In 1968 my father had a dairy and we lived on a farm. I had three younger brothers (the fourth brother wasn’t yet born), a dog named Cindy, and a stay at home Mom who baked up a storm. I was ten years old.
My father left the house early in the morning to go work on the farm, and would come home around six in the evening. My mom as faithful as the ticking clock on the wall had a hot dinner on the table and a dessert in the oven when he came home each night.
Growing up with brothers and no sisters meant that I saw a fair share of dirt, and had to learn to get out of the way, or play tough, or run fast. One advantage was that I was the oldest, and with that came a certain respect… Literally I was the boss because I talked tough or at least I think I did.
Anyway I am getting off the subject of why I am posting this today…
One of my favorite memories of growing up in a house full of boys was that of my father coming home after a long day of working outside. He would wash up on the porch, then he would come into the kitchen in his wranglers and without a tee shirt, flex his muscles and like a handsome Hulk would ask if my brothers and I were ready for a match of “Who was the Strongest?” Of course we were always ready, much to my mother’s frustration as she managed to keep dinner hot for a bunch of unruly puppy kids and a dad who wanted to give his children some rough and tumble fun!
“Who was the Strongest” this is how it was played…
My father would stretch out on the kitchen floor, my brothers and I would grab and hold on to a different part of his body, in order to pin him and keep him down. My father would ask if we were ready to rock and roll (which is to say, “Are you ready?”) Then when we were ready and certain that we could keep him pinned down to the kitchen floor he would rise up against all our effort to hold him down. He would stand up as we literally hung from his arms, torso and legs. We played and lost at this game for years… though we never gave up. My father was strong, giving my brothers and I a run for our money for years to come….
but my brothers would eventually grow up. I remember the day my father couldn’t shake us off, we were well into our teens. It was such a shock and the victory wasn’t as sweet as I thought it would be as when I was a child. But nevertheless it was a feat to finally win!
Photos: My youngest brother Zane keeps the tradition alive with my son and nephews. Though he says next year they will surely defeat him…. But between you and I, I think he is already defeated.
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