Things Grandpa Used to Say — “That’s a Handle, Not a Footle”
“That’s a Handle, Not a Footle”
Cereal played a major role in our household. We were seven in all, with four of us kids, all hungry, all the time.
These were the days of sunshine and scraped knees. When kids would spend more time outdoors than in.
Each four hour block held an eternity condensed, where ninjas leapt from rooftops, world series’ were won and lost, whole neighborhoods lay open to treetop exploration and obsolescent technology was recycled for the purposes of war.
Each event always ended the same — hunger! With little time to waste on such mediocre tasks, cereal served a natural fit for a quick and hearty meal.
But cereal was also always the first meal of the day. One Saturday, I rolled out of bed and headed to the kitchen for a quick two-bowl meal. At this time of day I had the house to myself which was a primary reason I always got up early.
I quietly opened the cabinet to grab the bowl, slowly opened the silverware drawer that otherwise would squeak and grabbed a spoon. Holding the spoon in the bowl with my left hand I opened the fridge and grabbed the milk with my right, closing the door with my elbow.
Now, I move the milk to my chest and grip it with my left forearm, bowl and spoon held tightly in place and head over to the cereal cabinet. Now, this cabinet is beneath the countertop where the bread is stored, and is the last stop before the table where I plan to indulge in this quiet meal in delicious solitude.
I open the cabinet, retrieve the desired cerealbox and stand as I go to close the cabinet as I always do, with my foot. Just then Grandpa walks in the front door, returning from his morning prayer meeting at the church.
“Stop stop stop, stop stop, stop stop. Don’t…” he started.
By then the cardinal sin had been committed, in his view, and I was knowingly guilty before the charge was even issued.
“You see that shiny thing on the door there?” he asked.
I roll my eyes, having heard it a hundred times before.
“That’s a handle, not a footle. Now, take a moment and look. You’ve got a porcelin bowl held tightly, with a spoon just waiting to slip out. A full box of cereal. You’re holding a gallon of milk. And you’re standing on one foot while trying to close the cabinet door with your other foot. One wrong move, one slip and you’re on your back, covered in cereal and a gallon of milk all over you, the kitchen, the cabinets, everywhere. Just make trips. Grab the bowl and spoon, take them to the table. Get the cereal, pour it in the bowl, put the cereal back. Then get the milk, pour it, put it back. Then sit down to eat your cereal. No accidents, no spills, just a nice and peaceful breakfast.”
All hope of which had completely dissipated at this point.
“I know, I know.” I murmured.
We had had this conversation before, and would have it again several times later, each with a different disaster, each a different threat, each a different undesirable outcome.
With this phrase “that’s a handle, not a footle” he intended to convey that the recipient is being held to account for his or her misdeeds, gently, while also recommending the proper action in its place.
By using “footle” he was creatively forcing the recipient to generate their own image of a thing that doesn’t exist. There is something humorous about this process that would generally result in at least a passive grin.
He was very creative with language, my grandpa, freely adopting foreign phrases improperly into his vocabulary, or creating new words entirely.
As a child this was just an amusing and confusing trait, unique to Grandpa. As a teenager I was occasionally struck by the wit and depth of his snark. As an adult I fondly recall these pleasant childhood memories, and often find myself repeating what to me have become well-known sayings.
