The Rules of the Table

My sister, Jean, is a guest blogger today with this story she remembers from the family dinner table.

When we were growing up our Dad worked in an office north of Chicago.  We lived in the south suburbs so his commute was over an hour during rush hour.  When he came home he and Mom would have some quiet time with the newspaper and a glass of wine before we all sat down to dinner.  It was so much later than every other neighborhood kid that it seemed as if we ate dinner and then went to bed.  He insisted that with six kids manners were a priority at the table  A sampling of some of the dinnertime rules:

*All dishes were to be passed clockwise around the table.

*You could never take too much on the first passing to ensure that there was enough for everyone.

*If you wanted seconds you had to get the attention of the person closest to the dish and ask:
Me: “Tom?”
Tom: “Yes, Jean?”
Me: “Can you please pass the green beans?”
Tom: “Sure.”
Me: “Thank you.”

*Only one person at a time could talk…no raised voices and no interrupting.

*You could not take the last of any dish without first asking if anyone else at the table wanted some.

*You had to finish everything you put on your plate and when finished you had to clear your dishes from the table, take them to the kitchen and rinse them off.

Even though we had a lot of rules there were many memorable dinners and lively conversations.  I remember one dinner in particular.

Since we lived in a small house Kathy and I shared a bedroom.  The room was too small for twin beds, so we had a full size bed.  Kathy is neat……..me not so much which was the cause of many disagreements.  The biggest one was over making the bed.    Kathy insisted the bed had to be made.  I was sure I had something better to do.  I have no idea what that would be but nothing was still better than making the bed.

The battle of making the bed carried over into the dinner conversation one night.  In retrospect, I’m sure mom was tired of hearing about it so she let Dad handle it.

After some back and forth I said: “Why should I make the bed?  I’m only going mess it up again.” 

To which Dad said………………

“Well, why wipe your ass if your only going to go again?”

The man who wore a shirt and tie every night while sitting at the head of the table, who insisted on impeccable table manners not only swore, but made his point in the manner that his smart-aleck kid would understand.

Then right to left the food got passed around the table.

The Uncle

Last week my dad’s brother died.  It was a long time coming, but as Maria Shriver once said, “Death, even when it’s expected, is always a surprise.”

Larry was my dad’s youngest brother, and growing up I can’t say we were all that close to their family.  It wasn’t due to some long-simmering feud which would have made for a more interesting story, but more because of two brothers with busy lives who lived far enough apart that staying close seemed like one more thing to add to the list of grown-up obligations.

A few years after my dad died, my Aunt Pat got leukemia.  As time went on and her health deteriorated, she sent me a note saying that Larry would need things to do to keep him busy after she died and if I had any projects that needed to be done around my house I should ask him to come and do it.  Anything, she said.

Our house is one big project.

Months later I got in touch with Larry and it was decided that my downstairs bathroom would be Project #1.  He and my mom drove to town, tools in tow, and he laid the tile for the shower and floor.  I wanted the floor tile angled and he had never done that before.  “Well, how am I supposed to do that,” his voiced bellowed.   

I don’t know.  I thought I only had to say what I wanted and you made the magic happen.

When I said my neighbor had done it that way in her house he said, “Tell her we’re coming down to see it,” and he was halfway down the driveway with no idea where he was headed while I was still scrambling for my shoes. 

One trip to barge in on the neighbor and a five minute conversation was all he needed to figure out the logistics of this job and he nailed glued it.  In fact, he was so happy with this novel way to lay floor tile that he went home and did the same thing in his house.

He came back a couple of years later and did my upstairs bathroom, mom and toolbox in tow again.  My own dad would have likely offered me help like that if he had lived long enough to see Mark and I become homeowners, but he had long moved on by the time that happened.  Having Larry in the house was the next best thing.   He asked the kids what they learned in school when they walked in the door, marveled at the way Mallory inhaled asparagus for lunch in her high chair, and yelled.  Mom would remind him every afternoon that there was a napping baby in the house. 

My sister says that Larry’s hands were just like Dad’s.  I saw it in his nose.  Each of us staring at the features in him that we missed in our dad, clinging to his presence like a life raft in choppy waters.

I have stared at the tile work he did for me years ago as if it’s some kind of priceless heirloom, but the true legacy of this uncle was the infectious, booming spirit of him in our lives………..

………….and now another family life raft has drifted off to peaceful waters where news of his pending arrival must have been highly anticipated.

The Trouble With Facebook

There are things I love about Facebook.  I like to see what my very cute nieces and nephews are up to.  I like being able to stay in touch with old friends and classmates.  I appreciate it when somebody posts a link to an interesting article or funny video.  An engagement, new baby, new house, great trip, funny dog, graduation?  Yes!  Yes!  Please post pictures.  A significant loss or disappointment?  Sorrow should be shared to lessen your burden.

The other stuff – the running updates on every moment of life………..is wearing me out.  Does anybody go out and put the phone down and enjoy the experience?

************

*Guess where I am?  No, don’t guess.  I’ll tell you.  Every single time I walk out the door.

*Were you wondering what I had to eat and drink for dinner tonight?  Not really?  I’ll tell you anyway.  Wait, I know what’s even better.  I’ll post a picture of it.

*Let’s document us getting plastered.  This won’t be used against me in a court of law, will it?

************

I was talking to a former student of Mark’s – now a professor of biology and in the Army reserves.  Nearly two decades past the age of consent, he got shipped to Afghanistan for a year and the emails he sent during that time are more than worthy of a book deal.  His goal as captain was to make sure everybody came home, and one of his emails talked about the unrelenting pressure of that commitment for 365 days and nights.  The making sure as a leader that everybody lives to see their family again. 

His take on our society?  We have become a nation of narcissists who think sacrifice is a long line at Starbucks and being without cable for half a day.  

One click and you’ll find plenty of evidence to confirm that.

Winnebago

When I was a little girl, my best friend’s family would take me on camping trips with them as company for Nancy. 

I didn’t love the camping experience, but I loved getting away from the crammed house I lived in with all those people.  For Nancy’s mom, it seemed to me to be a lose-lose situation with her having to pack half the house to go live in the woods for a week.   As a frequent guest, I was treated like family and required to participate in chores.  Early on I figured out that pumping your water, heating it, pouring it into a tub, scrubbing the dishes, rinsing them in another tub of water that you had to pump from the ground and then drying them seemed stupid when there was a perfectly good dishwasher at home.

I knew I wasn’t cut out for the camping life but I married somebody who was. 

When the kids were little The Big Daddy started to entertain the idea of getting a camper.  A Winnebago.  Are you kidding me?  Do you know how much those things cost?

“But it’s the perfect solution.  Everything you need is right there.  It’s not like your roughing it.”

I wasn’t on board.  Ever.  When he said the RV Show was in town and that we should go take a look……”you know to see what’s out there”……..I told him I wasn’t participating.

The years passed but his interest never waned until the summer we were driving through Idaho.  Going up a mountainous road we were waved over by another driver who was FA……FA…..FA…..FREAKING out.  It smelled like smoke and within a few minutes you could hear the wail of the fire department sirens.

The Recreational Vehicle doesn’t much like those steep climbs, and what seemed to have started with smoking brakes turned into A Smoking, Flaming Winnebago up yonder.  Everything in the traveling home burnt up real good with the stunned owners helpless on the side of the road.

We sat on the shoulder for nearly two hours surrounded by the most picturesque scenery you could imagine.  I read Tuesdays With Morrie and boo-hooed and blew my nose all the while we were stuck.  The Big Daddy said, “Pass the Kleenex,” and  wiped away a few tears of his own.

With the smell of pine all around us, I fell in love with the charming Morrie Schwartz while The Big Daddy was watching his ongoing plan to seduce me with the pleasures of a Winnebago go up in smoke.

                                           

This Neighborhood

Maggie and Nathan are in the process of buying their first house.  Maggie is beside herself with excitement while Nathan tempers that with worry about making this leap into home owning. 

We told them how we found and bought our first (and only) house which in every step was dumb luck.  We knew nothing about the neighborhood, the schools or the basement that has flooded more times than I could count.  We only knew that when we were in it we loved it and thought it was perfect for raising our family.

Over our 21 years in this house I have been frustrated, especially by the lack of money to do the things that would make it better, but I have never fallen out of love with it.

After we had made our offer and it had been accepted, we would drive by the house all the time.  Up and down the street we would see our soon-to-be neighbors and their kids everywhere.

It seemed like there was a Fisher-Price Cozy Coupe in every driveway.

There are a few of us long-timers that have stayed put while younger families come and go for the lure of bigger closets and tonier zip codes, but the pendulum is swinging back and our beloved street is filled with young families again.

Our kids had the good fortune of having many friends right outside the door, and their memories of those days make me happy for them and for the serendipity that led us to this street.

Two weeks ago, one of those friends died suddenly.  It was a shock to everyone and his parents and sister are heartbroken.  They are one of those long-timers.  The kind of neighbor that you can depend on to show up for the good and the crappy with a bottle of wine and a helping hand.  Always.

When Maggie was expressing frustration with the home-buying process, I told her that it takes faith to make a leap of faith.  Things have a way of working out like they should I said, but for some families nothing they could ever fathom lands on their front porch in the middle of the night and life changes in ways it never should..

If you happen to be the neighbor of that kind of family, you sit and cry.  Alone in your house, while walking the dog, at work when you tell your boss you need a few hours off, with their other friends and family at the services and most of all when you are with them………

………….for words of comfort fail to roll off the tongue and the work of faith takes enormous faith.

Be Careful Where You Bike

Sometimes when The Big Daddy goes biking with The Gravy Train, they will go to Lawrence.  That is where the campus of Kansas University is, and a destination for hard-core bikers.  From here it is about 45 miles, so a round-trip with a couple of rest stops could take a few hours.

It is a big deal when a Lawrence ride is planned.

In the middle of a conversation with the neighbors, let’s say about the progress of the tomato plants, The Big Daddy will randomly say, “Yeah, biking to Lawrence this weekend.”  Then the guy neighbor will say, “Lawrence?  Geez, on a bike?  Hell, that’s a haul.”

“Awwww, it’s not so bad,”  The Big Daddy will say, and then the men will talk about more fascinating macho stuff while me and the other Mrs. slip into a Boredom Coma. 

When the ride is over and The Big Daddy is showered and changed, he pretends to feel great, but his ass is whupped and dragging and we will end up watching a movie on pay-per-view for an exciting Saturday night in Marriageville.

But this biking to Lawrence thing got a lot more interesting when I heard this……………

I ran into an acquaintance who was having work done in her house by someone I was familiar with.  I knew that this guy had taken up biking a few years ago and that his wife was irritated that he was gone so much and leaving her home with the kids.    

One day he took the infamous ride to Lawrence with some of his biking buddies.  That’s when his wife sent him a text that she was leaving him.  In fact, she had already bought a house and her and the kids would be moved in by the time he got back.

She left him by text when he was on his bike?  All the way in Lawrence?

True story Gravy Trainers.  Don’t shoot the messenger.

                                        

                                        

Rim Shot

Saturday was moving day for Will.  It began the day before when he called and mentioned something about me reserving the U-Haul.  Me????  No.  Not me.  You.  You were supposed to do that.  Remember……..college graduate, adult, legal age, taking care of big kid stuff?  I said I’d pay for it but you were supposed to secure it.  We went back and forth about who said what for awhile, each of us raising our voice a little higher.  This wasn’t getting us anywhere.

He got online in hopes of finding a truck to rent on Memorial Day weekend.  Did you know more people move on that weekend than any other time of the year?  Neither did we.  After a few hours, he found one that was forty minutes away from us which wasn’t so bad because we pass that way en route to his campus.  The was-so-bad-part was that it had to be returned to that location and not at a U-Haul lot in Kansas City when we were done.

Knowing how irritated I was by the whole situation, Will had nearly everything ready and stacked in the parking lot of his apartment by the time we got there.  Loading was a piece of cake.  The truck was being shared with a friend whose parents live near us and her load-up went even quicker.

We made the two hour drive, unloaded her stuff and then came home to unload Will’s stuff.  Mark was backing the truck into the driveway and I got out to be the Monback.

Monback, monback, monback…………Whoa.  Whoa.  That’s good.

The Big Daddy Truck Driver was concerned about hitting the basketball goal so I was the guide.  And as I was Monbacking and watching the net, the roof of the truck was hitting the rim and bending the entire goal post.

Whoa, whoa, stop, I yelled as I pushed on the post to straighten it back up.  To no avail because it’s steel ya big dork.

Mallory was watching all of this unfold in front of her and hysterically laughing at me.  The Big Daddy was not amused.  He jumped out of the truck – yelling and flailing his arms and said, “The only job you have all day is to make sure I don’t hit the basketball goal and you’re standing there watching me hit the goddamn basketball goal.  What kind of Monback are you?”

Are you talking on a scale of 1 – 10 or like a school grade?  Are you even talking to me at all right now?

We no longer have a use for that basketball goal anyhow and so I said, “Why don’t you keep going and knock it all the way down?”

“Because this is a rental truck.  We can’t return it with a big dent on the top of it because you think we should do home improvements with a U-Haul.”

Oh yeah.  I forgot about that part.  And the rim. 

If your shots hook to the right then this is your basketball goal.

Goals & Graduation

When Will was in kindergarten, his teacher told me that she thought he had ADD.  “He seems to have trouble staying focused after a few minutes.  I thought I’d bring it to your attention.”  Really?  I never noticed.  “Not in a bad way.  He isn’t a behavior problem, but his mind tends to wander.  Give him this little test.  Give him directions to do three different things and see how he does.”

I took our project home and made a game out of it.  Get your shoes out of the closet, empty the bathroom trash can and practice writing your name on this piece of paper.  Tell me when you’re done and then you can pick out a popsicle.  I’d show that teacher that my kid didn’t have ADD.  He came back with his shoes and the paper with his name on it and said, “What was the other thing I was supposed to do?”  Oh geez, honey, I can’t even remember what the heck I said.  This game isn’t very fun for either of us, is it?

And that’s how it went with he and I and the school system.  He struggled with reading and I would do flashcards with him before he went to bed – dog-tired and sick of school work.  In 4th grade his teacher told us that he needed to work on his fluency in oral reading and maybe he could practice reading out loud to his kindergarten sister.  That lasted three nights because the five year old read better than the nine year old.

Because of his reading his test taking always had lousy outcomes.  He’d come home every year with the results of the standardized test taken months earlier and my heart would sink when I saw the score.  “How did I do Mom?  Was this a good one?”  It was great, buddy, I’d tell him and shove the envelope in a drawer never to be looked at again.

I signed him up for a reading class at a nearby college and the results weren’t even close to the money we spent or the testimonials on the shiny brochure.  Added to the mix was the occasional bullying at school for a host of reasons, and my full-time job became propping him up with praise and motivation and sending him into the den for another day.  The nights were for the school stories, some that felt like a dagger through my heart.

Sometime in high school when another test score came in I put up the white flag.  You know what?  You aren’t a number, a percentage or a dot on a graph.  You are capable of great things in your life and this test has nothing at all to do with your future or that creative spirit you’ve always had.  You just keep working as hard as you can every single day.  That’s the test………to keep at it.  

Which was all well and good until it was time to take the ACT.  He took it twice.  The crappy score my brother’s kid got was Will’s high score and we knocked wood and lit candles that it would be enough to get him into the program he wanted.

Last weekend when we were at his graduation all those things played like a newsreel in my head and I could have had a weeping good sob at any given moment.  When he got his diploma we watched him walk past his professors and hug them all.  “That’s when I almost cried,” he said afterwards.  “They told me how talented I was and they couldn’t wait to see where the future would lead me.”

The valedictorian was proficient in Latin, Spanish and Chinese.  Maggie leaned over and whispered how self-absorbed she was, but that’s the way it can be with high achievers.  They’re very impressed with themselves while the rest of us are at the mercy of their long bio on our uncomfortable bleacher seats.

When the pomp and circumstance were over and we had gone back to Will’s apartment, I noticed this list of goals on his bedroom door.  The things he wanted to accomplish this year…………….

Looks like he made it.

Let’s Move

Long before Michelle Obama took on the epidemic of childhood obesity, The Big Daddy and I were doing our own program called Let’s Move.  We are not as high profile as FLOTUS (and suddenly I have developed bingo arms) so nobody was aware of the program, but anyone can participate.  Let’s have an overview, shall we?

Eight years ago, we moved Maggie into her first dorm room in August.  It was on the 9th floor.  In May, we moved her out.

In August, we moved Maggie into a different dorm.  It was a suite with two other girls in the lower level.  In May, we moved her out.

In August, we moved Maggie into a campus apartment complex in which she was an RA.  We rented a U-Haul.  It was on the 1st floor.

Two years later, we rented a U-Haul and moved Maggie out of that apartment and back home.

The following summer, Maggie moved out of the house and into an apartment in Kansas City.  It was up several flights of stairs with no elevator.  Guess who helped her move?

The summer after that we helped Maggie move into a new apartment on the 2nd floor with Nathan.  We loaded our cars, they rented a U-Haul and we helped them move.

The summer after that they rented a small house and a U-Haul and we helped them move.

This week they will find out if the offer they made on a house will go through.  They may be moving.

Four years ago, we moved Will into his first dorm room in August.  It was on the 2nd floor.  In May, we moved him out.

In August, we moved Will into a different dorm with a different roommate on the 2nd floor.  In May, we moved him out.

In August, we rented a U-Haul and moved Will into an apartment on the 2nd floor.

Two years later, we will rent a U-Haul (Saturday if you want to help) and will be………..(you guessed it) moving Will back home.

Last August, we moved Mallory into her first dorm room.  It was on the 3rd floor.   In May, we moved her out.

In August, Mallory will move to a house that she is renting with three other girls.  We will rent a U-Haul and help move her in.  Wait until her Dad sees the stairs.

And what has happened to us over these past eight years, two different colleges and more apartments and dorm rooms than we can even remember?  Are we more fit?  No, we are not.

We are older and we have grown weary.  We think the thousands of dollars we pay for college should include strapping young frat boys with pickups to take care of mattresses and microwaves.  Instead it’s good ol’ Mom and Dad who drop ef bombs when we see flights of stairs and unpacked piles of shit.  Oh sorry you guys…..ran out of boxes.  The kids accuse us of being cranky and negative. 

We are all of the above, but especially we are free laborers who get mail from AARP on a weekly basis. Something isn’t adding up here.

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