The Way We Were

On Saturday, Monty and I went on a short road trip to the city where we grew up. I kept hearing Barbra Streisand’s voice in my head, singing about “misty water-colored memories,” as we went to many of the places where we’d spent time as kids. When we drove past the house where I grew up, I could picture my parents, my two older sisters, Lisa and Heather, and my younger brother, Adam, so clearly that I could almost hear the conversations we used to have. Like any family, we had our own lexicon—our own words and expressions that would have meant nothing to others but everything to us. These are the ones I remember the most:

Virginia ham.  When I was twelve, my family went on a road trip from Colorado to Virginia and Washington, D.C. One of the places we went was colonial Williamsburg. Unfortunately, we chose the hottest day of the year to go there. I’m as much of a fan of “Yankee Doodle” as anyone, but watching a colonial band march to it while fly-covered piles of horse manure steamed in the sun lessened my enthusiasm. By the time we went to lunch, we were hot, hungry, and cranky, so Mom ordered ham sandwiches for all of us. I took one bite and spit it out. No offense to anyone in Virginia, but it did not taste like ham. I read the description of it in the menu and gagged all over again. Apparently, Virginia ham is smoked and aged—aged so much that mold has to be scraped off of it before it’s eaten. I suppose more sophisticated palates might enjoy it, but Lisa, Adam, and I refused to eat it, even when Dad lectured us on wasting food, telling us to look at how well Heather had done. Sure enough, Heather’s entire sandwich was gone—suspiciously, completely gone. I know she stashed it in her napkin. But to this day, if you mention that ham, Heather and Dad will swear that she ate it—Dad holds Heather up as a shining example of a person who was willing to try a new food.  But Lisa, Adam, and I know the truth. Heather didn’t eat that sandwich.

People in Hades want ice water. This was one of my mom’s favorite expressions. Any time we told her about something we wanted, she responded with this. I’d say, “Mom, I want spaghetti for supper.” She’d say, “People in Hades want ice water.” My sisters would tell her they wanted the latest style in jeans, and she’d say, “People in Hades want ice water.” I had no idea what this meant, but I felt terribly sorry for the people in Haiti who wanted ice water so badly and apparently couldn’t have it.

Monkey timing. We heard many variations on this phrase from my dad:
“People who monkey time in church will have plenty of time to think about their behavior when they get home. Alone. In their rooms.”
“Someone monkeyed with my pliers again. They are not to be used to cut toenails!”
“Bedtime is for sleeping, not monkeying around!”
“A person should be focused on their work, not monkey timing with their cats or worrying about snacks.” (Dad said this to me just last month.)

Never not once. This was the phrase Dad used when he referred to things we shouldn’t touch or do—never not once. When one of us (okay, it was me) used a toe to press play on the car stereo, he said, “Absolutely not. You know when you’ll do that again? Never not once.” When we (well, me again) wrote messages in the condensation on windows, he’d say, “That is a never not once activity.” I also had issues with the Cross pen Dad kept on his desk at home. It was silver and so smooth that it seemed to write all by itself. I knew it was a never not once item, but I couldn’t resist its siren call. No matter how careful I was with it, Dad always knew when I had touched it:
Dad: “Did you use my pen again?”
Me: “No. Yes.”
Dad: “And what do I call that pen?”
Me: “Your never not once pen.”
Dad: “Why?”
Me: “Because I’m not supposed to touch it, never, not once.”
Dad: “When can you touch my pen?”
Me: “When you die.”
Dad: “Exactly. Let’s not go through this again.”

NTA. This was another one of Dad’s specialties. It was his acronym for “No tentativeness allowed”—in other words, don’t hang back or act like you don’t know where you’re going. Push ahead, and you won’t get left behind. After concerts or baseball games, Dad would lead us through crowds, saying “NTA!” to us as the people parted in front of him like the Red Sea. When we went to New York City, Dad led us through the airport, saying “NTA!” the whole way. In the hotel on the night before we toured Times Square, he reminded us of NTA: “No one should be dawdling along, gaping and gawking. There will be plenty of time to gape when we stop together. Renee, are you listening?”

Monty and I have adopted almost all of these phrases into our own family vocabulary. Monty has a never not once pen—his treasured four color pen that I’m not supposed to use because he’s convinced I’ll lose it. When we leave any crowded event, we’re always at the head of the pack, saying, “NTA!” to each other. And when we were in the city on Saturday, at the library I loved so much as a child, Monty reminded me that it closed in an hour—there was no time to monkey time. The only thing on the above list that Monty hasn’t experienced is Virginia ham. And he won’t, at least with me—it will be a cold day in Hades before I eat it again.