I Fell…While Running for the Bus (And Other Lies That Got Me Through)
Childhood memories: where the emotional buffet is never short on surprises! My parents, Mom and Dad, were determined to give my sister Becky and me a wonderful upbringing, despite the occasional episode that would make a soap opera writer jealous. Dad’s temper was a family secret! Seriously, if Olympic medalists specialized in “Unexpected Outbursts,” he’d have earned a few Golds on his way to heaven. As a kid, I fine-tuned my skills in “conversation weather forecasting,” hoping to avoid triggering a family storm.
When Dad’s thunder clouds rolled in, Mom was usually the one holding an umbrella made of hope and nerves. He never hit Becky or me, but Mom occasionally ended up as an unwilling target. I used to get frustrated with her for not de-escalating the situation—sometimes she’d talk back, and things would escalate faster than a middle school rumor. Tax Day, April 15, still gives me the chills, even at age70. Every year, Mom and Dad would try to tackle the tax deadline, but instead, would tackle each other’s nerves. The IRS should have offered marriage counseling.
One particularly stormy Tax Day, I was an insomniac, listening to the “Late Night Household Drama” show. By morning, Dad’s frustration hit a fever pitch; he threw an iron at Mom (Fortunately, the iron’s flight path was more dramatic than dangerous). I tried to help by grabbing dad’s leg—call it “defensive maneuvers: amateur edition.” I got a swift kick and bounced off the stereo cabinet. I’ll admit, not my best move.
The school bus honked outside, and through tears, Mom insisted I go. I wiped my face, completely missing my wardrobe malfunction: the shirt had torn in protest, clearly not built for acrobatics. On the bus, a kid asked about my shirt, and I gave a classic excuse: “I fell…while running for the bus.” No one had seen me fall, but hey, my acting skills got me through.
First class: math with Mrs. Harris, whose warmth was about as famous as her pop quizzes. I sat at my desk, practicing my “totally-not-crying” face, but my tears betrayed me. She noticed—maybe she was part detective. After class, she gently asked if I was okay. I insisted I was fine, but the shirt gave me away. She offered to send a note to the coach so I could bring her my shirt before dressing out for gym class; she’d stitch it up during her planning period. I nodded, grateful for her undercover kindness.
Mrs. Harris was like a comforting cup of cocoa in a snowstorm—she didn’t pry, but she showed she cared. That memory still warms my heart.
Home eventually quieted down (for a little while), the taxes filed, and I survived another April 15. Looking back, I realize now that my parents did their best—with what they had, what they knew, and what they carried. Dad’s emotional thunderstorms could roll in without warning, loud and disorienting, but beneath the rumble was a man trying to love through the fog. His efforts weren’t always graceful, but they were real. And in hindsight, I see the quiet ways he tried to shield us from the worst of his weather. As an adult, I’ve tried to channel those stormy childhood lessons into being a kind, emotionally even-keeled person—especially with kids. And yes, I reflect on those times with love, a little laughter, and just a dash of Tax Day anxiety.
Empathy on the Rocks isn’t just about the polished stories—it’s about the jagged ones too. The ones that leave bruises and stitches, but also teach us how to show up for others with quiet kindness, like Mrs. Harris did. This memory reminds me that empathy doesn’t always arrive with fanfare—it sometimes sneaks in through a torn shirt and a gentle question. And that’s the kind of legacy I want to honor, one story at a time.
I love you, Mom and Dad! Robert
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