A Tat Is Worth 1000 Words

Once in a very blue moon, dad would get us Tullis boys to collaborate on a little yard work bonding.

Keep in mind that this moon I speak of is as blue as a Caribbean Sea Shore, because, you see, we have very tight waistlines to protect in our household and yard work only agitates those well deserved pounds.

On this particular day, he happened to find a loop hole in our couch surfing activities on one of the hotter days of the year.

Shirts were shed with little to no shame (as we were working in the backyard and no real threat to passer-bys).

Joe had just recently gotten his stomach tattooed proudly with the family moniker, but not so recently that we had to stop what we were doing to admire the "Old English Script". We just forged forward raking, chopping, and sweating.

From inside the house the phone rang, and as multi-duty-dad was constantly ready for, dropped his rake and headed in. Joe and I silently plodded the land, heads down and determined to rejoin the lonely remote control upon completion.

After a while, Dad joined us back a the red hot dirt pile and joined us our silent pilgrimage to complete said task at hand.

Many, many moments had passed before any of us decided to stop and wipe the sweat from furrowed brow, and best believe that first person to stop was me.

As I caught a breath and stepped back from our chore, that's when I noticed his handy work.

Within seconds I was rolling on our dusty weed pile unable to compose myself from laughter.

In the short time he had been in the house, supposedly answering the phone, he had located a Bic ballpoint pin and (rather legibly mind you) scribed "TULLIS" across his own protruding belly. This feat would have been admirable enough, but the fact that he just silently returned to our work and waited for one of us to discover his newly acquired belly tat, absolutely sent Joe and I into hysterics.

I didn't even know until that day that ballpoint pins could write through sweat and hair. I have a hard enough time getting mine to write on paper.

He was a divine man!

Idle Hands Were Dads Workshop

My small experiment of getting this blog out to the masses to maximize the input is making some great progress.

This next diddy is thanks to our extended family the Swans, and Amanda in particular. She became the pioneer that has blazed the "toldarounthetable" link on this site and made me smile by sharing that my Dad was alive and well at dinner tables around the greater bay area and perhaps beyond, on this our first fathers day without him.

Thank you Mandy-May his voice never be silent!

While we were at my parents for fathers day today, as always your dads name came up.
I was telling my parents about your blog and my dad wanted to share a story that reminded him of Sam.
This is typed by me but recounted by my dad....

Sam and I belonged to a hunting club in Suisun. We went out to hunt one morning stopping by the clubhouse to check in with the club officials to find out what field we were assigned to for the morning.
An official of the club gave us our field number for the day,and told us no one could go out to their assigned fields until the morning fog had lifted. This was a standard safety procedure that we had dealt with many times before, so no big deal.
Usually the delay was 30-45 min at best. Besides a big screen TV, and vending machine, the clubhouse had a bulletin board where members would post items for sale such as guns, hunting equipment, dogs, and services.
As we stood around waiting for the fog to lift, I noticed Sam standing at the bulletin board reading the different index cards. Nothing was unusual as we all always checked the board, and today it helped pass the time.
But then I noticed Sam take a card down from the board, write something on it and tack it back up. As he walked past me to the coffee machine I asked him what he wrote on the card.
In his normal deadpan response he said ," I didn't write anything. "
My curiosity got the better of me so I went over to the board to check it out.
The original message read - " Help " In large Red letters, followed by- " on Feb 20th I was hunting in field 121 and I lost my hearing aide. If anyone who hunts in that field, and by chance comes across my lost hearing aide. Please call Fred at such and such number- Thank you ".

I then noticed what Sam had written under the thank you in large letters. "And Talk Really Loud"
This story always makes us laugh. Your family is always in our thoughts especially on days like today.

HAPPY FATHERS DAY DAD!

After authoring this blog for 3 months now, i began to find myself , dare I say, at a loss for words. That is to say that the stories were not coming as fast and furious as I had hoped.

As happens, inspiration finds itself in the most mysterious ways.

I was talking to my mom about potential ideas and she told me the the story which I will share next.
It is true that in the later part of life, our parents become our friends as opposed to just guiders. Our equals as opposed to superiors. However; I rapidly realized this dynamic needs room to bend when one of my moms stories had to do with "naked"!

YIKES MOM!

That's when inspiration struck. Some stories you just need to hear from other people.

So I sent an email out to 5 of Dads closest friends and Ray was the first to respond.
Funny thing is, without provocation, he told the same story as mom, but it was just a little easier to listen too.

Ray and I talked for a while and more stories started to surface. I am now half tank full instead of empty, and ready to receive more. And this on the day that we celebrate fathers! Happy Fathers Day Dad-without further ado, I bring you "Blinding Silence" as recounted by Ray Ferreira.

Blinding Silence by Ray Ferreira

You know your dad had a way of telling stories and jokes but sometimes it's what he didn't say that could shock you and make you laugh.

Like the time I met your parents and their friends in Angels Camp for the frog jumps. I rode my motorcycle and they drove.
Your parents were still newly weds at the time. After an enjoyable weekend they left before me and returned to their apartment in Castro Valley.
I notice that I had left my hair brush in your parents car and decided to stop by their apartment on the way home to get it.
It was in the middle of the afternoon and I saw their car in their parking space so I knew they were home. I approached the door, knocked and waited. I knocked again a little louder for I thought they didn't hear. I could hear someone coming to the door. Along side the door was a long rectangular window with a curtain.
Your dad didn't open the door instead moved the curtain slowly so I could see just his face. I said, "Sam, I left my hair brush in your car. Can I get it?".

Without saying a word he moved the curtain completely to one side and exposed his naked body and just stood there showing me his erection.
Normally in a situation like that, one would say Ray we are indisposed could you come by later? No, not your dad.

I said, "Sorry Sam I will come back later". I guess either way the results would be the same .

A Reptilian Thirst

For some reason where most of us would intuitively go to great lengths to hide some stories from our past, my father relished in the re-telling of stories that did defamation to his character and judgement. Better himself than others he would regale, and this is just one of those stories.

The weekend furlough seeped its way to the base at which my father was stationed in Louisiana. A full 48 hours off.
Promptly a houseboat was reserved and the festivities got under way deep bayou country.

Being the worldly men that they were, the gentlemen on board decided to try their hand at the local sport of frogging. Unsuspecting (I'm sure), much alcohol was consumed for the event that takes place late in the darkest hours of the back country.

Not really sure how they did, or even if they caught any, the inebriated crew was forced into the decision of going to bed-we also call it passing out.

Late in the night, a disoriented father awakens with what feels like a wool factory in full operation going on in his mouth. He needs water, and fast. But where was he? Slowly it starts to come back to him. A boat, oh yes a houseboat, in Louisiana, oh yes, furlough. And the water is...on the deck, oh yes in the cooler.
He stumbles past the cast bodies of his comrades and finds the cooler where much of the ice had melted. Lifts the lid and dunks his cup to full from the icy runoff. Brilliant. A thirst is quenched and off to bed a happy man goes minus the sweater in his mouth, but not before a re-fill to take back to bed.
In the morning he awakens to a half full glass bedside of the brightest red water one have ever seen, and again he begins to piece together the night.

He remembers that he and the boys actually did very well for their first time frogging, and after gutting them tossed them all haphazardly into the cooler on the deck.

OH SHIT!

He rips the lid open and confirms his fear. The Ice runoff that so recently provided much quenching was tainted with froggy guts and blood-no fresh water in site.

And to my dad, who could have swept that story under the rug and never mentioned it again, just couldn't wait to tell and re-tell that story for 25 years to come.

Why?

City Folk and Country Squires

This was one of my fathers favorite jokes to tell, and if you ever had a few minutes to lend, you would sit quietly and relish for the 7th, 8th, and 9th time.

A man decides he has had enough of the city life so he buys a piece of land way out in the middle of nowhere where he can relax and find peace.

Late one afternoon in the distance he sees a pick up truck rapidly approaching from miles in the distance.

A man steps out and introduces himself as his "next door neighbor" for the left by about 12 miles. He proceeds to say that he is throwing a party the following weekend and would be much obliged if the stranger would come by for a spell.

"I would love to, thanks." says the city transplant.

The neighbor turns on his heel and heads back to the truck, then abruptly stops and turns.
"Say mister, I gotta warn you. There's gonna be some drinkin and cursin at this party".

"No problem. I'm from the city, I can drink and curse with the best of them". replies our city slicker.

"Good then, see ya Saturday". Heads back and then stops again. "Hey mister, I gotta warn ya, there is probably gonna be some fightin at this party."

"Are you kidding me", says our excited city boy. "I'm from the city, fightin is a way of life. Don'tcha worry about a thing, I can handle my own".

"GREAT! See ya Saturday" Turns to leave and stops again. "O'Boy mister, I gotta warn ya, there is definatley gonna be some fuckin at this party".

"WOW, this party is going to be great. I'm from the city and fuckin is what we do", the over energized man retorts. "But hey mister, what should I wear to your party on Saturday?"

"Don't matter-it's just gonna be us".


Gets Me Every Time!