Writing about root- beer-making recently unleashed a flood of memories about my father. One of the first must be from when I was two or three (and I know it was then because we were still living on Hancock Street in Boston.) First thing in the morning, my father would carry me into the bathroom and sit me on the toilet – or as he called it, the hopper- and then sit on a low radiator or such to wait for me. Invariably he would jump up saying, “Gee roozey, that’s hot!”
Sitting in the living room he often sang, “You are my sunshine” to me or sit me on his knee, as he sang, “Pony boy, pony boy, won’t you be my pony boy? Carry me, carry me, far across the across the plains. (Begin bouncing at this point.) Giddy up, giddy up, my pony boy.” He also had a little trick where he would pretend to take his voice out and put it in his pocket, leaving him with the barest of whispers. Then when I begged, he would put his voice back. Even years later I would ask him to repeat this trick.
Still today when I play the game of Sorry, when I land on a slide, I often say, “Slide, Kelly slide” as he did. Or when sending a player back to start, it was “So solly.”
I have filled pages of descriptions and recollections of my father but the above are memories that directly involved me.
Dorothy C. Judd (c) 2017