an old classic black and white movie on TV one night. The suave, snake in the grass villain who was out to ruin the heroine took her hand gently in his and kissed it, all the while looking soulfully into her eyes as if to say, “Your virtue is safe with me.”

Dad harrumphed and said, “That son of a [bleep] is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” He shook his head and grunted. “Women. They can be so dumb when it comes to men. She thinks he’s such a gentleman, so continental, and he’s just out to take advantage of her.”

That’s when it registered at last. I said, “Never trust a hand kisser. Right, Dad?”

Dad smiled at me and nodded. “Right, Sweetheart.”

See that, folks? I’m coachable.

#dating #DADD

Dad taught me to read and write a year before I started school. As a consequence, I was advanced a grade—I skipped kindergarten—and was the youngest in my class all the way through elementary and high school.

Thanks to Dad, I loved to read, and I loved to learn new things. I always had my nose in a book. It served me well at school because when the teacher asked a question, I usually knew the answer. My voracious reading also taught me much that wasn’t in the school curriculum, so I occasionally raised my hand to contribute this additional knowledge. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I was very probably the teacher’s pet because of that.

I also made enemies in my class because of that. There were a couple of not terribly bright boys (I’m being kind; their combined IQs failed to exceed that of laundry lint), who were furious that a brainy little girl made them look as stupid as they actually were. One day, they cornered me in the schoolyard, pushed me around and threatened to break both my arms if I ever raised my hand again to answer a question.

Yipes! In addition to always being the youngest in my class, I was the shortest and skinniest. Those beefy boys were a lot bigger than I was in both height and width. If memory serves, they had no necks. I was afraid of what they would do to me. If both my arms were broken, how could I turn pages to read and how could I write?

On the other hand, I was even more intimidated by what my parents might do to me if my grades suddenly plummeted. No allowance (which meant no ice cream money). No TV. No riding my bike. No Saturday matinees at the movies with my friends. The list of punishments was potentially endless and unendurable.

So there I was, a kid in fifth grade, stuck between a rock and a hard place, trapped in a living nightmare. It was a tough decision to make, but make it I did. I decided to go with broken arms.

The next day in class, I raised my hand to answer questions. One glance at the two brainless bullies gave me reason to believe that they were not amused. My assumption was correct. When school let out, they were waiting for me outside with a death sentence in their eyes. I knew I was doomed.

What made the situation even stickier was that I lived within six city blocks of the school and wasn’t eligible to ride the bus. I had to walk to and from school, and I walked alone—but not on that day. I had company of sorts on that day. The two elementary school thugs dogged my steps all the way, cussing at me, calling me names, punching me, kicking me, and shoving me. I clutched my precious books as tightly as I could to keep from dropping them, and I tried very hard not to give the fifth grade goons the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

It was a very long six blocks. When we finally turned the corner onto the street where I lived, I had a momentary feeling of elation. My home was just past the house on the corner. I was within reach of sanctuary, but there was one last torture to endure. The side of the corner house was lined with shoulder-high (for me) thorny shrubs. My two twisted tormenters shoved me into those shrubs with their piercing thorns. As soon as I righted myself, they shoved me into them again. And again. And again—laughing all the while. I had bloody scratches on my hands, face and shins. I was crying by then, feeling utterly defeated, and I thought I would never make it home alive. That was when I saw a familiar figure come rushing down the sidewalk in my direction, and my heart skipped a beat.

Dad.

He wasn’t supposed to be home from work yet. It was much too early, and yet there he was, the cavalry coming over the hill in the nick of time. My hero!

The finger Dad had pressed to his lips told me not to give his presence away, and I didn’t. The laughing idiots were about to get the surprise of their misspent young lives. Dad grabbed both bullies from behind and lifted them into the air. They stopped laughing instantly and howled in terror. Dad whacked their empty heads together hard enough for me to hear the crack when their thick skulls collided. To my immense satisfaction, the little goons cried harder than little girls. Dad slammed their heads together again and said, “Tell your fathers what I did, and tell them why. If they don’t like it, tell them where they can find me.” When Dad dropped them, they took off as fast as Usain Bolt. Okay, maybe not that fast, but I’ll bet they came close. My fondest hope was that they also wet their pants.

As it turned out, Dad came home early because he had a monster headache and wasn’t feeling well. He was coming down with a virus. It was a first, because he never got sick and never missed work. In my estimation, he couldn’t have picked a better time for that first.

The two would be mini-mafia goons never bothered me again. If the mafia didn’t eventually recruit them, I suspect the National Football League probably drafted them. I mean, neither one had a discernible neck.

Dad never heard from either of their fathers, ever. The two creeps were dummies to be sure, but I think Dad must have knocked some sense into their skulls, literally. They apparently developed just enough smarts not to admit to their fathers that a little girl’s dad bashed their heads together because they were bullying his daughter.

Dad seemed at least a foot taller to me after that momentous rescue. He was my hero from then on. Although he’s gone now, he still lives on as my hero in my favorite Dad Memory. He always will.

Does anyone out there have a favorite Dad Memory to relate? Share, please.