First, let me say that I appreciate those of you who read my blog along with your willingness to let me talk about memories that involve my father. I am reluctant to write about him and his singular career in other publications (the paper, for one), because I don't want to be all name-droppy and WOW! LOOK AT ME-ish!
Still. As I get older--and, frankly, as he gets older, too--I feel more compelled to get stuff down when it hits me. Like the pineapple story, which I'd totally forgotten until TRQ brought it up yesterday over crab rolls at Kneaders.
"Remember that time when we were in Hawaii and everybody kept giving your dad gift boxes of pineapples?" she asked.
"Oh, yeah," I said. "I kind of do."
"People always acted like your dad was King of Hawaii," she said.
"They did, sometimes," I said. "You're right."
"That's why they gave him all those pineapples."
"It was a lot of pineapples," I said.
"And we took them all back to San Francisco with us. And then we loaded up the car we'd left there--we took you guys to DeVan's to get your teeth done--and then we drove home across the desert. Only there wasn't enough room in the car for family and pineapples. So you guys sat on boxes and boxes of pineapples and I carried boxes in my lap. And then we put the rest in the trunk. Only there were so many boxes of pineapples, the trunk lid wouldn't close. So we forced it. And we dented it. The pineapples dented our car."
"It's true," my dad piped up after all of this. "The pineapples dented our car."
Here's what I learned from this story: My family has no idea what to do with pineapples. Obv.