In the nineteen seventies my family had a brown station wagon with wood paneled sides. My brothers and I loved to sit in the “way back.” We often pretended we were puppy dogs, barking at all the passing cars. That is until my parents got us to play the game, “Whoever can be quiet the longest will get a dollar.”
One day Tony Orlando’s “Tie A Yellow Ribbon” came on the radio and my mom, dad, me and my middle brother sang along. My youngest brother, seven years my junior who was only about three at the time, was alone in the way back. He began to cry. He cried harder and harder bordering on hysterical. He was usually a good-natured kid and the crying was inexplicable.
My concerned mother turned off the radio. “Bradley, what’s wrong? What happened?”
He could barely contain himself. “Why are you blaming me? I didn’t do anything!”
“What are you talking about? No one’s blaming you for anything,” she said, but by now he was gasping for air he was crying so hard. We had to pull over and console him. Finally we discovered that while we were singing, “Just get on the bus, forget about us, and put the blame on me,” he had misheard us to all be singing, “Blame it on Bradley!”
The poor kid thought there was a whole conspiracy against him, and his entire family as merrily singing about it while driving down the highway at 55 miles an hour.
Prompted by today’s daily post: Uncanned Laughter.