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Community Corner

Redondo Mom: Father Knows Best

Michelle Veale Borden reveals how her father's influence molded her into what she is today.

As we approach another Father's Day, instead of praising our fathers for the things they do right, let's praise them for the things they seemingly do wrong.

Thanks to my dad, I was "deprived" of an ordinary childhood experience. My dad uses the term "plebeian" when regarding ordinary things such as fast food establishments, lackluster landscaping, cheap beer and cruise ships. He lovingly calls my mother—whom he loves more than life—"swine dog" and "worthless bag of bones." I still answer to the following names: Rugraticus Americanus, Mumblefits and Marmichelle Whateveryournameis (my sister's name is Martha). He affectionately calls his nurses "Bozos," randomly yells "idiots everywhere," and randomly plays his guitar for patients and drug reps. 

I remember my one and only trip to McDonald's as a child. I had been begging for a McDonald's birthday, and I finally got it.

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McDonald's: My personal City of Dreams.

I knew it as magical place where children ate forbidden foods, and Ronald McDonald had something to do with it. Why Ronald McDonald didn't scare the pants off me as a child, I'll never know.  He does now—and so do Big Macs on another level.

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My dad grumbled about going to McDonald's, but he put on a brave face for the party. I think he secretly enjoyed the Happy Meal, even as he decried the establishment as a "redneck Riviera for plebeians."

Another memory that keeps me from going to fast-food establishments has to be when we were on a cross-country trip in the Winnebago with the subwoofer under the passenger seat. Mom had carefully prepared a list for Dad to read off, as he was opposed to all of us yelling out our orders at once when we got to Burger King.

He was against it from the start, but the Winnie was rocking with our excitement over a Whopper and a paper crown. He pulled up to the drive-thru with Mom's list, and proceeded to try to read it to the speaker. He did well with the first few, but then we heard..

"Feces? Who ordered feces?!"

My mom does write small, but only my dad would decode "fries" into "feces."

There was silence on the other end of the drive-through as my dad begrudgingly barked the rest of the order. As we tore out of the parking lot in the Winnebego, he banged the sewage pipe against a Dumpster and yelled, "Crap!"

We got the heck out of Dodge, our sheepish faces bobbing up and down in the back. 

My dad's actions explain my fast-food phobia, just as they explain why I don't know very many children's songs. As I was the baby and the only one who could really sing (sorry Charlie and Martha, I got the gift of song), my dad would bring his guitar into my room at night, and we would sing songs together until it was time to go to bed.

What children's songs did we sing? One of my favorites was a song called Stewball, by Peter, Paul, and Mary. It was about a racehorse who never drank water and only drank wine. Another song that frequented my nights was Leaving on a Jet Plane by John Denver. I was always so sad towards the end of that song.

You know how protective parents are on the playground now? Not my dad. We would all hop on the merry-go-round, and he would spin us as fast as he could. Whoever flew off first and skidded into another piece of equipment was the loser. I lost a lot. I'm either tougher or brain damaged from it. Regardless, it was a blast, and I wouldn't trade those bruises for the world.

Did my "deprivation" of a "normal" childhood screw me up? Never.

I embrace my bizarre behavior, and I delight in the fact that my son is also batty. I married a funny man, because I knew, like my father, he would make a great husband. I am pretty nuts, and I'm completely OK with that because my dad taught me that crazy is an asset.

Happy Father's Day, Redondo Beach.

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