Today Birch Wisdom is proud to present the work of guest author Jessie Rottersman. Yes, I've reached that stage in life where my children can prove to the world how this crazy thing isn't just an act. But seriously, foolish as I might appear, I got choked up when Jessie gave me this essay (which she had written for a class at UMM) and the Mallo Cups for my birthday (47!). And as far as the frugality thing goes, she made her mother proud--a bit deceptive though since she had put the candy in a fancy-looking gift bag.

Jessie's Essay:

My father loves to sing. My father also has a terrible voice. Not only did I grow up with the privilege of hearing him belt out random tidbits of Bruce Springsteen, George Thorogood, and Wyclef Jean, but I also got to hear the lyrics of his own imagination. From “Cool Bloods”, to “4-Wheeler Banana Peeler”, to “Peanut Butter Mallo Cups”, my fathers singing brings back some of my most vivid childhood memories.
Still squinting against the light on a dark winter morning, I wander into our kitchen, “Here's another country heard from.” It's the voice of my mother, repeating the same thing she repeats every other morning. Dad comes dancing into the room, doing his best to mimic Michael Jackson's moonwalk. I automatically begin to giggle as I'm swept off my own feet. Dad is almost always in a great mood, but some mornings he just gets extra joyful. I don't think I've ever met more of a morning person. Next thing I know he's singing his latest jingle. “I'm cool cool blooded! Mr. Cool Blooded!” The next line, as we will later learn is the line we're supposed to chant back, “Johnny Cool Blooded!!” For the rest of the day I had a smile that was impossible to wipe from my face as my father's lyrics continued to drift back into my head.
Just as much as my father was a morning person, my sister was not; and so the 4-Wheeling song was made especially for her. My brother was always perfectly content to stay holed up in his room reading a book and seemed to somehow skip the phase of the “kids table” at family gatherings. All of this led him and my father to bond through the stock market and politics rather than tossing a ball around in the backyard. And I was into shopping, beads, and barbies, all your typical little girl stuff, but my sister, Eve was a different matter completely. She would do anything to throw herself in some mud. So when Dad bought his first 4-wheeler (and made a new song) she was ecstatic. Every night they'd come home, covered in mud and smiles. Dad would start, “4-wheeler, banana peeler,” then Eve, “heart stealer, tire squealer.” And in the mornings, when Eve wouldn't smile for anyone, Dad would sing and sing, until she would finally break and mumble back her part.
My personal favorite was created when my Dad first introduced me to Mallo Cups. They're like a peanut butter cup, except instead of peanut butter the chocolate is filled with gushy marshmallow filling. It started out as a song and evolved into just a saying between the two of us. Instead of an “I love you,” my dad and I talk about candy. As always, he goes first: “I love you the most with the toast,” me: “the butter and the jam,” and then in unison: “and the mallo cups!” You can only find Mallo Cups at so many places, so the gas stations that carried them became our regular stopping points. And even now, we'll occasionally surprise each other with a package.
Whether they are his, or other artists, the songs I sang with my Dad always spark a memory. We'd create new titles for the songs other people sang and were entertained on countless car rides and long rainy afternoons. And Dad had a different song for everyone. If I woke up early in the morning, I could hear his crazy chanting as he sang to my mother, and then his automatic switch in songs as I came down the stairs. What the lyrics mean is beyond me, since Dad doesn't even have a clue, all that matters is our family singing and dancing in the kitchen, to our new one-hit wonder.