Artichoke Jokes

Today I was going to write a post about all of the terrible ways I was bullied for my weight as a young woman. And it was going to point to the fact that the worst of it was from my own father, and how I finally forgave him and learned to see myself as beautiful.

But last night I was visiting with my grand kids around the dinner table, and we were talking about the marinated artichoke hearts in the chicken recipe I had made. My six-year-old grandson said,

“Hey Grama’Chelle! You know what? Whenever I eat artichokes, they make me choke… get it? Arti- Choke?” He cackled loudly at his genius humor.

I laughed along with him and said,

“You, know, my dad- your great grandpa Walt, used to tell the same silly joke about artichokes. Do you want to hear it?”

Of course they all said yes.

I proceeded to tell the story of how my father, every time we would drive through the farm fields of Watsonville or Half Moon Bay, would make up a breaking news tale about a serial killer on the loose named “Artie”, how it was posted all over the place, until he had us good and hooked. The older ones who had heard it before, had to be silent and pretend to be riveted. Then he would point to a sign in front of a produce stand which read,

“Artichokes – 3 for $1” and say

“See! I told you! This guy’s crazy… killing people for only a dollar!”

We’d all shake are heads, roll our eyes, laugh, and usually say “Dad, you’re so weird.”

Then, while they were still laughing, I told them another joke he used to play with us when we were young. I shared that when we were very little – maybe between three and eight years old, my dad would have us come lay down in the crook of his arm on the couch or in bed while he watched TV. He would wrap his arm around us so that his hand had access to reach our side and armpit. Then he would proceed to tell the the saddest, yet silliest tale he could think of – usually involving an old woman he saw that day, who was crying because she had no shoes, no food, and no husband. Then he’s tickle us, and we’d start to squirm and keep from laughing. He’d scold us for laughing at such a sad story, and when we protested and accused him of tickling us, he’d deny it, and ask if we wanted to hear the rest of the story. By the time this went on for two or three rounds, the “old lady” had twelve ugly children, was blind, fell into the road because someone stole her cane,had terrible flatulence – her dog had died, she was stung by a bee, a bird pooped on her head and her ice cream had fallen into the gutter. Each time he’d tickle us until the final scene, when he’d tickle us all over as we begged him to stop between screams of laughter.

As I drifted to the memory, and laughed at the silly and sometimes strange sense of humor that was one of my Dad’s trademarks, I was interrupted by my ten year old granddaughter,

“Wow, Grandpa Walt sounds like he was a lot of fun, and a really great dad.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Honey… He was a lot of fun.” I had to concede.

In that moment, for a fraction of a second, I thought to correct the false statement that my father was a “great Dad.” But, for the first time ever – I didn’t. For some reason, I didn’t feel the need to qualify my agreement with a “But” or an explanation of “Yes, but only when we were little.” I just let it be there, acknowledging that he did, in fact give me and my siblings what he could in the way that he could, and was providing me with a wonderful experience to share with my own kids and grand kids.

As I reflect on this today, I’m noticing that years ago, when I thought I had forgiven my father, I had only mostly forgiven him. Only this pure unplanned moment of playfulness, could speak to the full forgiveness that has taken place, mostly without my knowing or deliberate intention over the past few years.

I’m so grateful for continued growth, for the power of forgiveness and for my Dad’s silly sense of humor that still lives on in my memory.

Thanks, Dad.