Dad was right.

I remember fondly many of my father's sayings. They varied in content and form, and he seemed to have dozens at his disposal.
On lazy, couchside afternoons in front of the TV, dad would say: "Couldn't get any work done today anyway - it's too wet to rain and too windy to haul rock."
I don't know either, but he'd laugh like hell every time he said it.
He told me things like "If you get into a fight you know you're going to lose, make sure you throw the first punch because it might be your last."
To him, anything disgusting was "ockey medicine." And if you spilled milk on your chin while taking too big of a gulp from the carton, then you just "slopped your dripper."
But driving down 5th street the other day, I remembered another: "Always stop at a lemonade stand."
I was going back to the Free Press office after lunch. I had just eaten two helpings of leftover beef stew and then washed it down with a glass of ice milk. I was stuffed to my shoulders and enjoying a discussion on public radio about nuclear reactors in Iran when I saw the faint outline of a lemonade stand.
As I neared the stand, I tried to quiet my father's voice inside my head. I just ate, I told myself, and dad would forgive any man for not putting lemonade on top of beef stew.
I tried not to make eye contact with the moppy haired youngster manning the stand as I drove by. But I couldn't help myself. We locked eyes and, seizing his window of opportunity, the 7 or maybe 8-year-old held up his handwritten sign.
It said: Homade Lemenade.
I bought a glass at 50 cents. I only had a $5, and he could only give me back $3, so he said I could keep the plastic cup. It was a fair deal, so we shook on it.
The lemonade was terrible, clearly lacking a mother's steady hand on the sugar, and I dumped it out three blocks away on Mulberry Street.
But it was still worth the stop - if only to get dad's voice out of my head.