Let’s Go, So We Can Get Back
By Rev. Bob Ford
“Let’s go,” My dad said, “So we can get back!” Those were his words as we were on our way to get a pair of shoes, since I had worn mine out. This wasn’t something that he usually did—take me shopping for shoes—but mom was busy taking care of her mom that day, so my father had to do it, since I needed the shoes the next day. Even if it wasn’t something as detestable as shopping, dad would often say “Let’s go, so we can get back.” He lived most of his life within a few miles of where he was born, with the exception of a tour with the Sea Bees in WWII when he went to the Philippine Islands. It wasn’t as if he hated other places, it was just that he spent all his time at work or with his family. I suppose that I was the recipient of the bulk of his time, since his outdoor hobbies were also my passions.
Keep in mind, he lived through the depression. So, it was his firm belief that every meal should have some meat. I never liked cube steak. Cube steak is still available in grocery stores, and it is basically bits of beef leftover from the butchering process that gets pounded into the shape of a steak. It’s tough. I would rather have burger. In my dad’s mind, cube steak was a bit better than burger. I suppose because it cost a bit more. But I would rather have anything made with hamburger—meatloaf, meat sauce over pasta, or a hamburger.
“You didn’t eat your steak,” he said to me.
“I had mashed potatoes and peas.”
“You too good for cube steak?”
“I guess it is too good for me,” I sighed, “I would rather have a burger.” I could tell from the way he looked at me that I better eat it. As I ate the “steak” with three large glasses of water (I cut the meat into aspirin sized pieces and swallowed them whole with a gulp of tap water) I devised a plan to never have to do this again. I would feed it to the dogs. Now, I have done this countless times in my adult life, since my beagles live in the house. Oh, and my wife likes to experiment in the kitchen. I have palmed chicken as dry as the Sahara under the table to feed a pooch. I once pretended to spill pot roast onto the floor. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Don’t miss the rest of this article starting on page 20 of the June issue of Hounds and Hunting!