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Authors: Lloyd Corricelli
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well.
He also taught us to fight and defend ourselves when necessary. The most important thing you can ever do in this life, he said, was to stick up for those that can’t defend themselves and stand up for what is right. That was also a lesson he learned in the Marines to justify going to ‘Nam, or so I’ve heard from some fellow veterans.
The first time I got in a fight was at Pike Street Elementary. It was in second grade and Billy Tolen, the class bully, shoved me down into a mud puddle. I went home crying, and my father threatened to punish me if I didn’t go back and kick Billy’s ass. He’d spent all those hours teaching me to defend myself and was upset that I’d just lay down and taken it from a bully. I hated him more than anything at that moment but the next day, Billy again pushed me in the puddle. When I stood up, he tried it again but this time I fought back. I took him out with one punch to the nose and made him cry. Billy’s bully days ended at that moment, and I never backed down from a fight again. That’s not to say I won many fights when I was younger. My smart mouth managed to get me beat up more times than I can count.
When I told my father I planned to go into the military as an officer he beamed with pride, assuming it would be with his beloved Corps. He seemed a bit disappointed when I chose the Air Force but that didn’t prevent him from smiling from ear to ear when he pinned on my gold Second Lieutenant bars on commissioning day. He told me that day I’d always made him proud. Though he hadn’t said anything recently, I could tell he was still a bit peeved about my leaving the Air Force. Eventually I hoped he’d get over it.
My mother was the prototypical fifties housewife, even though I’m most certainly not of that generation. She worked sporadic part-time jobs, usually around the holidays, but generally was content to stay home and raise her children. Supper was on the table every night promptly at six, and our house was always immaculate. Mom was a regular June Cleaver , and my brother and I were better off for it. I know far too many people forced to shuttle their children off to daycare so they can make the mortgage payment. I don’t blame them though; it’s the times we live.
I never really connected with my mother as much as Marc did. Maybe it was because I was the oldest child and her maternal instincts were newer. I hated asking her if I could do anything she might remotely construe as dangerous, because the automatic answer was always no. For example, I wanted to play football, but because I was smaller than a lot of kids she talked my father out it. Marc, only three years my junior, got to play, and did so through high school.
That doesn’t mean she wasn’t a great mom. She always made sure we had “cool” clothing when my father could care less. Marc and I would have been wearing leisure suits to school if our Dad had his way. Mom was the one who convinced my father to stop making us get buzz cuts and let us wear our hair like we wanted.
Despite all the issues, I’d say between the two of them they did a hell of a job raising us.
* * * *
Mom and Dad followed me into the house, and I could smell the freshly brewed coffee. The smell of perfume on a woman is easily my favorite aroma; coffee is a close second, ranking just above warm chocolate chip cookies. I prayed my mother had made the coffee because my father had a real problem producing a decent cup of Joe. You’d think a guy who spent over thirty years on the fire department would have learned, but no. His coffee had the consistency of mud and tasted just like it. Even the instant coffee packs that came in the Meals Ready to Eat I had in the military tasted better.
I was relieved when I saw the coffee wasn’t oozing out of the filter like swamp gas. I sat down at the kitchen table and waited for their inevitable questions. The wait was short lived.
“Any word on what happened, son?” Dad
He also taught us to fight and defend ourselves when necessary. The most important thing you can ever do in this life, he said, was to stick up for those that can’t defend themselves and stand up for what is right. That was also a lesson he learned in the Marines to justify going to ‘Nam, or so I’ve heard from some fellow veterans.
The first time I got in a fight was at Pike Street Elementary. It was in second grade and Billy Tolen, the class bully, shoved me down into a mud puddle. I went home crying, and my father threatened to punish me if I didn’t go back and kick Billy’s ass. He’d spent all those hours teaching me to defend myself and was upset that I’d just lay down and taken it from a bully. I hated him more than anything at that moment but the next day, Billy again pushed me in the puddle. When I stood up, he tried it again but this time I fought back. I took him out with one punch to the nose and made him cry. Billy’s bully days ended at that moment, and I never backed down from a fight again. That’s not to say I won many fights when I was younger. My smart mouth managed to get me beat up more times than I can count.
When I told my father I planned to go into the military as an officer he beamed with pride, assuming it would be with his beloved Corps. He seemed a bit disappointed when I chose the Air Force but that didn’t prevent him from smiling from ear to ear when he pinned on my gold Second Lieutenant bars on commissioning day. He told me that day I’d always made him proud. Though he hadn’t said anything recently, I could tell he was still a bit peeved about my leaving the Air Force. Eventually I hoped he’d get over it.
My mother was the prototypical fifties housewife, even though I’m most certainly not of that generation. She worked sporadic part-time jobs, usually around the holidays, but generally was content to stay home and raise her children. Supper was on the table every night promptly at six, and our house was always immaculate. Mom was a regular June Cleaver , and my brother and I were better off for it. I know far too many people forced to shuttle their children off to daycare so they can make the mortgage payment. I don’t blame them though; it’s the times we live.
I never really connected with my mother as much as Marc did. Maybe it was because I was the oldest child and her maternal instincts were newer. I hated asking her if I could do anything she might remotely construe as dangerous, because the automatic answer was always no. For example, I wanted to play football, but because I was smaller than a lot of kids she talked my father out it. Marc, only three years my junior, got to play, and did so through high school.
That doesn’t mean she wasn’t a great mom. She always made sure we had “cool” clothing when my father could care less. Marc and I would have been wearing leisure suits to school if our Dad had his way. Mom was the one who convinced my father to stop making us get buzz cuts and let us wear our hair like we wanted.
Despite all the issues, I’d say between the two of them they did a hell of a job raising us.
* * * *
Mom and Dad followed me into the house, and I could smell the freshly brewed coffee. The smell of perfume on a woman is easily my favorite aroma; coffee is a close second, ranking just above warm chocolate chip cookies. I prayed my mother had made the coffee because my father had a real problem producing a decent cup of Joe. You’d think a guy who spent over thirty years on the fire department would have learned, but no. His coffee had the consistency of mud and tasted just like it. Even the instant coffee packs that came in the Meals Ready to Eat I had in the military tasted better.
I was relieved when I saw the coffee wasn’t oozing out of the filter like swamp gas. I sat down at the kitchen table and waited for their inevitable questions. The wait was short lived.
“Any word on what happened, son?” Dad
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