News & Articles

There’s no revenge in this. It’s more a case of apparent collision and conflict that’s really not as bad as it might appear.

Having had somewhat combative parents (fought tooth and tong and would then turn around and sing harmonious duets – go figure?) I was accustomed to the wry side of life via “you son-of-a-bitch, darling.”

For people accustomed to believing love and family were fuzzy-wuzzy touchy-feely happy the concept (much less reality) of battle-love was more than, to abuse the phrase, a couple dozen bridges too far. I don’t mean throwing things or bashing one another. But conflict. Oh yes. We had that.

And you know, despite the hot words and routine explosions, the result was predictably calm and stable. You could say comfortable.

There’d be, for example a period where on a few days in a row Dad’s favorite meals appeared, like life rafts appearing on an other-days tumultuous seas. Nice.

I early learned to know what was coming around day three of ‘specially fine eating. Dad would set down silverware and ask to someone as if addressing no one in particular. “What did you buy?”

Mother, suffering a temporary hearing problem, would never hear the first time. That was, after all, part of the overall theater of battle. Time two or three of the question being lobbed artillery fashion toward the enemy camp, Mother would respond with a close-range mortar. “Oh, I didn’t buy anything. It’s on layaway.”

Of course, of course, layaway wasn’t a direct purchase. Call it stealth buying? Close enough.

After a few days of good eating came the peace negotiations and leaner times as the opposing forces truced their way into settled lines to determine the limits of cost and somehow figure out how we’d accommodate something we didn’t need, except for Mother wanting it. Drove Dad crazy.

“But we don’t need it!” Didn’t matter. Mother wanting whatever it was constituted a formerly unknown type of need.

And sure enough, and partly because layaway ensured a not-sudden appearance of what Mother needed the object would eventually appear and be accepted as what we wanted all along after all.

The overall state of constant hostilities and battle had as much (or more) truce and making up and reconciliation as it had battle lines. War is not the sole element, nor can it be. War can be a step necessary to find peace.

As a kid looking forward to a few days of fine dining every so often I was unconsciously exposed to a greater lesson and reality. The road of life is a bumpy affair. No bumps, no life. Essentially that’s it.

Tell you this, I personally think a life begun in the grips of a homeland battlefield goes a ways toward giving one a sense of humor. Or maybe it’s a sense of irony.

Whatever it is, there’s a sense of wonder at how two people could be in a state of perpetual joust and not be destroyed. Resilience! But also commitment.

Dratted old church admonished them to tough it out, so tough they did. Wore out how many sets of boxing gloves? Threw in the towel how often? Said “I’m done” when they weren’t done after all. Kept going.

First decade and a half I was carried along. Not a bad ride. T’ be honest, don’t think I saw or appreciated or used the gifts of having grown up as a sort of war correspondent. It starts to hit later when someone you know and care about has a sort of rough time with the fact there’s stuff in the corners of your rooms. To me was funny. To (has to be) her wasn’t funny at all. Was stuff of serious importance.

Not to me. My wiring said “Huh?” I mean, who’d bother fussing about that? So I put things in corners. Good place for ‘em. Not in the way. I know where they are and why they’re there.

Even more important was “readily visible.” I thought that fine because I was lacking in a sense of décor. So I was told.

Well, that’s OK. Being decorous maybe wasn’t my area. Fact is, I think that says it. Some folks have one sense of décor and others follow a different plan.

Why just the other day I was in a dental office ready to suffer torment I knew too well from childhood days when my jaw was broken in a car accident. When you are five (which I was) people coming at you with pincers, wires, needles and other such are to be fought off as best you can. Me, I kicked and bit. I didn’t like the broken jaw treatment, not at all. I could not be persuaded otherwise. Could you have been? I doubt.

So, any road, my attitude toward metal objects aiming at my mouth is long standing and not readily modified. I no longer kick, but can bite if provoked. When being treated I insist on all the relief available. Gas, Novocain and anything else lying about should be used.

I’d as soon have a mail-in mouth so I’d not have to be present for any of it, but so far such an improvement is not available. An opportunity for some far-thinking person, I’d say, but maybe I am being unrealistic and too fussy. Can’t, I think, blame me. An iron chisel aims at my mouth and I’m highly nervous and uncomfortable. A knock-out is in order.

But, battle instinct led me to see something I feel is pretty darn special to find in an office of dental torture. They had a pamphlet titled “Pregnancy and oral health.” God, I loved seeing that because it was all there right in front of me.

Maybe some of you are fortunate to see what I saw in that helpful publication. Did you? In practiced conflict mode, I saw oral as the ideal counter to pregnancy. Pamphlet good as laughing gas, and I’m still laughing. Simple.

Doesn’t take much oral to cancel out the pregnancy possibility. Wrong tube, of that I can assure you. And, with my military helmet on to deflect counters, I can say I’m inclined to recommend it.