The Hot Hand

I imagine that since my parents are now grandparents, that I am reminded of my own grandparents. Recently, I remembered the story of the Hot Hand. The owner of the Hot Hand is my mother's father, Ambrose Clifford. Ambrose was around until I reached 14 years of age. I only knew my grandfather as a frail, delicate man with white wisps of hair. I can remember his voice at this moment as if he had just said something five minutes ago: it was a throaty whisper, so quiet that a young kid needed to strain to understand. This is usually how my conversations went with him when I was seven years old:

Him: You studying hahd? (with Boston Accent...so soft, I could barely hear him)


Me: Uhhhh..what?

Him: With more effort, yet less volume, a bit frustrated: You studying hhhaahhhd???

Me (even more confused): Duu...huh?

This would evolve further until his facial expression read "What the frig is wrong with this kid?"

Then, his wife Mary (my grandmother, whos voice could drown out war sirens), would get in my face and yell/say ....

"Maaathew..your Grandfathah is talking to you! He wants to know if you ah study-ing, HAAAAHD! ANSAH him!"

Me traumatized: oh..yeh-yes...

(of course I wasn't studying hard)

Anyway, Ambrose was not afraid to bust out The Hot Hand when he thought I was getting out of line. Keep in mind, I was a shy enough kid that I didn't even talk much, let alone get out of line. I guess maybe if I pleaded for some sort of food, The Hot Hand would come into play.

I would be sitting in the backseat of the car and say something like: "Can I have an ice cream?"

Answer: No.

Me: Ahhhh...why not?

Now, I did not scream, throw a tantrum, cause a ruckus or even whine (I think). I just asked a follow up question. A follow up question, I imagine, was a serious violation. Either my mother or grandmother would warn me: "You better be careful or Grandpa will get out the hot hand."

As I sat in the back of the car, I would look forward to the front seat, with my grandfather on the passenger side. On queue, I would see his ancient hand move high in the air, with fingers extended, as the Hot Hand blocked out the sun streaming through the windshield, ready to inflict horror on little seven year old boys.

I never asked the follow up question to learn its wrath. The threat alone was enough.

Okay, now I'm gonna go eat some ice cream. :)