Useless Lump of Dog Meat

“You’re a useless lump of dog meat!”

Those were the affectionate words my father used regularly to critique the actions of my brothers and me. Some might argue that a loving and supportive father might have chosen a different approach, but since I grew up convinced that I was at least marginally better than a lump of dog meat, I didn’t dwell on it much.

When it was my turn to be the father, I consciously corrected the shortcomings of my parents. That included never even dreaming of calling my sons useless lumps of dog meat, but when they act like idiots I felt obliged to point it out.

I chose to call my little angels, “morons,” but I pronounced it “mowron” because I felt that was a more loving pronunciation.

My wife, however, was horrified and felt that moron was just as bad as dog meat. Clearly she was missing the subtle improvement from one generation of father to the next. She insisted that no father of her children should ever call a son of hers a moron. “I don’t call them morons, I call them MOWrons, I insisted.” When that didn’t work I asked feebly “But what if they say something really stupid?” And from that day on the name calling stopped.

The “moron” ban lasted a few weeks when one night at dinner a son who shall remain nameless asked the stupidest question ever uttered at a dinner table in the history of dinner tables. The table went silent and all eyes went to me. There was a long pause at which point I changed the subject.

“You know your mom and I couldn’t agree on a name for you,” I began, “I wanted to call you Morris Ronald Harris.” Both boys registered surprise. Neither was a family name, neither would make any “most popular name” list and neither son knows anyone with either name.

Finally, one boy finally took the bait, “Why did you want to call us Morris Ronald?”

“So I could call you MO RON for short!”

Eve did her best to keep a stern look plastered on her face, but she failed. And the whole table broke into laughter. Since that milestone meal I’ve called both boys “a Morris” on those “special” occasions when I choose to pass along some fatherly coaching. And now, of course, it a family name we all hold very dear.

Today, both boys are proud to be a Morris!

August 1, 2010