Genealogy of Gadzooks March 11, 2009

It is well-documented and affirmed by several eye-witnesses that my husband commonly uses the phrase ‘Gadzooks!’ Lately he’s also mixed in the occasional “Golly Gee”.  He doesn’t like being reminded of my amusement at his word choices.  However, even less enjoyable to Dave is when I remark how similar he is to his father (only because he’s convinced it’s not true).  Over our holiday vacation, both of these grand annoyances merged together to form a large thorn in Dave’s side-somewhat similar to when Lex Luthor, the Joker, and Cheetah combined to form an evil superpower- The Injustice League, or more modernly what I imagine it will be like when Hanson, Smashing Pumpkins, and Cheap Trick combine forces as a superband this summer to create “Tinted Windows”.  (On the heels of the “Tinted Windows” announcement, both Blink 182 and Limp Bizkit publicized their own plans to reunite.  I’m convinced they were inspired to form an evil superband themselves to conquer Hanson and crew, or were otherwise motivated by the millions of fans clamoring for the stunning follow-up to “Nookie”.)

Back to Dave’s story- While we gathered on a snowy Christmas day to play a family game, both little Petersohn (Dave) and big Papa Petersohn (Rich) grew increasingly frustrated.  For male Petersohns this frustration triggers many reactions, the first being a severe time delay in decision-making abilities. An average 2 minute decision increases to a 10 minute strategic brainstorming before any move is made, and that’s just during Go Fish. With any game requiring higher level thinking then I’m probably safe to leave the room, make a sandwich and eat it before it’s my next turn.  (For this very reason, I’ve invoked a no Euchre or Scrabble after 5pm in our house rule; the game would not end until midnight. It’s kind of like the no swimming until 20 minutes after you eat rule, it’s just not safe) . 

During our Christmas game playing festivities, the tension increased, other players (me) started grumbling about the need to issue time restrictions. I saw the look on Dave’s face that could only mean the second reaction to frustration was triggered: the need to swear like a cartoon character.  Just as Dave opened his mouth, at that exact moment dear Reader, a little Christmas miracle occurred. Out of his own aggravation at the game, Big Papa Petersohn yelled “Gazooks!” instead. I looked at Dave; he looked at me. His worst fear was confirmed.  Not only did he realize how  ridiculous it sounded to hear someone yell that word besides Yosemite Sam, but he also recognized his undeniable similarity to Papa Petersohn.   I haven’t heard the word since in our home.  And everytime Dave puts on his mocassin slippers at night, shuffles around the house, and falls asleep on the couch by 8pm -exactly like you know who- I don’t say a word.

It’s funny how similar we are to our parents even when we deny it or try to overcome it.  I’m glad that Dave and I have the kind of parents where the things we try to avoid in similarity are silly.  But we also battle generational struggles that aren’t so silly either.  They are deeper, more engrained, and more painful.  I grimace when I recognize something in myself that I didn’t think would be there, and ache when I pass on a wound that I know has been passed to me. That’s why I like my little Christmas miracle.  It is one of the funnier moments when I am reminded to be thankful for the many good things passed on to me through my heritage.