"Squealing, by Grandpa Jim

I’ve got a tale to tell on my Dad. If he were still with us, I wouldn’t dare squeal on him. (Before “ratting” on someone, the term was “squealing.”)

He used to tell the story of how he came home quite late one night. He was careful to open and close the front door extra quietly, take off his shoes and climb the stairs ever-so-carefully, and then slowly remove his clothes. He would pause, here, and assure us that it was not easy to slip between the covers, but he was proud of how slowly and gently he did so.

Just as he got comfortable, Mom’s voice startled him as she said, “You’re drunk,” turned and went back to sleep.

Moral of the story? Moms are tough to fool. They have this seventh sense that no doctor has courage enough to reveal.

Was he drunk? I seriously doubt it. He never drank, as far as I know. We never had booze of any kind in the house, and after Mom died he brought me up, so I would have known. I feel pretty confident that in a house without booze, you’d detect its odor when presented to you. I think that, quite possibly, he had accepted a beer, or maybe two during a long game of pinochle, and was afraid that Mom would smell it. And he was correct!

Or, come to think of it, rather than a seventh sense, maybe a super-sensitive olfactory sense? (Our daughter Nancy has that, and is sensitive to the slightest perfume.) DNA again? Hmmmm.