Something unusual took place at our Sunday dinner when normally the usual takes place. It all starts on Saturday night. Dad arrives home drunk. That's to be expected. Next, Mother stops him at the front door. That, too, is to be anticipated. She screams, "You've been drinking again." As usual.
"And so Goddamned what?" Crazy Man yells back.
Of course, their shouting wakes me if I’m not already awake. Lying in bed, I think a thought I usually consider: "Why, Mother, are you doing this? You know from Jump Street that Dad's going to arrive at our house, drunk." No doubt about it, as the sun rises in the morning and the moon shines at night, Dr. James J. Hoffman's going to arrive at his house late at night, drunk. Even an eleven-year-old kid can figure that out. If he arrives at the house sober, that event is a minor miracle, not a major one such as the Blessed Virgin coming through my bedroom window at night and telling me to be a good boy and not fib so much. I always pray: "Please don't come through my window, or I surely will die of fright. I'll try not to fib so much. Amen."
Diary, by this time, you are certainly aware that few minor miracles occur at the Hoffman house. A major one hasn't taken place at all. Thankfully.
Mother and Crazy Man's confrontation (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power page) at the front door is just the start. As usual. Crazy Man calls Mother a "Grease Ball." Mother calls Dad a "drunken bastard" and "a no-good drunken son of a bitch." After the second or third time I hear her use that word, I look it up in my Thorndike dictionary. It means a mother dog. Grandma Hoffman is a grumpy lady but not a mother dog. Well, anyway, Crazy Man chases after Mother. "Boom, boom, boom." The house shakes as if we're in a tornado like Dorothy's aunt and uncle's house whirls and twirls in "The Wizard of Oz" movie. I hate those flying monkeys. They scare me. Crazy Man catches Mother before she can race to the bathroom and lock the door. Of course, Mother shrieks as Crazy Man lashes out. She can avoid that pain and suffering by not confronting Dad just as I could avoid my pain on Sunday morning by remaining quiet.
This must be the moment Mother defends herself, but no matter what happens on Saturday night between those two, Mother faithfully serves Sunday dinner after the 11:45 a.m. mass at St. Peter and Paul's Catholic Church. Since J. J. Hoffman, Jr., M.D., prefers roast beef, potatoes, gravy, and carrots, that is exactly what Mother offers.
As I've written in you many times before, Diary, Dr. J. J. Hoffman, Jr., hates getting up any morning. However, Sunday morning is his most sacred of all mornings in any week. He doesn't attend Sunday mass although he did one time with Uncle John. As usual, he now absolutely refuses to get up on Sunday morning. And, of course, we three youngest Hoffmans are awake early and out of bed. If we forget ourselves and become noisy, which happens, Crazy Man rises from his bed, grabs his leather strap, and silently opens the bedroom door. And horror of horrors, he crashes in and roars like a crazed red-maned lion. He scares the dickens out of us. Electricity jolts my entire body because I, Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman, am usually the one who laughs the loudest while pillow fighting or groans the brassiest, "Oh, no, not again," as I end up with the Old Maid or I pick up a "Go to jail" card in Monopoly and don't have a Get Out of Jail card. After the crazed lion returns to his lair, I wipe at tears and pet the raised welts on my skin, which lessen the pain. I realize I can avoid these whippings if I just remember to keep quiet. But I don't. I must have inherited that trait from Mother.
So, yesterday morning Crazy Annie and I walk down Old Grove hill and make our way by the Notre Dame convent to attend mass in the old, white clapboard Catholic church. We usually groan whenever we see Monsignor C. W. Gille follow the altar boys to the altar after the bell rings the announcement of the beginning of mass. Gille hems and haws his sermons and takes his time during the rest of the mass, as well. If one of the younger priests follows the servers, we smile because we usually head home in a half hour. With Monsignor Gille, it's one hour or dreadfully longer. We return to our house and smell the food that's cooking. "We'll be ready to eat—and real soon," announces Mother.
One thing you should also know, Diary: We never eat Sunday dinner at the kitchen table where all the other meals are served during the week. We always eat in the dining room. Crazy Annie helps Mother place a linen table cloth over a blanket that they earlier place on the big wooden table. Straight-backed dining room chairs are not nearly as comfortable as kitchen chairs. So, we're all sitting at the table except for one person. "Jim," Mother calls, "dinner's on the table."
"I'll be right there," he answers from the bathroom, its door shut. Opening the door, he enters the dining room and sits at the head of the table. Neither Mother nor one Hoffman kid can utter a word because we're all staring at Crazy Man. He hasn't shaved, and when he doesn't shave, his cheeks look as if he rubbed them with coal as I do on Halloween night. High on his right cheek are three horizontal red, almost black, lines that turn out to be scratches and dry blood. "What happened, Daddy?" inquires Crazy Annie.
"This is what your mother did to me last night,” says Crazy Man.
Annie says nothing else. The rest of us remain silent, but at that moment I really want to shout, "What did you do to Mother while she clawed at your cheek with her fingernails?" I didn't say a word, and no one else did, either. Never was a Hoffman Sunday dinner so quiet. I'll tell you this, Diary: I have never hated Crazy Man so much.
He finally shaves this morning, and this afternoon, the "wounded warrior" arrives home early and eats supper with us. A miracle. The scratches have almost vanished.
"And so Goddamned what?" Crazy Man yells back.
Of course, their shouting wakes me if I’m not already awake. Lying in bed, I think a thought I usually consider: "Why, Mother, are you doing this? You know from Jump Street that Dad's going to arrive at our house, drunk." No doubt about it, as the sun rises in the morning and the moon shines at night, Dr. James J. Hoffman's going to arrive at his house late at night, drunk. Even an eleven-year-old kid can figure that out. If he arrives at the house sober, that event is a minor miracle, not a major one such as the Blessed Virgin coming through my bedroom window at night and telling me to be a good boy and not fib so much. I always pray: "Please don't come through my window, or I surely will die of fright. I'll try not to fib so much. Amen."
Diary, by this time, you are certainly aware that few minor miracles occur at the Hoffman house. A major one hasn't taken place at all. Thankfully.
Mother and Crazy Man's confrontation (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power page) at the front door is just the start. As usual. Crazy Man calls Mother a "Grease Ball." Mother calls Dad a "drunken bastard" and "a no-good drunken son of a bitch." After the second or third time I hear her use that word, I look it up in my Thorndike dictionary. It means a mother dog. Grandma Hoffman is a grumpy lady but not a mother dog. Well, anyway, Crazy Man chases after Mother. "Boom, boom, boom." The house shakes as if we're in a tornado like Dorothy's aunt and uncle's house whirls and twirls in "The Wizard of Oz" movie. I hate those flying monkeys. They scare me. Crazy Man catches Mother before she can race to the bathroom and lock the door. Of course, Mother shrieks as Crazy Man lashes out. She can avoid that pain and suffering by not confronting Dad just as I could avoid my pain on Sunday morning by remaining quiet.
This must be the moment Mother defends herself, but no matter what happens on Saturday night between those two, Mother faithfully serves Sunday dinner after the 11:45 a.m. mass at St. Peter and Paul's Catholic Church. Since J. J. Hoffman, Jr., M.D., prefers roast beef, potatoes, gravy, and carrots, that is exactly what Mother offers.
As I've written in you many times before, Diary, Dr. J. J. Hoffman, Jr., hates getting up any morning. However, Sunday morning is his most sacred of all mornings in any week. He doesn't attend Sunday mass although he did one time with Uncle John. As usual, he now absolutely refuses to get up on Sunday morning. And, of course, we three youngest Hoffmans are awake early and out of bed. If we forget ourselves and become noisy, which happens, Crazy Man rises from his bed, grabs his leather strap, and silently opens the bedroom door. And horror of horrors, he crashes in and roars like a crazed red-maned lion. He scares the dickens out of us. Electricity jolts my entire body because I, Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman, am usually the one who laughs the loudest while pillow fighting or groans the brassiest, "Oh, no, not again," as I end up with the Old Maid or I pick up a "Go to jail" card in Monopoly and don't have a Get Out of Jail card. After the crazed lion returns to his lair, I wipe at tears and pet the raised welts on my skin, which lessen the pain. I realize I can avoid these whippings if I just remember to keep quiet. But I don't. I must have inherited that trait from Mother.
So, yesterday morning Crazy Annie and I walk down Old Grove hill and make our way by the Notre Dame convent to attend mass in the old, white clapboard Catholic church. We usually groan whenever we see Monsignor C. W. Gille follow the altar boys to the altar after the bell rings the announcement of the beginning of mass. Gille hems and haws his sermons and takes his time during the rest of the mass, as well. If one of the younger priests follows the servers, we smile because we usually head home in a half hour. With Monsignor Gille, it's one hour or dreadfully longer. We return to our house and smell the food that's cooking. "We'll be ready to eat—and real soon," announces Mother.
One thing you should also know, Diary: We never eat Sunday dinner at the kitchen table where all the other meals are served during the week. We always eat in the dining room. Crazy Annie helps Mother place a linen table cloth over a blanket that they earlier place on the big wooden table. Straight-backed dining room chairs are not nearly as comfortable as kitchen chairs. So, we're all sitting at the table except for one person. "Jim," Mother calls, "dinner's on the table."
"I'll be right there," he answers from the bathroom, its door shut. Opening the door, he enters the dining room and sits at the head of the table. Neither Mother nor one Hoffman kid can utter a word because we're all staring at Crazy Man. He hasn't shaved, and when he doesn't shave, his cheeks look as if he rubbed them with coal as I do on Halloween night. High on his right cheek are three horizontal red, almost black, lines that turn out to be scratches and dry blood. "What happened, Daddy?" inquires Crazy Annie.
"This is what your mother did to me last night,” says Crazy Man.
Annie says nothing else. The rest of us remain silent, but at that moment I really want to shout, "What did you do to Mother while she clawed at your cheek with her fingernails?" I didn't say a word, and no one else did, either. Never was a Hoffman Sunday dinner so quiet. I'll tell you this, Diary: I have never hated Crazy Man so much.
He finally shaves this morning, and this afternoon, the "wounded warrior" arrives home early and eats supper with us. A miracle. The scratches have almost vanished.
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