In my neighborhood when I was growing up, "way to go" was usually what you said to a kid when he attempted something and failed miserably, possibly resulting in an injury that occasionally meant a trip to the emergency room at St. Francis Hospital. Which, if said injury required that your parents rush you there in the evening, was actually pretty cool, because you were out after dark on a school night.
Of course, if it happened during the summer, it was a different story. Particularly if you broke a limb. That meant no beach, no going out to play, nothing that could cause further injury. Sure, you could go out, you just couldn’t do anything.
"Way to go" was also something you’d say to a kid that did something that resulted in more than himself getting in trouble. I went to a Catholic grammar school, so this was fairly easy to do if a nun was already pissed off at the class for something. We had a nun that was a frequent substitute, and there was a better-than-average chance that she’d get her panties in a wad about our deportment, and we’d end up sitting, hands folded on top of the desk, facing straight ahead, from whenever she lost it until 3:15. One day it was the guy who could blow his nose so loud that it could be heard all over the school, demonstrating his skill when we were sitting still. Another time, it was the guy who stuck his hand up and innocently asked if he could "use the john." She kept us sitting there until 4 that afternoon…
Linda runs Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Now here’s Yvonne DeCarlo for Kool-Aid soft drink mix. A five-cent package makes two whole quarts!