Tyrades!

At approximately the time this

column is uploaded to the syndicate

website, I will be attending

the funeral of my Aunt Jean.

I’m sure the eulogist will wax

eloquent about heaven, but I want

to nominate Aunt Jean to the

Babysitter Hall of Fame.

When I was six and my brother

Dwight was four, our parents

dumped … er, entrusted… us to

Aunt Jean while they attended a

social event at the local municipal

recreation center.

A boringly routine assignment,

except that as soon as our parents

drove away, Dwight developed

separation anxiety and wailed, “I

wanna go to the re’reation center!”

Dwight darted out of the house

and zigzagged through the yard.

He would need to cross approximately

seven unfamiliar streets

and the railroad track to reach

his destination. There was no GPS

and he couldn’t navigate by the

Big Dipper, so I guess he was planning

to fl y by the seat of his pants.

( S p o i l -

er alert:

The seat of

his pants

would be

in no shape

for fl ying by

the end of

the night.)

Aunt Jean was still in her

prime, so retrieving one runaway

boy was no biggie – except for the

tag-team aspect of the situation.

“Let Dwight go to the recreation

center if he wants to,” I solemnly

intoned.

I didn’t fully comprehend why

the trek meant so much to my little

brother, but I was heavily infl uenced

by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

(“Ours not to reason why, ours but

to do and let our sibling wind up in

a hobo jungle.”)

I only knew that I was supposed

to take up for my little brother, like

when I tried to perform a C-section

to give him an early entry

into the world or when I was going

to launch him into outer space in a

gasoline-powered rocket or…Wow.

I was like a low-budget soap opera:

I was my own evil twin.

Casting my gaze at infant cousin

Steve in his highchair, I continued,

“You let Dwight go or I’ll

throw this baby on the fl oor!”

(Really, this was a compliment

to Aunt Jean’s immaculate housekeeping.

Lots of people talk about

eating off the fl oor, but how many

have a fl oor clean enough to hurl

an infant onto?)

Aunt Jean was frantic, torn between

letting her nephew disappear

into the night or having her

only off spring become a crash test

dummy.

With some quick thinking, she

wedged Steve between the refrigerator

and the wall so tightly that

I couldn’t dislodge him and chased

down Dwight in the yard.

I was disappointed that she

didn’t do one of those adrenaline-

enhanced maneuvers and

lift the fridge, but I cut her some

slack.

(Spoiler warning: you’d think

that with Major Appliance already

on the scene, there would be

no need for Corporal Punishment,

but…)

When our parents returned,

Aunt Jean somehow managed to

put a negative spin on what had

transpired!

Predictably, the Riot Act got

read in our household more often

than “The Three Little Pigs.”

(“This time, read the part about

‘an act for preventing tumults and

riotous assemblies’ with a funny

voice, Daddy!”)

I’m glad that Dwight and I didn’t

scare Aunt Jean out of having a

second son or doting on her three

grandsons.

And I’m glad she went to all

those family reunions, even when

they began with, “Let’s go to the

recreation center!”

©2023 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes

email responses at tyreetyrades@aol.

com and visits to his Facebook fan

page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s

weekly column is distributed exclusively

by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper

syndicate.