As originally told to Bodhisattva Mickie by Aunt Martha
I’ve
mentioned before that my dad was all of brilliant, cantankerous, eccentric,
idealistic, and temperamental. The
Munch, as I called him (short for Munchkin – he was 5 feet 4), is no longer
with us. But some of his exploits remain
worth recounting.
As
young people, he, my Uncle Al, my Uncle Joe, and my Aunt Martha conspired to
wreck Grandma Petrovsky’s efforts at corralling them. When Grandma locked the kitchen door (the
door through which everyone came and went), they managed still to have their
evenings on the town. Their tactic was
simple. Whoever was the last to leave
the house would unlock the window next to the kitchen door.
One
night, Al, Joe, and Martha were asleep in their beds. But the Munch was nowhere to be found. Until the next morning, that is. When the rest of the family awoke and started
into the kitchen, here’s what they saw.
Stretched out on the couch (don’t ask why there was a couch in the
kitchen – I never understood that either) was the Munch, steadily sawing Zs, oblivious
to the refrigerator he’d knocked over on his way in through the window.
Picture
it. Window open. Munch sleeping, albeit thunderously. Fridge leaning against the wall, dangerously
near his head, at about a 30 degree angle.
Ya gotta love it.
And him … J
