We were sitting at the dining room table in our family’s small ranch home in Loves Park, Illinois.

I know it was summer time because I recall the slight damp stickiness on the dark walnut oval-shaped table, and the way my legs stuck to the camel-colored pleather upholstery covering “my” spin-style bucket chair, one of six at the table.

Dad was sitting to my left and at the head of the table. Frank was sitting directly across from me.

I don’t recall if anyone else had sat down yet. It seems like Mom was still in the kitchen.

Frank was getting ready to eat a tomato.

He could tell the story better than I, recalling the details of salting the tomato, salivating in anticipation, etc.

The front row show I had was when he took the first bite.

I don’t think that Dad was eating dinner yet but I don’t know what he was doing. Tinkering, probably.

He wasn’t really paying attention, is the main thing.

So when the acidic contents of the aforementioned tomato entered the eye opening on his face… yeah, that was a surprise to all of us.

I watched each frame in cartoon slow motion, from the bite down in to the soft flesh of the tomato to the contents spurting towards my dad’s face and eyes, and his subsequent reaction.

His subsequent reaction.

Dad. Was. Mad.

From my seat, it was obvious that Frank hadn’t done this intentionally.

The guy was just enjoying the hell out of his tomato.

Dad’s response and reaction really did not match the scenario.

I would never dream of saying as much at the time.

That is the earliest that I can recall really paying attention to moods.