Dinner Time

Mealtime. This was always a production at our home, regardless of the day or time.

Every week started around our long, dining room table as the family sat for Sunday dinner. My father sat at the head, with my mother on his right. The rest of us fought for our favorite seats, eager to sit next to either or best friends or in front of the best food.

Sunday mornings always started out the same.

"Mom! Mom! Can I sit next to you tonight?"

Whoever was the fastest to ask got the royal seat immediately to my mother's right. For some reason, that seat was the prime eating location.

As we took our seats, my father would lead us all in grace. Holding each other's hands, we would bow our heads and pray along.


But we had to entertain ourselves. As my father bowed his head and closed his eyes, blessing the food for us children, my brothers would start up the game. Rob would look up with a playful smirk lifting his mouth, his eyes dancing in foolery. With Bill's hand in his, he'd let out the first squeeze. As soon as the first squeeze was administered, the silliness ensued. Back and forth from brother to sister to sister to brother, the squeezes would be passed along. Giggles were muffled until, finally, the blessing ended and we could let each other go.

                                                                                                                      
One particular Sunday night, we were having an especially messy meal. It could have been anything from spaghetti to any mystery platter my father tended to throw together. The youngest, Gina, was sitting at the head of the table in between my parents. Roughly 2 or 3 years old, she had inevitably spilled dinner all over herself. Amidst conversation and rowdy dinner-time noise, my mother stood Gina up and proceeded to take off her dirtied shirt.

Suddenly, the conversation stopped and laughter erupted. The toddler was standing up on her high chair, sauce covering her face, and wearing one of my sports bras! I had convinced Gina moments before dinner that she should put one on and be a big girl like me. She burst into tears at the sound of everyone laughing at her. My mother, the dear woman, stifled her own laughter as she carried Gina out of the room.

Tactics had to be made in order to get out of certain health-conscious meals that dad liked to prepare. As soon as you entered the house from a long day of playing outside, you knew immediately if dinner was something to look forward to or to dread.

This was a dread-kind of meal. Mystery Stew.

Luckily, this particular evening I had gotten into trouble. When you were naughty, you were sent to the stairs to sit and think about what you've done. This was the worst, since you could hear everything from the stairs but couldn't see much of anything. On the evening of the dreaded stew, I was sitting at the top of the stairs as punishment for being naughty. I listened as the table was set, the food was brought out, the chairs scraped back and my siblings sat down. I listened as my father said grace, my siblings muffled giggles, and my mother hushed them. I listened as the food was passed around the table, silverware clanked, and the cat was shooed away. I leaned back at the top of those stairs, smiled, and picked up a book. I had escaped the Mystery Stew!




Later, as dinner came to a close, my father climbed the stairs to retreive his transistor radio from his bedroom. He saw me there reading a book about a boy who turned into a plant.




"Barbara! Go do your chores."

He passed by me on his way to his room and once again I let a victorious smile slip onto my face. I closed my book, slid down the banister, and happily skipped to the kitchen.