Macho, Macho Man.
As you might have guessed, I am the cute one in the overalls. And the others surrounding me are my brothers (Jim, Tim, Tom, Pat and Mike). We had a full house between us, my mom and dad and our dog.
Our house sounds fun on paper, and while we are all smiling in this photo, having five older brothers isn’t always as glamorous as it sounds.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my brothers. But that doesn’t mean I always liked them.
I have this vivid memory from when I was little, probably no older than seven.
I remember playing alone in our dining room one afternoon. Pat and Mike were on their way home from Des Moines with my dad. Now here is the special part about Des Moines, every time we went, we went two places no matter what:
1.) Toys R Us. We went every time we were in Des Moines. We didn’t even have to get anything. Seeing all of the toys there was thrill enough for us. Star Wars toys, Transformers, Legos, video games. Toys R Us had it all. Back home, the only place to get toys was Walmart.
And,
2.) Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. This was the excursions I was really jealous of. Krispy Kreme was a treat. We didn’t have Krispy Kreme in out town, all we had was a gas station that had them delivered fresh daily. But Pat and Mike were not having any second-class doughnuts, they were getting the fresh, from the machine, made right before your eyes doughnuts.
They got to push their faces against that glass, watching the machine squeeze out dozens of perfectly shaped rings travel down that stainless steel conveyor belt into the boiling oil and flipped until a perfect golden brown only to be pulled back on to the conveyor belt and get covered in the Glaze Waterfall. Even better than watching the doughnuts being made, you got to wear the cool little hats too.
I knew Pat, Mike and my dad would be home soon and I couldn’t wait until they brought back those doughnuts for us to eat. They soon arrived carrying the prized treasure in its while and green box. The doughnuts were immediately assessed, and divided up equally amongst us six boys. Well almost equally.
One of my brothers had grabbed the chocolate glazed doughnut, my favorite. Being no older than seven at the time, I was devastated and clearly emotionally traumatized.
The worst part was, they only brought home five of the Krispy Kreme hats. Looking back at this, I ask how in the world my father could leave that shop with any less than six hats. Amateur mistake. But I did not receive a hat. My day, and possibly my life, were ruined in the moment that I was told I would not get a hat.
I sobbed. I cried. I felt a kind of hopelessness that can never be matched.
When my brothers realized they had what I wanted, they decided there was only one thing they could do.
Break out in to the 1978 hit single recorded by The Village People, “Macho Man.”
They sang the song, but with modified lyrics.
“Not-Joe, Not-Joe Man.”
They belted the chorus with their new lyrics while doing a chorus line around the dinning room table in their Krispy Kreme hats.
No. I’m not kidding. In the late 1990s or early 2000s, my five older brothers started doing a chorus line around me singing “Not-Joe, Not-Joe Man” to the tune of “Macho Man” in Krispy Kreme hats all for the shared goal of making me cry.
It is safe to say I am more of Dunkin guy now.
However hurt I was that day, it does not change the fact that I love my brothers.
One of our favorite things that we do together is celebrate Easter with our weird family tradition.
We hard boil Easter eggs and then dye and decorate them. A lot of families do.
But we don’t hide them, or put them in a basket.
We launch them out of a water balloon slingshot into the Iowa River.
This wasn’t a family tradition that was passed down generation from generation. This was just an idea my dad had one Easter.
Actually his idea wasn’t to launch them. He grabbed our mom’s golf clubs and brought us down to the river.
He lined up the eggs and us boys with our mother’s golf clubs in hand. Then once everything was ready, we teed off. This wasn’t nearly as climactic as you might think. The eggs exploded on impact and didn’t go far at all. I think we ended up with more eggs on us than in the river.
My dad decided we needed something bigger. Something more exciting. So the next year he told us were would try launching them. It has been our family tradition ever since.
Now every Easter, we try to come back home so we can hard boil our eggs, write secret messages and insults on them in white crayon, dye them in colored water, and watch them fly.
Even when Easter wasn’t at home, we brought the eggs and slingshot with us. I remember shooting eggs with my grandpa in Fort Dodge, IA. I remember shooting them in Kansas City with my Aunt Connie. No matter where we were on Easter, we celebrated.
So living with five older brothers isn’t always the best. Sometimes I was left out, picked on, made fun of. But memories like Easter are the ones that remind me how cool my brothers are. Before us, launching eggs wasn’t a special Cahill family tradition, but I can guarantee that it is now.
