A childhood memoir of life before polio, and immediately after, and my magical childhood adventures in and out of a wheelchair
Shards of Memory From The Restaurant
My memory shoots back to the time when a customer accused my father of cooking in paraffin. Dad replied ''I think you're mistaken, sir.'' Then proceeded to ask each and every customer in the restaurant: was the food to his or her liking? The customers, sensing there was trouble afoot, replied in the affirmative. My father returned to the, now irate, customer. ''I think you're VERY mistaken, sir.'' He then turned his back and walked away.
This was like the proverbial 'red rag'. The young man, wearing a white, open necked shirt, stood up. His wife put out a steadying hand to him; she had obviously married a highly volatile husband, having seen this all before. The young man followed Dad, his face bright red. ''Stay away from me, son!'' my father warned. His days as a professional wrestler had put him in good stead for this moment. The young man aimed a punch. My father dodged the blow and grabbed his arm, twisting it. But he hadn't got a firm hold. The next punch connected.
My father's nose began to bleed. (My father was famous for his bleeding nose. In his younger days, in-between clinches, during his professional wrestling career, the two fighters would smear my father's blood over both of them, which added gore to the spectacle. You see: THEN they’d decide who would win!). My dad got this young man in a headlock cum stranglehold. Mrs Rich, (our washer-upper) and my mother screamed for someone to do something. I grabbed the man's arm and tried to prevent him from punching my dad who all the time was throttling the life out of him.
I remember going down on the floor. I remember to this day the blood on that white shirt. The young man managed to free himself and, with his young wife in tow, made for the door. He was parked right outside the restaurant and made a quick get-away. The police were called. But they never found him.
After the fight the excitement settled. Dad cleaned himself up. The customers thinned and it was OUR time for lunch. Some of the boiled potatoes tasted distinctly of paraffin. Someone had blundered. A leaking can was responsible and contaminated part of our spud stock. How could we have explained that away to that irate young man?!
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