End Sandwiches

These days I love and respect my father immensely. I don't think I have a more trustworthy person in my life than my dad. As some of you may or may not feel about your own parent, my dad is one of the most special people I have ever had the privilege of knowing. This has not always been the case.

Until I was 18 years old my father and I despised each other. Neither of us could come to terms with each other. In our house both parents had equal partnership rights in family matters except when it came to disciplining the children. My father had a temper and my mother always had the last say in all decisions concerning us kids. This of course aggravated my father as it would any good father and husband. He decided on a unique strategy to get at me. My brother seemed to get a long with my dad OK and my sister was 'Daddy's little princess'. Poor middle child Shane. I was a momma's boy.

I would constantly argue with my father and when it didn't work out in my favor I would try to pit my parents against each other with hopes I would win the argument and get what I want in the end. My father tried and tried to reveal me as the true agitator but it never seemed to work out that way.

Many battles were fought on our family battlefield. For all of my efforts my father devised a secret plan to thwart my efforts. End Sandwiches. It started when I was 14 years old. My father knew my likes and dislikes. He knew that I was a very particular young man that needed things a certain way to be happy. One of my biggest issues was the end pieces on loaves of bread. I desperately disliked the end pieces as they were scrawny bread flakes and not deemed by me as real sandwich slices. It was an absolute nightmare for me to end up with end pieces on my sandwiches. This was my biggest pet peeve. It must seem trivial to you dear reader, but I despise end slices more than bad presidents.

Picture this: My sister is setting the table, my brother is just waiting to eat, I'm pouring the drinks, my mother is walking out of her bedroom for dinner. Everything is normal at our house. My father walks into the dining room with pre-made plates for each of us. My father sets a plate with a sandwich in front of everyone. I don't even notice anything until after I've finished my bowl of chicken noodle soup when I go for my sandwich and....what the @$#%!! I stare at a scrawny peanut butter and jelly sandwich made with not one but two end slices! I glance quickly at my father - a huge grin creeps across his face and then something hits me, a feeling inside me like being slapped in utter defeat.

I mention aloud so my mother can hear me, "I can't believe this. I got two end slices. You know I hate ends." I look hopefully to my mother and she says to me, "Quit complaining, bread is bread."

I look at my father and am lost in that look - my father smiling smugly.

I vow to myself to seek vengeance on him as I smile graciously.

My father says, "You heard your mother, eat up son. When your done, do the dishes tonight for complaining."

Now most of you might not think what my father did was so bad but you haven't heard the worst of it yet. For four more years my father made sure every single sandwich I ate had two end slices. And every time he would announce out loud, "Because I know how much you love those ends."

Those years are gone and passed now and my father and I have learned that we never got along because we were so alike. We've put it behind us and every so often when it's just dad and I having a good chat, we'll sit down and make each other a few end sandwiches and have a good laugh.