Our daughter has reached the age of fourteen, which means she’s old enough to hear what she was really like as a child.
She’ll listen to these stories the way we all suffer such things: eyes wide with fascination, her head in a slightly defensive tilt, a wary smile on her lips poised, at any moment, to break into the high, disbelieving laugh of the terminally embarrassed.
Her grandfather told a great one on Christmas Day. “I have a good Nina story!” he said.
“Oh really?” she said, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa.
“Oh, yes!” he said. “Did you know you used to be a screamer?”
“A screamer?”
“One time, your mother dropped you off here. She was on her way to a rehearsal, and you were in the back seat, just screaming. Screaming your head off. I tried to distract you while I was fussing with the car seat, but you kept at it. Finally, your mother said, ‘Just take her!’”
The way he said “Just take her!”, in a kind of demonic growl, got a big laugh. Nina laughed, too, although her cheeks were starting to redden.
“So I brought you inside, and you were still screaming. I tried books. Toys. Nothing would do. Finally, I said, ‘If you don’t stop screaming, you’re going to have to go up to your room and stay there until you stop.’ But you kept right on screaming; so, up you went.”
Grown-up Nina shook her head. Her disapproval of her younger self was palpable; then again, so was her pleasure at hearing about her bad behavior at her grandfather’s knee.
“Well, it got to the point that your grandmother got a headache — a tremendous headache, a migraine. So I marched upstairs, and I said, ‘Nina, if you want to come downstairs, you need to do two things. First, you’ll have to stop screaming. And second, you’ll have to apologize to your grandmother for giving her a headache.’”
At that point, he turned to me with a knowing smile — the smile of one skilled practitioner acknowledging another — and said, “I was using guilt!”
Now Nina was really blushing.
“Then I went downstairs, and after a while, the screaming finally stopped. I waited a bit before going up to check on you. You were on the landing at the top of the stairs. I said, ‘Nina, I’m very glad you’ve stopped screaming.’ At which point, you made a horrible face and went, “Waaah!”
The punchline, and the way he extended his arms like a pouncing cat when he delivered it, got big laughs. No one laughed harder than Nina, who seemed to be appalled by her younger self, but at the same time, oddly impressed by her, too.
There was a coda to the story involving one more trip up the stairs; a penitent and exhausted toddler; a sincere apology; and the restoration of harmony in her grandparents’ kitchen.
But the highlight was the glimpse of our utterly adorable little rebel, refusing to surrender her only weapon — that awful, piercing, convulsive shriek of hers, a cry that used to lay us low.
Like many of the best family stories, this one was no doubt miserable to live through; hilarious in retrospect; and wonderful to share. An ungainly treasure, really, like a homemade Christmas tree ornament.
Of course, Nina didn’t have to wait long for her revenge. At another holiday party, sitting at the knee of her other grandfather, she heard about the time a certain arrogant teenager named Matthew Olshan — her dignified and extremely accomplished Papa — refused to study for his driver’s test, and failed it.
“Really?” I said. “I don’t remember that.”
“Oh, yes,” my father said. “You were a very good student. Taking tests was easy for you. Too easy. I thought it was good that you finally failed one. I thought you ought to know how it felt.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s amazing.”
Of course, Nina leaped to my defense, but her face was lit by a subtle Mona Lisa smile.
No doubt she was savoring my red cheeks and high, disbelieving laugh.
This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 03 January 2013
For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com
