The Bloody Doors Off

I’ve been flooded with a wave of childhood memories of late.

The latest: I’m eating deep-brown beans with cut up wieners (you know, like Sheldon always had spaghetti with cut up wieners; c’mon, The Big Bang Theory ended only recently and CTV Comedy plays the entire 14 seasons over Christmas break).

I have this weird quirk. I save the ends of the wieners for last.

Done it for years. Decades probably. Never understood why.

And then the memory.

My mom in the kitchen of my childhood home. It’s February, and it’s cold. But there’s also snow. Remember snow? We got a lot of it in Scarborough in the ’70s. There’s a side vent on one wall that pumps warm air from the furnace. My dog Brandy loves it there. The moment he hears the pilot light catch, he’s wedged himself behind the kitchen chair.

(Sometimes I’d join him. Forced air has been. Is. Rapturous. There were times when I’d sneak into my parents’ bedroom at night and sit right beside the floor vent as it pumped warm air skyward. I’d hold my feet or hands over it, trying to absorb the heat. My bedroom, despite being just north of theirs (and separated by the linen closet), did not get the same treatment.

It wasn’t fair.

Years later I inherited that same bedroom. I swore I’d never move out.

And then my mom and step-father sold the house.)

Right, the memory.

Me and my brothers are seated at the kitchen table. I think it’s Friday night, because we always had beans and wieners for dinner on Fridays.

She always made a giant pot. I mean, there were the four of us to feed, right?

(My dad, as I’m sure this memory takes place pre-divorce) was most likely at the O’Keefe Centre working as a stage hand for the latest play to roll through town. I got to see lots of shows from the wings, and the audience. Bob Hope, Don Rickles, The Odd Couple with Tony Randal and Jack Klugman. My dad brought me backstage after the show and introduced me to Mr. Klugman. He said, “Hiya, kid” and sent back to placing bets on distant horse races.)

I gotta stop going off on tangents.

Four of us, Friday night meal.

There were a finite number of wieners ends to go around. I’d do a silent count in my bowl, and try to spy how many everyone else had. And it wasn’t just the ends. How many pieces did I get, and would I complain about it? (Narrator: He did.)

That’s it. That’s the full memory. But it brought feelings of comfort, love, and yeah, sorrow.

There aren’t four of us now. And one of us retired out west (and I love the reason why) and another (not me) is looking to move out of the city.

We won’t be sharing a pot of beans and wieners again. I won’t gloat when I have a surplus wiener end, and hey if that also means I’m short a few pieces?

I can live with that.