When you’re a kid, I mean a real little kid, it’s hard to tell when you’re being punk’d by the grownups.

The adults hold all the cards. They can lie about family, friends, money, sports, politics, everything. And you — the little kid — can only take it on face value. After all, you’re a kid. What the hell do you know? You can’t even tie your own shoes yet. Tell time. Cross the street.

And of all the adults in a kid’s world, parents are at the top of the pyramid. So when you’re told you’re “bad”, or “spoiled”, or “stupid”, or “rotten” — you sulk. Or cry. Your misery is a bottomless pit of darkness.

Alternatively, when you’re told you’re “bright”, or “funny”, or “good looking”, the clouds part, the sun comes out, and all is right with the world.

My sister and I were routinely physically and mentally abused by our so-called parents when we were little kids. It went beyond the typical tirades of the era, e.g. “oh, you’re bored; go bang your head against the wall”, or “take a long walk off a short pier”, or “keep it up; I’ll give you something to cry about!”

No, we got teased with “I’m not your mother.” Now that’s something every four-year old wants to hear from their actual mom, right? A Niagara of tears did not make the taunting stop. We got slapped silly for minor infractions (spilled milk? talking too loudly?) and kept getting belted well after the snot-crying started.

For the beatings we took, we must have been very very bad four year olds. We must have been devil-spawn. It’s possible, right? As I said, when you’re a little kid, what do you know? Maybe we missed something. Maybe we truly were terrible children, deserving of routine mental and physical debasement.

There was a song my mother and her mother would sing. It was a silly song from Yiddish vaudeville. It was called “Herring Mit Potatoes”.

We supposed it was a major hit, because they sang it all the time, this nonsensical tune that was a Yiddish equivalent of some crap such as “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight?” Silly stuff for the masses. And, of course, I “get” it: the song targeted poor, homesick immigrants who made the trek from Europe in steerage, and made do with whatever food they could afford. Herring with potatoes. I actually LOVE herring, truth be told.

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But back to the song: it was a favorite of theirs and became an earworm drilled into our brains. I sang it as a joke over the decades. Maybe it was my way of providing myself with an assimilation-inoculation. “Hey, I’m not like THOSE greenhorns, no-sir-ee.”

In time, I wondered if, in fact, the song actually existed. No one I knew had ever actually heard of it.

And that got me to thinking. Did the beatings and teasing really happen? Maybe it was all a figment of my imagination?

Fast forward to last weekend. I decided to investigate. Within minutes of starting my online search, lo and behold, I found that lady in the video above, the one in the funky fedora, singing that song of my youth: “Herring Mit Potatoes”.

That made me very sad indeed because, I reasoned, if that song existed, then chances are all the mental and physical abuse happened as well.

Why last weekend, you ask? Oh, did I not mention that my search for the song took place just hours after I learned that my mother died? It is true. She’s gone, riddled with ‘Rona and cancer, at 94.

I guess I buried the lede, huh? Maybe she was right all along (SLAP!). Maybe I am a “bad boy” (CRACK!).

(Chorus, in English: “Herring with potatoes, herring with potatoes/Don’t bother with meat or steak/duck, sponge cake or cheese cake/Chicken is a dog compared to this, it’s understood/The best dish for the belly is Herring Mit Potatoes”.)

Dream I: I am at my work desk. A juicy cockroach ambles from behind the table lamp and makes its way to my stapler, a brown metal Swingline from the 60s. I wonder: where did the roach come from? We have no roaches here; did someone come and leave a crumb? Are we now infested?

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Dream II: I am told that the husband of a neighbor wrote a book. I am told the book is great. It is suggested that I buy this book. I go on Amazon. There is the book. It has a red jacket, with white lettering. It looks like the cover of a child’s coloring book. Centered in the red is the doughy, smiling face of the husband of a neighbor. He looks like a putz, something like Uncle Floyd, and I am glad.

The End.