‘Father Knows Best’?? Ha!
If Daddy didn’t talk during dinner, no one spoke. Children should be seen and not heard. A friend of mine called this male parenting ‘benign neglect.’ Hands off and hope for the best. Sometimes he’d vent about a co-worker, but usually those stories were saved until I left the table. Much to his amazement and disgust, one of his co-workers resigned, as his side business of creating duck decoys became lucrative.
If this was a working night, he’d adjourn to the homemade rec room where his trusty manual typewriter and a large pedestal ashtray waited. My mother would gauge his mood and decide whether or not I should say goodnight when I hit the hay. In the morning, his typed casework was stacked by the front door, ready for his black briefcase.
If he wasn’t working, he’d grab his Viceroy cigs and head to the dining room to watch TV and smoke. He’d catch the news, occasionally changing channels if there was a focus on black people. He disliked situation comedies (unfunny) and westerns (useless), but he was a fan of Variety shows; he liked a lot of stand up comedians, like Buddy Hackett, Alan King, and especially Don Rickles. “Roast’ programs were big hits–The Friars Club used to televise their roasts. He could be drawn to shows with girls, like Petticoat Junction, but not often. And he never missed a Sunday Jackie Gleason (‘Scene Magazine’) show. Given his violent alcoholic father, it was odd that he adored Frank Fontaine, who played a drunk who told bad jokes and sang on Gleason’s show.
Then the local evening paper, at least the front section. The agricultural pages (I am not kidding!) were of no interest; neither was sports. Comics were a waste of time–“who the hell thinks these things are funny?” The best thing about the paper delivery was the glossy Sunday ‘Parade’ section, with a page called ‘Walter Scott’s Personalty Parade.’ Daddy roared with laughter when Mr. Scott had a sly put-down or acidic comment on a Hollywood star; he’d often repeat it to us more than once.
For years, he was obsessed with playing records of Kermit Shaffer’s ‘Bloopers’. He could hear the same screw-ups, coughs, and mispronunciations every week and still howl with laughter at the errors of others.
Obviously, he felt that he needed to join organizations to hobnob and get ahead. We joined a country club that had a pool and great restaurant (no golf course), and a pricey restaurant ‘club’ in the rich town next door. He joined Shriners, but stopped attending after a few years; the new leader was a big-mouthed asshole. He joined the Optimist Club, but never contributed any of his time or money to the philanthropic practices, which were a waste of time.
The one club he could never join was another restaurant/club in the center of the $$ community–a small two-story glass building located among the richest homes. Large curtains were never open–was this to hide shady backroom deals by the rich and powerful?. You could see ceiling chandeliers, and well dressed couples leaving in Cadillacs. Sometimes he’d drive by and pretend to not notice the full parking lot. I asked what the building was. Ready for the answer? (Can’t you guess?)
“That’s just a restaurant for rich assholes.”