Weightlifter's Folly

Many years ago there was an event that took place shortly after midnight on New Year’s Eve. The family was all gathered in the dining room of our home. Father was a little tipsy and was still amusing us with his playful antics and funny jokes. A few relatives and a friend of my sister's were there to ring in the New Year with us. Not wanting to end the merriment of the occasion, they were reluctant to leave. Mother scurried from the dining room to the kitchen anxious to have everything in order before retiring. Within a few hours, she would be up again to prepare the day’s holiday dinner.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the front entrance door. Someone was incessantly banging on it. My mother almost ran to stop the noise emanating from the hall. As she opened the door, some teenage boys from the neighborhood greeted her. They were frantically beckoning my mother to come outside, which she did, all the while trying to calm them down. Out of curiosity, some of us followed.

The air was refreshingly brisk and dry, but there was still snow on the ground. Those days, there was always snow around the holidays. The spectacle of what we saw was both funny and frightening. My fourteen-year-old brother stood in the street. Stripped of his jacket and shirt, he had only his undershirt to shield him from the January air. The glow of a nearby street lamp enhanced the muscles on his bare arms. They rippled and glistened with sweat. My brother spent most of his time lifting weights and his physique showed the merit of his labor. He had the muscles of the fabled Atlas, the man who held the world upon his shoulders. At five foot ten, he was taller than most boys his age. Normally, shy and well mannered, we were surprised to hear the explanation that the boys gave.

Scattered around my brother were toppled-over garbage cans. The boys explained that my brother, on a dare, had drunk almost a full bottle of whiskey that another teenager had taken from his own home. Then he picked up the heavy coal ash filled cans, one by one, including our neighbors' cans, and raised them over his head and hurled them clear over to the other side of the trolley tracks. It was a feat I knew no one else could accomplish.

My brother was pounding his chest with closed fists, and bellowing a Tarzan-like sound as mother began her approach. As she neared him he was grinning from ear to ear. She reached up and grabbed his shirt pulling him down to her level. Then she grabbed one of his ears and started to drag him back toward the house. My mother was only four feet and ten inches and a mighty fortress of strength in her own right. He followed her into the house still grinning as she placed him on a cot near a far wall of the dining room. As soon as he was flat on his back, he started to throw up, after which he fell into a sound sleep.

In the morning’s light, everything was back to normal. Mother went about her business in the kitchen and Dad was outside busily cleaning up the mess. My brother came out to lend a hand also. None of us mentioned anything to him. We were happy that no harm was done. The only thing he said to us was that he will never touch alcohol again, and to this day his word holds true.


A bit of nostalgia:
In those days, black coal was delivered through a chute in a basement window, which transported the coal down into a handmade enclosed bin. The coal was fed to the furnace to heat the house, and the burnt ashes placed in cans out side.
I can even recall a black woodburning stove, which my mother used for cooking. That in itself helped keep the kitchen warm and toasty. A few years later, we bought a gas stove, and progress was made. I remember that the stove was propped up with enameled feet. It was the perfect place for our German Shepherd to sleep.