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“It’s hard,” she said, “when things change. It’s hard to know what to do when things aren’t what you think they are.” He joined in, teaming trousers with matching shirts and ties, the entire outfit bulging on one hanger. “It’s a mucking fess."
Tot to her grandfather in The Beginning Things
I grew up when society was pushing fathers towards a larger role in childrearing and my dad seemed to struggle with that. We kids knew he loved us, but that knowledge came from what he did (worked hard, fixed shit) rather than from what he said. When he did speak, it seemed he was comfiest when he was being funny with his puns and spoonerisms.
He’d read me signs: “Dorry, No Sogs,” “Ho Nawkers!.” At dinner, he’d demand “A Tug of Me!” and “Spore Muds, Mother!” When I got older, he became more risqué: “Billy Sugger!” he’d cry. “For Sod’s Gake!”
My dad would never have said that something was a “Mucking Fess” but I like to think he probably thought it.
Dank you, Thad. I yuv lou loads.