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Writers Corner |
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There are three memories I have about together times - meals, berry picking and prayer.
The first thing I recall about mealtime is that you were there, on time, and you ate what was put before you. You could ask the question: What’s for supper?", but today the question often is "What do you want for supper?", and it's asked by the parents.
There were 1 2 of us in the family with eight or 10 home at any given time. We all sat around our big, round table and we started off with Grace, which we took turns saying: "Bless us... mumble, mumble...Gifts...mumble, mumble...Bounty ... Through Christ Our Lord, Amen."
With that, 16 hands went for the towering mound of homemade bread which was set in the centre of the table. Mom, who served everyone before she sat down, would turn to the stove for a second and "puff", all the bread was gone. Out came another loaf, and was that ever good with the stew, beans ( homemade), pea soup, pork chops, hash ( the good kind), etc..
Sometime we would all be talking together, and sometimes we would all be fighting together, but one thing we were not allowed to do at the table, and that was to sing. My father would just point at the culprit...and all smiles stopped together!...just for a second, and away we'd go again. Now, I know we were celebrating life, security and love... togetherness.
If one of my brothers or sisters reads this I know they will say: "Kit, you're after gettin' some grand, girl, we know where you're from!"
It is true we didn't appreciate it then, but when I can get my family around the table for a meal today I am content....even if it is for macaroni and cheese - my specialty. Competing with work, sports, television and all the "stuff of the '90s" can sometimes be abrasive to one's soul.
Now, let's not get carried away here. The second gathering I recall is the berry picking thing. Getting ready for that was like getting ready to go to the ice. We would pick from morning until supper time, so we had to take a big lunch - a big carton of potted meat sandwiches, lemon crystals drink and tea. Mom would give the following directions - "Girls, tie you bandannas real tight under your chins to keep off the sun and so the flies won't eat ye. Do not, on the pearl of your lives, stray away - we don't have time to look for ye. Don't lose your "dumpers". Do not eat any berries. If you have to go to the bathroom, make sure there's a big tree near you."
O.K. Off we strealed towards the woods, meeting other families going also, and I'd say we looked like a long string of nomads. One member of the family never kept any berries, ate them all, came to lunch full, and gave the excuse: "I had to go to the bathroom and there was a big tree in front of me, but I heard loud laughter behind me and did you ever try to run with two legs down one leg of your pants, and I tipped over my berries."
Mom would say: "Did you eat any?". And that person would say, looking Mom straight in the eye, with the face blue from chin to eyeballs: "No, I don't think so. I might have had one or two."
We sat, we picked, we ate and we went home...together.
Now, prayer time was something else. Every evening, immediately after supper, Dad would say: "All hands, down on your knees."
We knelt and we took turns saying the first half of the Rosary, which was answered by the crowd. it seems that it is at the most reverent, silent times of prayer that it's so easy to laugh.
Above the drone of one voice saying the first part and heavier hum of the family answering we "beat the divil". Mom and Dad had their eyes closed giving us a good opportunity to make each other laugh. We made faces that should never have gone back to normal - good thing the wind didn't change, we poked and kicked at each other under the table 'til some of us cried, we would change our voices from loud to soft just to sound ridiculous.
One evening my brother did two things that made me laugh so much I bruised my ribs. In an attempt to make me laugh, since it was my turn to announce the mystery, he chewed up and swallowed a handful of real flowers - bumblebee flowers we called them, and all the while he kept his face as serious as a study in stone. Then, he, at will, and unashamedly created "flatulence"...not the odour of sanctity, my friends.
My father slowly opened his eyes and bellowed: "Get out, you dirty thing. Get out, get out...pray frus, pray frus, pray frus...and don't come back 'til you're aired."
Only Mom and the youngest answered the rest, prayers to deliver us from "famine, pestilence and scourges," whom I presumed were distant relatives! Amen.
Catherine Kelly
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