Saturday, April 11, 2015

Call To Dinner

I am sitting on the floor in the living room leaning back against the couch, hugging a pillow against my chest. We are wrapped up in the latest Get Smart TV episode, watching Agent 86 and Agent 99 trying to capture the bad guy in many shades of black and white TV grey.

"Monik, come and set the table!"

I am summoned into the kitchen and do as I'm told, sliding around the kitchen table in sock feet.  Our kitchen barely fits the table, brought home from the Credit Union boardroom when it was cast off.  I set a place for each of us. Little ones along the wall on the bench, Mom at the end by the kitchen stove, bigger kids along the outside where they can swoop in and out again. An easy exit. A quick escape.

On evenings when Dad is home from work, the big kids side of the table is split and Dad has his place in the middle, just like Jesus' seat at the table at the Last Supper; otherwise, the order is the same.

I climb up onto the kitchen counter to get my supplies - cups, plates. Into the big, heavy drawer for the cutlery, I try to select ones that match. Back over to the table, hurrying in order to get back to the TV, I set carefully.  I want to do it right. I take care to make sure the blade of the knife faces in, towards the plate. The spoon to the right of the knife, fork away over to the left of the knife with room for the plate in the middle. The cup above the knife. Where possible, cutlery matching for that place setting. Big brothers get the settings that don't match - they won't notice, or care, anyway. Little spoons for the bench side of the table, big spoons for the other side.

Checking on the progress of the meal, I can tell it's not  ready yet so I race back into the living room to join my brothers. Finding my spot has been taken, I don't push it this time and just slide down in the closest spot.  John wiggles over a little, but doesn't say anything; Paul is oblivious. Agent 86 is on his shoe phone and we don't want to miss anything.

"Boys, come for dinner!"

There it is, the call to the evening meal. Our family dinner. This is the call for dinner that I have heard almost every single day of all 12 years that I have been on this earth. If I am in the kitchen, I might be asked to call the boys for dinner. If one of the boys is in the kitchen, he is asked to call the boys for dinner. And when my Mother calls, it is always the same - "Boys, come for dinner!"

Today, I think to myself, I will wait. I will wait until she calls for the girls. Oh, hang on, there's only me... well, still. I will wait until she calls for me, or for girls, or even just girl. I am angry. Angry at my Mother for not calling me, for not calling girls. For NEVER calling girls - or even what about calling 'kids' or 'children' (we're not goats either, after all). A self-professed tom-boy, it shouldn't bother me that I'm included with the boys, but somehow it does. By this time I've worked myself up into a lather. I don't want to go, but I'm hungry too - it's been a long time since lunch - and at the same time I don't really want to get into trouble. This might not be worth getting the wooden spoon.

Finally I stomp into the kitchen, knowing that my call for dinner will never come and that there's a fine line before I am officially LATE for dinner. I get a glare from my Mother from across the kitchen table. Now I see, I have crossed the line and I am in trouble after all.

"Why do always call just the boys? You never call girls, or me!" I challenge, cringing a little inside as I worry what my defiant display will create in my Mother. My cheeks are hot and I can feel the heat in them, my armpits prickly as the "fight or flight" response is kicking in. I slide in to the vacant seat at the end of the bench, on the little kids side of the table. My older brothers look up, amused, wondering what my fuss is about. My younger brothers either haven't noticed yet, because there is no fireworks, or if they do notice they are quiet so as not to attract any attention to themselves. I notice I'm still holding my breath as I'm uncertain what response I will get.

Today, I am lucky. She sighs and shakes her head slowly, exasperated with me. As usual.

"What do you want me to say," she demands suddenly, chin jutting forward, eyes like dark beads, pausing in the middle of passing the salad bowl. Suddenly I'm on the spot - all eyes at the table are on me and I feel so small.

Like a deer in the headlights, my eyes are wide and I feel my mouth open and close as I grasp at words. Like a goldfish, my mouth is moving but there's no sound. I know I won't be able to make her understand how I feel, how the call to dinner makes me feel, how it is to be not even recognized as a girl growing up in a house of boys, long deserted by older sisters who got out when the getting was good.  I don't blame them.

"Nothing," I stammer, hoping that will do and knowing it doesn't make any sense. I just need to get the heat away from me. I don't want the wooden spoon, not with everyone here, all the boys watching; I don't want to be humiliated and hurt like that. Not even for my own principles, what few I know of.

"Okay, then," she softens, placing the bowl back on the table and my crisis has been averted.

***

I spoke with my sister Anne after I posted this story.

"You didn't finish it," she said.

At the time, I said that yes I had, it was just a short vignette, it was finished. That's all there was. But on further reflection, I realize that I DO have more to add to this story, to finish it.  So, here it is.

My Mom is 86 now, going on 87, and over this last Christmas I had the opportunity to spend two weeks with her. It had been many years since I had been home at Christmas, and I was looking forward to spending some quiet time with her - knitting, reading, that sort of thing. I was also hoping to "help out" a little. She was recently put on some new medication and had just given up her drivers license, and I was glad to do a little bit to ease the holiday pressure on my siblings.

After cleaning and, mostly, organizing the kitchen cupboards, I had my eye on clearing out the back bedroom.  The Boys Room, as some of you might recognize from an earlier Little Monik story. It has long ago been emptied of its built in closets and bunk beds, but the wall-to-wall desk and drawers are still there and they have become great for stashing things. Mom is still knitting and sewing, so the room also contains her ironing board and sewing machine. I asked if she'd mind if I just got it all organized - basically re-purpose it into a big Craft Room. She thought that sounded okay.

I warned her that it would start to look worse before it got better, but she was alright with that and in I went. There were many plastic bins that had been brought in for me, expressly for sorting. So I sorted - paper in this pile, material in this bin, wool in this bin, patterns in these boxes... and oh my goodness, what an amazing button collection!

"Take it," Mom offered when I told her I was jealous of her button tin, but I declined.

"You're still using them! You never know when a button will make just the right nose for a stuffed doll or for a new little girls dress or boys sweater! You still need them."

"That's true," she acknowledged.

It gets dark early in winter, but the overhead fluorescent bulbs kept the room bright and I could have been on another planet. I do like to sort, and to organize. And I sorted. And I organized.

Mom came into the room often, checking on my progress. Sometimes she left me a snack.

"Hard to believe there's so much in here," she said, walking back into the room once, and I wasn't sure if she said it to herself or to me.

"Yes," I agreed. "Lots of memories, I bet."

"Yes," she answered. We both stood for a moment, then. This was the house I grew up in and although I had left it for the past 35 years, she had remained and had seen the rest of her sons through this room. Had said goodbye to her husband, my Dad, who had lay dying in the room just opposite, about 30 years ago. I knew that I could hear all their voices echoing, the laughter, the tears... I could only imagine what she was hearing and feeling.

Then, looking up at me with a smile she reached out for my hand.

"Let's go have dinner."

***

I love you, Mom.