I grew up in a time and place where the phrases "yes ma'am," "no ma'am," "yes sir," "no sir”, "please," "thank you" and "you're welcome" were standard operating procedure. Furthermore, if it was remotely suspected that someone was your senior, they were referred to with Mr. or Mrs. (we usually said "Miss") as a prefix to their name. Some of the men and women that I respected most in my boyhood days were people I called Mr. Reece, Mr. Marvin, Mr. Sam A. , Mr. Robert L., Mr. Charlie, Miss Johnnie Mae, Miss Beatrice, Miss Vergie Mae, and Miss Eunice. Last names were rarely used. Everybody knew who you were talking about. And, we never called our father or mother by their first name.
Well, maybe once.
I can still remember the night at the supper table when my youngest brother, Dewey, decided to try his wings. With a boyish nonchalance, he turned to my father who always sat at the head of the table, and barked, "Hey Frank, pass the beans.”
I wish you could have seen the bugged eyes around the table. The older brothers looked at each other in disbelief. We, then, all waited for what was coming. We were not sure what was coming, but we all knew something was fixing to happen.
I must digress for a moment to enlighten the reader as to the tremendous strength that my father had in his forearms. The workhorse of our farming operation in those days was a 1941 Model A John Deere tractor. Some people called that particular series of tractor Poppin’ Johns. In the Midwest, they call them Johnnie Poppers. For whatever reason, my father removed the electric starter soon after it was purchased. Therefore, in most situations, he started the tractor by hand. It literally involved his grasping the tractor flywheel and turning the tractor engine over with his "bare hands." It required exceptional strength. My father had exceptional forearms.
Well, when my brother Dewey said, "Hey, Frank, pass the beans," my brother, John, who sitting between them, leaned hard against the back of his chair. He wasn't sure what was going to happen but he was sure he didn't want to be in the line of fire. As he did, my father reached for my brother Dewey, and for a fraction of a second, allowed his hand to hover just over my little brother's head. Then, he turned his hand with his thumb pointing downward and formed a pair of vise-grip pliers with his thumb and forefinger. With that he gathered up all the hair that he could grasp on the top of Dewey's at head and straight-armed him out of his seat. He stared straight into Dewey's eyes for a split second; then he let him go.
Now, in the house where I grew up, that was called communication. Message delivered. Message received. There was nothing lost in the communication. Was it effective? Absolutely!
About two weeks later we were all seated at the same table. Only this time, a boy from the neighborhood was our supper guest. As introductions were being made, our guest turned to Dewey and asked, "What's your father's name?"
I can still hear Dewey as he whispered his answer, through cupped hands, into the boy's nearest ear, "His name is Frank, but don't call him that, 'cause he'll pull your hair!"
I know we live in an age where some would call my father's teaching technique child abuse. I would argue that it was the furthest thing from it. My father's intentions were not to hurt my brother but to instruct him. In this particular incident, to give him something to think about the next time he considered calling him "Frank." In this case it was pain. The overriding issue was respect for our father's authority. I have no doubts that he knew what he was doing. Each of his children respected him and loved him until the day he died.
