In Front of Your Sisters

I've mentioned before that Daddy never cursed in front of us when we were youngsters.

We  might have seen his irritable side after we became teenagers (though I can't imagine why teenagers would make anyone cuss),
but when we were younger: never.

At this point, I will digress and observe that every boy loved rasslin' back in the day. I mean "rasslin'" not "wrestling" and it is much more a sport to me than that stuff they do in the Olympics.

I mean if you were to get in a fight as a kid, it would most likely start with a punch or two and then some grappling and rolling around on the ground and some more punching and perhaps even (if you really were mad) you might throw in a bite.

Rasslin'. Right? Plus you had the extra added attraction of good vs. evil.

Plus it was a common ground for my dad and I. I found out years later that he had wanted to be a rassler after he had mustered out of the navy at the end of WWII.

So you can imagine the thrill when he told me (I was maybe ten or eleven) that we were going to the rasslin matches on Monday night at the Memphis Mid-South Colliseum.

We would be going with Ed and Don and Flootsie (Ed's brother), some of Daddy's friends who were not exactly church-goers.

I may have told you that I was scared of my daddy until I was thirty, maybe thirty-one.

So when he leaned over into my face all serious-like as we were getting into the car to go get the fellas, I can tell you I was somewhat alarmed.

This usually prefigured punishment of some sort, since like most fathers of the time, he was a pretty serious guy and not much prone to tolerating foolish behavior.

What had I done?

Instead he spoke, with an intent manner.

"These old boys we're going with tonight, you might hear some rough talk. I don't want to catch you repeating any of it in front of your mama or your sisters."

I get it , Dad. What happens at rasslin' stays at rasslin'.