It Was a Wicked Hahd Slapshawt

It's not just Blogger's "Planned Maintenance" that has kept me away lo these few days. I haven't been stitching much. On Tuesday night, I had to talk to my daddy. He's just had surgery to remove a little skin cancer from behind his ear. Mom's away, so he needed some company. Conversations with my dad when he needs company are crazy. They take a lot of concentration. If he had been born 50 years sooner, he would have invented stream of consciousness. Maybe…Granny Stitchbitch was born at the right time, writes the funniest stream of consciousness letters, and she didn’t manage to invent it. So much for fame.

Last night, Sissy gave the Dude and I "free" tickets to the Flyer's game. Of course with $10 for parking and $17 for dinner (we split a sandwich and fries) and $3 for cotton candy (I can't help myself), it wasn't that free. But we did save $170 on tickets.

Either hockey's gotten faster, or I've gotten slower.
When I was a kid, my daddy used to take Sissy and I on the Elks bus to go see the Bruins. Loving hockey was easy when you were watching Bobby Orr and Phil Esposito. I haven't really watched hockey since they started wearing helmets I went off to college and people stopped taking me places on buses. I missed the first two goals (in the first five minutes) because I couldn't follow the puck. When the Flyers had scored so fast, I was thinking, "these are not les Habitants that gave my Bruins so many problems." Then one of the Canadiens scored a hat trick (he went on to score 4, increasing his season's total by 50%). By the fifth goal, much of what I once knew had returned. And we were out of the parking lot and home within 30 minutes, making this the perfect activity for a school night. I hope Sissy gets more tickets.

Since I’m telling hockey stories
One time, this must have been a birthday treat or something, I got to go to Bawston Gahden with just my dad. After the game—where Wayne Cashman got stepped on and had to have a lot of stitches—daddy took me to Polcari’s, at that time a fancy Italian restaurant where the players went. I ordered my usual I’m-a-kid-in-a-fancy-restaurant meal—Maine lobster (Sissy’s was escargot and filet mignon, I kid you not)—and Cashman asked my father if I was going to eat it all. Anyway, since he struck up the conversation, my dad told me I could ask for his autograph. He signed my program then told some teammates at another table to sign, including Terry O’Reilly. I can’t remember everyone who signed it. I think that must be in my parents’ attic with the Zoom book. What a treasure trove that place is.

Tonight, it’s back to stitching. No more longwinded and irrelevant stories. Maybe I can show you what Souvenir looks like.