On-the-spot #3

Daddy would whistle, his whistle so loud, wherever we kids were scattered throughout the neighborhood, we could hear him, or at least we better. There were four of us kids, me the oldest, and we had red beans with every meal. Some nights we had meat to go with the beans and cornbread, but not every night. But we got full. No kidding, we were that poor. And on top of that, my parents seemed to be in a constant state of anger, either at each other or one of us, mostly me. How could I dare be the only stepchild? How could I have acne, my little sister wondered aloud, and chew so funny? The rest of the family would laugh, oh, my sister was a regular comedian.

Supper at my house has started the same way since I grew old enough to be able to read. My mother would call us, and we would come, me with a book in my hands, reading even as I washed up. I would settle down at the dinner table, and the rebuke would come - "Grace. Put the book away. It's time for supper." - the same every evening for most of my life. Then we would pray - "Bless us o lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to recieve from thy bounty. Amen." - the same every evening for most of my life. Words that I say as fast as I can.

Then food, and conversation. Revealing my day, or hiding it. Then being excused, and bolting off to read.

It was never conventional. The way that my family ate was not usually the typical dining table experience. Normally the food would be cooked after an argument of what-to-eat-and-who-is-supposed-to-cook-it would be solved. The meal would be prepared by whomever was elected to cook that evening; my mom or grandmother; and as soon as it was finished, the plates would be served and the television would go on.

It was either "Rescue 9-11" or "Full House" depending on how big of a fight I put up to watch my show just before heading to bed. But either way I enjoyed spending the time sitting exactly like my mom and grandmother, with my heels barely perched on the edge of the coffee table, my plate carefully placed atop a sofa pillow on my lab, eating my green beans drenched with butter, just as my mother liked them.

I still remember the vegetative state that we would be in while staring at the television and the episodes of heart-wrenching accidents on "Rescue..." or the tear-jerking family moments on "Full House." And one thing was always certain... bed time was lurking just around the corner! Oh, the horror! But such was the dynamic of din-din in the house of young Marisa Louise!

(5 minutes--post).

The one scene

After we'd made fun of my mom's spinach quiche long enough, she broke down into tears, and went out to sit on the living room couch. My dad went to pick up food from McDonald's. I followed her out to the couch and put my arm around her and hoped the guilt I felt would fade. My brother stayed at the kitchen table.

We always ate dinner together as a family, and we laughed a lot, and we talked about religion and politics and literature...but that's the one scene I remember, even to this day. The one scene.

Mom and dad prided themselves on the fact that we all ate dinner together as a family. Every night, all four of us: Mom, Dad, my younger brother and me. We would've been, say, 9 and 11 then.

Friday nights would be TV night -- we'd cook frozen pizzas, then popcorn later on (in the Joe Namath popcorn popper I got for Christmas). For what might have been years or merely weeks of Fridays, we'd sit in the library. The Friday line-up was the same for what now seems like ages: M*A*S*H (when it was funny, before it got all Deep and Meaningful), Sanford and Son, and Chico and the Man. We'd finish with ice cream of some sort, then it was "PJ time", and off to bed.

Other than Friday nights, we weren't a TV family, and dinner was at the table. "As God intended," Dad used to joke. We were "C & E's" - Protestants who went to church on Christmas and Easter. Religion was always a good thing, except for the guilt bit. That explained why Dad left the Catholic church when he became an adult - always seemed to make sense to me. Why would God want us all to feel guilty all the time? Of course, I've found a way to generate my own, but I still don't understand where it comes from.

dad would serve the kids jaegermeister shots while mom arranged the sushi on her naked body. once everything was in place, we'd let the preacher and his wife in, and we'd gather around the aquarium for goldfish appetizers. then we'd stand around and pray to most of the major gods, thanking them for our bounty and daring them to strike our neighbor dead. after that my mom, lying flat on her back on the table, would yell, "come and git it!"

but, of course, we always let the dogs eat first.

KTC said:

Describe the supper table at your house when you were growing up. Take the reader inside the dynamic of that experience.

Go for 5 minutes...and don't edit yourself. GO>>>

Click to expand...

I suppose the supper table tat my house wasn't all that organized. At early years, it was more of a family thing. We would gather together and eat something. Often though, one of us would be gone. This would increase as we grew older.
My father was in the army and was often working late or out in the field. My mother was a nurse who worked different shifts, so you never knew if she would be home that night. Both mysister and I had friends we did things with.

As I grew older, Swans (spelling?) knew our house and loved my mother. She would buy food for her "sons" who would come over to my house as we did stuff. Frozen pizzas, chicken and other thigs were constant sources of food. I suppose we did eat together more than I seem to be saying, but it comes to mind more the other ways.

I remember the one thing we (my sister and I) demanded was my father not smoke at the table. It was somethign he finally gave in to, and that made it more pleasant.

eating was a time to talk about what we did. What had happened taht day. What were were goign to do.
At elast once a month we would go out "camping" if you can call it that in the 26 foot trailer. Dinner there was always more organized. Cramped in, it forced a sort of social feeling that I always loved.


mmmm random and unorganized. Just like me!

Dinner

Supper time. Dinner. Good old Mom and Dad. In their prime. I am playing outside all day long. Getting the infamous call to come to dinnner. "Screenwriter" she would scream. "Screenwriter, Dinner!" I would come running in, and sit down at the table before being told to go and wash my hands. Coming back to the table set with 1971's finest dinnerware with matching placemats and a tall Detroit Lions glass from the local Mobil gas station filled with milk. My brother drinking from a tall Camp Snoopy glass from McDonalds filled with the same dairy product. Usually chicken filled the dish, sometimes ham steak. Always a green veggie and a potato. Always picking through my food. It wouldn't be until years later that I appreciated a good home cooked meal. It wasn't until then I started to appreciate the life my parents had given me. It was then I realized all they had to sacrifice to raise three sons. It's at the dinner table that stories are told. Personalities are realized and friendships are made.