When did you know you were in trouble?

Besides spilling drinks at the table, the other thing that yanked my dad's chain when we were little was to wake him up too early on weekend mornings. He was a hard worker who rose before daybreak every weekday morning, so Saturdays and Sundays were meant for sleeping in until at least 8:00.

My brother was usually the first in the family to awaken, and on Saturday mornings he'd get up promptly at 7:00 am to watch Deputy Dawg on TV without fail, followed by Yogi Bear at 7:30. When he was too young to tell time, the rest of us were puzzled by how he seemed to have this sixth sense about knowing when the show was starting. Come to find out, he'd listen for the "warning bell" at Franklin Products, the factory behind the fence in our backyard. When that bell went off for the workers, it was a signal to Mike that Deputy Dawg would be following closely behind.

In those days we had just one small black and white TV in our house, and it was located on a rolling brass stand in the livingroom. Unfortunately, our parents' bedroom shared a wall with the livingroom. The TV was luckily on the opposite side of the room, but it was still too close for comfort. Mike knew to turn the volume low on those early weekend mornings. It wasn't too much later that I'd get up, and that's when the trouble often started.

It usually wasn't a deliberate thing--we didn't know we were getting too loud. Sure, we had our share of arguments that escalated until they incurred dad's wrath. But most of the time we wouldn't realize until it was too late that while we played, our voices had steadily increased in volume. Or we'd miss what Yogi was saying, so we'd turn up the sound just a hair, or so we thought! Our signal that trouble was on its way was the sudden thud of our dad's bare feet hitting the bedroom floor and the menacing sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the short hallway. My dad slept in boxer shorts and a sleeveless white T-shirt, and I can still picture him storming into the livingroom red-faced, pointing his finger and yelling at us to BE QUIET! He usually threw in the threat of a spanking with the warning. He had white, skinny legs with knobby knees, the type that my husband refers to as "chicken legs."  The vision brings a smile now when I think about it. But back then we knew better than to utter a word, and after his "warnings" things suddenly got very quiet. For awhile, anyway.

Looking back, I was never truly afraid of my dad even though I definitely knew he'd spank us when things got out of hand. Even at that young age, I somehow understood that everyone had certain buttons that you just didn't want to push intentionally. I also knew without a doubt that he loved us. Even on Saturday mornings before 8:00 am.