You weren't helpless, you were much more

I remember one night when I was little, my dad took me to Wheeling to shop with him. After we parked the car, he accidentally shut the car door of our '62 Biscayne on my finger. It was a deep cut and it bled profusely.

We ran into Banov's and then into a grimy back room at a dirty sink to run water over it. The worst part of it all was seeing how badly my dad felt and that I couldn't do a thing about it.

I like that I can still see the mark left on my finger. It isn't necessarily a bad one - there or anywhere else. It reminds me of him.

Associative Bad Taste

When we were young, my mom carried a roll of them in her purse. They were intended to keep us quiet during shows, presentations, church, etc.

Usually on a Sunday in church, she would shove one of these at my sisters or me when we couldn't help from giggling over a joke, shrill singing or the crude cartoons we drew on the bulletin.

Imagine getting up earlier than you really wanted - putting on plastic-soled Pic-Way shoes and clothes that weren't at all comfortable, and trying on an empty-sleepy stomach, to ingest something that smelled and tasted like a napthalene mothball or urinal cake.

I like WinterGreen just fine, but please, please: no Cryst-O-Mints for me.