An Old Goat, or A Nazi?

We lived in Chicopee Falls, MA from 1960 to Oct. 1962.  The house was the first house my folks owned.  My bedroom was in the basement, and that was okay with me – it gave me a bit of an escape from ‘the madness’ I grew up with – at least for a while.

In my small bedroom I had my own phone.  It was an extension of our home phone, but mine just the same.  On occasion Brother Bill would head downstairs to make his “private calls.”

One night Bill came up from the basement after having called a friend of his.  Mom was cooking dinner, and Bill wanted to know if he could go to the movies after dinner.  It being a school night, Mom told him ‘no.’  At that Bill headed back downstairs.

Mom waited a minute or so, then picked up the receiver – just in time to hear Bill tell his friend, “The old goat won’t let me go!”  And that was all she needed to hear!

When Bill shortly returned upstairs Mom hit him with, “So, I’m an ‘old goat,’ am I?”  It stopped him cold.  Busted!  However, it didn’t take him long to recover.  “No,” he responded, “you’re a Nazi!  Only Nazis listen in to other’s phone calls.  You’re just like a Nazi!” and he stormed off to his bedroom.

So, what was she, an ‘old goat,’ or a Nazi?  I am so glad I never had any kids like my brother!




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