Lick it up!

Dad was Irish.  It's rumored that folks of the Irish persuasion have quick tempers.  I'm here to tell you, in Dad's case it was no rumor.  Look up 'hair trigger' in the dictionary and you'll see his portrait there - eyes staring straight at you, wearing an expression that makes you think I don't want to mess with that guy.  He has another portrait there, too, beside the word 'impatient.'

In my early years, I was terrified of the man, as were my 7 older siblings.  No rod was spared, no child was spoiled.  It may be that by the time I came along, the hair trigger had become slightly less hairy, worn down by time and the rigors of coping with the first 7 kids.  Can't say one way or the other.  Can say it was still hairy enough to make me pee my pants - which, I actually did.  Once.

Mealtime was generally enjoyable, more so if you were seated on the far side of the table, out of  Dad's reach.  If his temper flared up, you got whacked, no matter where you were - but being further away felt safer.  The older kids got the best seats of course.  The younger you were, the closer to Dad you sat, and since I was the youngest, I was stuck in the pole position for the duration.  Lucky me.

Mealtime was definitely not enjoyable if you spilled something, especially milk.  Dad was all over it.  I swear: the milk from the tipped glass would still be flying through the air, hadn't even touched the table yet, and Dad would roar, "Lick it up!"  And, lick it up we did.

Ah yes, just can't beat those warm, fuzzy memories of the good 'ol days.  Truthfully, I do have to grin when I think back on the lick-it-up days of my youth.  Well.......some of them, anyway.