Is anyone out there old enough to recall the original “Cheaper By the Dozen,” or TV series like “Father Knows Best” and “The Danny Thomas Show”?

Well, let me tell you right now that those families in no way resembled my childhood. My father was not the all-knowing font of wisdom and patience, or the parent to whom my sister and I would take our problems in the certainty that he would always have the perfect solution.

He was not an evil man — far from it. He just wasn’t father material. Long before people talked about empathy, it was clear that he lacked it. He and my mother separated when I was 13, and divorced a few years later. After the divorce, I never saw him again.

Today would have been his 116th birthday, and though he passed away some 40 years ago, I found myself reminiscing last night about some of the good times we did share during those 13 years that he was a daily part of my life.

I was his favorite child, probably because I was the younger of the two, and the “baby” is often the spoiled one. So I got a bit more attention, which included being taken on father-daughter outings on a Saturday or Sunday . . . although it was usually to something that he particularly enjoyed, like fishing at Lake Massabesic, or placing bets at the trotters or jalopy races. I wasn’t crazy about the fishing, but those races were exciting to a little kid — especially the jalopies, when there was usually at least one multi-car crash to liven things up.

From time to time, he would take my sister and me skating at the roller rink. And sometimes, when there was extra money in the budget, the whole family would go out on a summer evening to a local clam shack for fried clams, followed by homemade ice cream at a nearby mom-and-pop stand. They were simpler times, and it didn’t take a lot to make a memory.

But as I took my little stroll through my childhood last night, I suddenly hit upon what is probably my favorite memory concerning my father . . . though it actually happened after the divorce.

My mother, sister and I had long since moved from New Hampshire to the Washington, D.C. area. I was headed out to the nearby market for a couple of items one day, and asked the others if they needed anything. They initially said no thanks, but then my mother changed her mind and asked me to bring back some hard candies.

No problem. But could she be a little more specific: Lemon drops? “No.” Root beer? “Uh-uh.” Butterscotch? “Nope.” Sour balls? . . .

At which point, she suddenly went ballistic — jumping back, face contorted in horror as though I’d pointed a gun at her, shouting, “No! No sour balls! I hate sour balls!”

Well, that was a surprise, to say the least — on so many levels. First, of course, was the insane visceral reaction. Also, I distinctly recalled that in earlier years back in New Hampshire, we had always had a tin of sour balls in the house. Why did she suddenly despise them? So, of course, I asked her — quite reasonably, I thought — “What’s wrong with sour balls?”

And without hesitation, she blurted out:

“They remind me of your father.”

Well, by the time my sister and I finally picked ourselves up from the floor, clutching our stomachs in pain and wiping tears of laughter from our cheeks, she had realized what she’d said and was trying her best to recover some semblance of dignity, protesting, “That’s not what I meant! They were your father’s favorite.”

But it was too late. Instantly, “sour balls” had become a euphemism for dear old dad . . . and a meme for the rest of our lives. And to me, now the last surviving member of our little family, it still is.

So, to the man my sister charmingly referred to as “the sperm donor” . . . happy 116th birthday, you old reprobate. Wherever you are, I hope you and your sour balls are happy.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/15/26