Old Skool

I was watching Spike Lee's movie Crooklyn last week.  In the first 5 minutes of the movie, he had me waxing nostalgic for Brooklyn in the 70's.  Growing up in Brooklyn was the best time!  It has really been on my mind as of late so I decided to go Old Skool once a week in my Blog and write about something from the 'hood - you know... games we played, good memories, anything.  I need to capture this stuff so my daughter knows that her Moms was cool at one time (I'm still cool, but she just wouldn't know it).

First Up?  Playing "RCK" (that is Run, Catch, and Kiss for you non-knowing folk) - circa 1975-1977.  RCK was a game that we played after it got dark.  I think we tried playing it in the daytime and it lost its luster when you could actually "see" the other game players.  Plus, you don't need any a$$ whooping from your mother when the neighbors decided to tattle about what they saw and where (remember I said this was the 70's  - neighborhood folk were ALL up in your business).

How was RCK played?  Well, you have a bunch girls and boys (girls on one team, boys on the other).  The girls would run and hide while the boys counted to some designated number and then come looking for us.  Basically, the game became an all out run for you life if an "ugly" boy found you.  See - we girls were not about to let the a boy we didn't think was cute touch us because that would mean they would get to kiss us.  It was either flight or fight.  Now, I am pretty sure that the girls did not say that this was part of the game rules because what boy would want to play if he knew that the girls could turn on them like the Tasmanian Devil and open a can of whoop a$$ if they tried to kiss us - the ugly ones, I mean.  Now, if you were deemed cute, then there was no problem being found and get one planted on you (remember I said that this was played at night so we were not talking pecks on the cheeks - LOL).  :Turn up Tune - Always and Forever:

After all the girls were found and "kissed" (or boy pummeled), it was the boys turn to hide and the girls to find them.  Again, the girls had the hidden rules to this game.  If it was told to you that you could find a boy and kiss him, who are you going to look for some lip plantin'?  Mr. Homely or the neighborhood cutie?  I thought so.  So there would be a brood of girls finding and chasing the few cute boys playing the game.  When the "ugly" boys would be obvious in their hiding places and still not being "found," they started coming out and screaming, "You can't catch me!" and we would practically knock them over to get to the one we wanted.  Sometimes, we give them a peck on the cheek just so we could change sides otherwise the game just switched sides because the girls were not chasing and kissing the ugly boys (effectively ending the boys turn).

I can remember many a fight between girls because someone kissed someone's "boyfriend" or between girls and boys because the girls were fighting for their life.  Good times, good times I tell ya.

Now, I could document the game "RCF" but I think you can figure it out on your own...

Father's Day

This is the day for Fathers all around the world. I am writing this post to honour my father who is no longer with us.

I guess you can say that I started life as a Daddy's Girl. In those early years in Jamaica, my mother moved to the States to start our family migration to the States. So, it was me, my siblings, Dad and various helpers. One of my earliest memories of my Dad is being on the plane with him flying to the States - it is not much of a memory other than I cried A LOT (I can feel for him now).

My parents were married on February 28, 1954. They were married for 39 years before his passing in 1993 due to Multiple Myeloma cancer.

I can't say that I knew my Dad after all the years that I lived with him. He was pretty quiet, a TV hound like me, and he had a sense of humour. While my mother was the disciplinarian, my father was the "good guy" - although, I know that my father must have instigated a beating or two on her part.

I miss my Dad. There are many "sorries" that I have when I think of him: I am sorry that he does not know the child that I gave his name; I am sorry that he does not know the grandchild that so looks like him; I am sorry that my daughter does not know him - he would have adored her!

While I really don't know much about my Dad, and his background, other than he was around. I remember when he would return home from work and I would be outside playing on the street. I would run up to him (he would take off "running") and practically give him the shake down like a 10 year old neighborhood thug for some candy. He pretty much never disappointed me because he would have a Kit Kat in his pocket. My Dad did that for me - I know this now because he was a diabetic and candy was not on his list of foods to eat. I wish I did know more about him. I wish he was here for me to ask all those questions about his family and get to know him as a person. How silly, as we are gaining our independence, that we decide that our parents are not worth knowing. We put our parents in a box labeled as "old fashioned" and tend to discount their worth in our lives. I am aware of this now because he is not here for me to correct these mistakes.

I did get to hear some stories after my Dad when he returned from a trip to Jamaica (late 80s/early 90s). He had visited a lot of family while he was there and he really wanted to share some of that information when he returned. His family name came from an ancestor out of Scotland, not Ireland as originally thought - the original family name was Brown, but I still am not clear how it changed to Harrison. The Royal Air Force photo (in blog) was reportedly taken when my Dad was a teenager - he liked a girl and it is said that he joined the Air Force to appear older than his young years to impress the girl's father. I never did learn one thing about my Dad - my family laughed when, at the gathering after the wake, I realized that my Dad took the story of how he lost the tip of his finger to his grave (he did regale me with stories of losing it when playing tennis - uh-huh). He even told my sisters stories of fighting the Japanese in WWII - uh-huh, my Dad never did see combat. His stories of winding up one arm and then punching them in the nose with the other were amusing just the same.

Sometime in the 80's I changed from calling him "Daddy" to "Pops." I think it came from watching a movie like "Westside Story" or one of the "Bowery Boys" flicks - young leather thugs calling the older men "Pops."

When asked the inevitable "How Did You Meet" question, my Dad told me that he and my Mom met at the office. I never got much more than that although I did ask several times. My Dad said that my Mom used to chase him around the desk. My mother laughed at this, but never elaborated on the "How They Met" story.

I did not grow up in a demonstrative or vocal family when it came to expressing love, but I wish that he was here so I could say, "I love you, Pops. Happy Father's Day." Maybe I would even give a better gift than Bay Rum Aftershave.

So, Pops, if are up in heaven acting as a Guardian Angel (or even if you have returned to Earth), can you send a good man my way? I'll take him without reservation if he is hand picked by you.

Tharence Roy Harrison
19 July 1925 - 26 May 1993

Out of The Mouths of Babes

Well, I couldn't say that it was not going to happen. I have been warned time and time again. You just never realize when it is going to happen until... well... it happens. Your Mini-Me opens her mouth and says something that leaves you shocked and ready to tackle her to the ground asking, "WHERE DID YOU GET THAT FROM?!?!"

In my case the first time was when I was putting her in the car and I was nagging at her for taking so slow to get into the car seat. Her response was "Break! Jeezus!" WHAT?! What did you just say?!? (That was the condensed version of, "Gimme a break, McKenzie! Jesus.") Now I did not know that I was saying, "Jesus" so much for her to pick up on it, but apparently I was wrong. Of course my initial reaction was wrong because she took it to mean, "Suuweeeeeet! Did ya see her face? Gold!" She then started the yell it out loud, "JEEZUS! JEEZUS!" You would have thought I was having a revival meetin' in my car or she was screaming out for mercy.

Funny thing is that although I was raised as a Catholic, I am no longer a card carrying member. Old habits die hard because that was what I heard growing up. It was not something you wanted to hear because it meant "Run! My mother is about to go crazy!" I guess my most used phrase is "Jeezum Peace!' (Jamaicans will know).

Yesterday, she came up to me and said, "Time out! Time out! Mummy." She then wanted me to follow her into the bedroom. She repeated, "Time Out, Mummy. Close the door." Then she started to close the bedroom door as she was leaving. I'm standing there wondering why I was just put into time out when I was only cooking food in the kitchen. I have no idea where she got the time out thing from since I rarely put her in time out (I'm a Jamaican Black woman... we don't do time out well). Time out is really for ME - put a pause in a situation before I end up in prison.

So, I am left with what appears to be a straight jacket on my mouth. I don't use profanity much - I really have to be pushed to the edge and then I will have about an hour of being a truck driver before I regain control. How can you drive a car and not use SOME profanity?! That is just purely unnatural!

God, gimme the strength...

Darn This Blogging Thing!

OK - so I have friends that have Blogs. A lot of them are QUITE entertaining. I have LOTS of laughs reading them because their blogs say so much about them. Now the pressure is on. Can I do it? Can I be as interesting? Will I have a blog that I will never tell friends about because of this pressure?

You know what? I'll just start typing and go from there... It has to be better than I how I started - right? Right? Lawd!