An imprint of integrity...
Funny, what can trigger a memory imprinted in my mind over fifty years ago! This trigger occurred at one of the favorite stomping grounds my mother and I frequent for breakfast. As my mother forked her way through a mushroom cheese omelet, challenged by long strings of cheese, a remembrance of my Uncle Albert channeled through me from yesteryear.
The setting:
An Italian wedding at the long-gone El Morocco Club, seated alongside an entourage of relatives at a banquet table during a family-style meal. Salad delivered in big bowls with baskets of rolls and platters of pasta. Coming up, my favorite—platters laden with roast chicken, precut into thighs and breasts. I wielded my fork to stab and nab a breast to place alongside my roasted potatoes.
My Uncle Albert, who sat across from me, noticed how I struggled by jabbing the piece of chicken to get a forkful. He proceeded to demonstrate how to twist one’s fork to pry the meat loose with ease. Not a man to trifle with, I followed his advice.
Lo and behold!
Fifty-some-odd years later, sitting across from my mother at the diner, I applied Uncle Albert’s advice by suggesting my mother twirl the cheese around her fork to break the connection.
Lo and behold!
Of utmost importance, this lasting remembrance of my uncle which conveys his integrity, through a question he posed to his son: “Would you rather be liked, or respected?”
A chip off the old block, my cousin didn’t hesitate to reply.
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Thank you for sharing. I have just recently rejoined the Den. I was on it for several years before.
Rose
as always I enjoy your reminisce
never stop writing
m
budd
You got me thinking. Lately I have had to constantly change the way I do things as my paralysis increases and the way I did things before doesn't work. For example, while I used to be able to keep myself almost anything except cut things like steak, recently I've had to go from using a fork to using a spoon for something that you wouldn't think that a spoon would do. I can no longer poke like I used to, and a spoon can get underneath what I want to put in my mouth. It is the only expedient thing to do if I'm going to continue to feed myself. I do recall ripping into my mother's expertly baked and then fried chicken breasts on Sunday noon by twisting my fork to get the chicken off the bone.
Ron