I remember being able to play "knock knock" on a neighbor's house without the risk of being shot.
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And where the neighbors could retaliate by turning the hose on you and not worry about being sued by your parents.I remember being able to play "knock knock" on a neighbor's house without the risk of being shot.
In fact, your parents would thank the other parents for doing it!And where the neighbors could retaliate by turning the hose on you and not worry about being sued by your parents.
And where the neighbors could retaliate by turning the hose on you and not worry about being sued by your parents.
"Suicide Hill" it was called in my town. They blocked off all traffic because it was too treacherous to drive, and so the kids could have a place to sled. Where I fractured my neck going headlong into a cement brick garage. Ah, the good old days.
Perhaps you were out of order... even as a kid.Yes, although there was this one time Mr. Baker chased me and my friend Andy up a tree and waited for us to come down. When we did he banged our heads together a la The Three Stooges. Of course I never told my parents about it. They would have sided with Mr. Baker! Looking back on it I always wondered what could have made Mr. Baker so upset about a couple kids making a little ruckus. Being an "adult" now (ha right....) and looking for a reason I've come to this conclusion. His wife was pretty, if I remember right, maybe he was putting the moves on her and we intervened.
Perhaps you were out of order... even as a kid.
I didn’t hear that phrase. I had an Irish mother (born and raised in the old country), with an Irish temper, that wielded a large wooden spoon with the ferocity of a gladiator.No question about it. As long as we're reminiscing how many here dreaded the phrase...."Wait until your Father gets home....." I was spanked on a regular basis....
I didn’t hear that phrase. I had an Irish mother (born and raised in the old country), with an Irish temper, that wielded a large wooden spoon with the ferocity of a gladiator.
I didn’t hear that phrase. I had an Irish mother (born and raised in the old country), with an Irish temper, that wielded a large wooden spoon with the precision of a gladiator.
No question about it. As long as we're reminiscing how many here dreaded the phrase...."Wait until your Father gets home....." I was spanked on a regular basis....
Lol My mother was like that to me as well but i was a bad kid.
on another note I love Irish people they are great.
Mine did as well. And after a 12 hour day of driving a truck, he was not a happy man, that's for sure!My father wielded a belt. You've heard of Indiana Jones, no doubt?
Didn't have an Irish mother, but was disciplined many a time by Irish nuns throughout all 8 years of grammar school. Ouch!LOL. Growing up, I told my mother many a time that I would never marry an Irish woman... Because they’re just too mean!
Mine did as well. And after a 12 hour day of driving a truck, he was not a happy man, that's for sure!
Been there, done that... all 8 years also. Meanness seemed to be habit-forming for our order. I remember one (Attila the Nun we called her) that had a particular penchant for washing your mouth out with soap if you took the Lord’s name in vain.Didn't have an Irish mother, but was disciplined many a time by Irish nuns throughout all 8 years of grammar school. Ouch!
But did you?LOL. Growing up, I told my mother many a time that I would never marry an Irish woman... Because they’re just too mean!
Nope... German & Polish. I even refused to ever date a redhead, as I always associated them with Kryptonite.But did you?