The Question Was Pose: "Repeat something your Dad always said to you as a kid": “You’re Lucky I Love You”

 

The Question Was Pose: "Repeat something your Dad always said to you as a kid"

“You’re Lucky I Love You”

You kids ever wonder what it was like growin’ up in Massachusetts back when cars had ashtrays, cops had real mustaches, and you could still get away with bein’ a handful before anybody had letters like ADHD to blame it on? Yeah, that was me. Born in ’69. Built like a live wire that never found ground.

Your great-grandfather, he was a cop. Stocky, built like a fire hydrant, smelled like Folgers and cold October leaves, voice like a slammed door. Worked nights, came home with road salt on his boots and that look, half tired, half ready to grab the world by the collar. He didn’t do timeouts. He did eye contact.

And if you were smart, you broke first.

He used to say, “You’re lucky I love you.”

That was his all-purpose phrase. Covered everything from small fires to near-arson.

Like that time I found his patrol radio in the hall closet. I must’ve been ten. Thought I’d check in with the boys downtown, “Officer Wilson Junior, reportin’.” Static, dispatch chatter, the hum of real life spillin’ through the speaker. Beautiful for about thirty seconds, then the cruiser pulled up outside. He came through the door lookin’ like the storm itself had taken human form.

“Jesus, you wake the whole damn precinct for a laugh?”

Then he sighed, low. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Which, in dad-speak, meant: You live another day, ya moron.

Then there was the bullet trade. On court days he’d come home, empty his pockets into the kitchen junk drawer, bullets, badges, pens, whatever. Me bein’ me, I found ’em and decided to see what they’d fetch on the schoolyard market. Picture it: I’m eight, standin’ on a picnic-table bench, barkin’ like an auctioneer,

“Bullets! Fine example! Brand-new old stock! Do I hear two Matchboxes and a Twinkie?”

Kids cheerin’, deals flyin’, until I spot Mr. Silva, the principal, movin’ across the yard like a shark that’s smelled blood.

Next thing, I’m sittin’ in his office, and my old man’s standin’ in the doorway, steam comin’ out his ears while Mr. Silva’s tryin’ not to laugh. Wasn’t the first time Dad had been called down there. They chuckled, handed out sentencing, four Saturdays cleanin’ the playground with the malcontent chain gang.

As I walked out, Mr. Silva muttered, “You’re lucky your dad loves you.”

He wasn’t kiddin’. My father personally supervised those clean-ups, made sure I didn’t miss a leaf or a cigarette butt. Love in its purest, most miserable form.

Couple years later, Fourth of July, I painted pirate flags on Mr. Adair’s mailbox, tied firecrackers to it. Boom. Looked like the Minutemen came back for revenge. Dad showed up still in uniform, badge crooked, eyes squintin’ between fury and laughter.

“You wanna be a hero or an idiot? Pick one.”

Then the slower line, always after: “You’re lucky I love you.”

And the Buick incident, can’t forget that. Mrs. Keegan’s ’65 Skylark, her pride and joy. I “helped” roll it backward through her hydrangeas. You never forget that crunch, like God snappin’ celery. He stood there, hand over his mouth, fightin’ a grin that didn’t stand a chance.

“You break that car, you fix that car, with your own two hands.”

So I did, or tried. Ended up wearin’ more transmission fluid than the car ever did. Learned a lot about torque wrenches… and regret.

Then came the Great Halloween Scavenger Hunt of ’85. Every year a bunch of us got together the Friday before Halloween. This year my crew, Jimmy, Pete, and me, were determined to win. Top of the list: a street sign.

Jimmy figured we’d grab the Crane Street sign, quiet spot near the pits where we all met up after the hunt to count our loot and down a few wobblies. Pete stood lookout at the corner while Jimmy climbed on my shoulders. Just as he yanked the sign loose, we heard a voice from the dark:

“What do you think you’re dewin’?”

Startled, I stumbled back. Down goes Jimmy, sign flyin’ into the road, me flat on my back, Jimmy on his head. Out steps Lieutenant Stanley Walasavage, half smilin’, half you’re in deep trouble. Pete disappeared into the woods, coward or genius, jury’s still out.

Fast-forward maybe fifty minutes. Jimmy and I are sittin’ in a holding cell while Walasavage laughs from the other side of the bars. “Too bad someone ratted you out,” he says. “You might’ve won this year.”

We’re wide-eyed, imaginin’ Walpole State Prison. Then I hear it,

“God damn it, Brian!”

My father, rounding the corner. No lecture, no words. Just the click of a key and freedom.

Out in the lot, Jimmy’s mom’s waitin’, red-faced, embarrassed. The lieutenant’s still chucklin’. “You’re lucky your dad loves you,” he says. And he was right. Again.

That line, “You’re lucky I love you.” It stuck. You could hear it in the house itself, in the furnace cough, the thud of his boots by the door, the way he fixed everything with electrical tape and spite.

By the time I had kids of my own, I caught myself sayin’ it too. My version’s a little softer, maybe, but the heartbeat’s the same. It’s what you say when you’re mad but proud, scared but still hopin’. When you know the world’s gonna bruise ’em, and you just want love to land first.

So if you remember nothin’ else, remember that line. He said it every time I pushed too far, climbed too high, or broke somethin’ expensive.

He said it like a curse and a prayer rolled into one:

“You’re lucky I love you.”

And I was. Still am.

Every damn day.

He's gone now, but this is still with me, a line I've used on my kids countless times, because like him, my kids were meatheads too.