the dinner table

Every week or so, my 96 year old mother in law and I get together to write.
We choose a topic and write for ten minutes and then read our pieces aloud.
Here are this week's results.
We agreed that we could write over and over about
"the dinner table." It is such a focus of family life.

Madelyn O’Neil
December 4, 2008

The dinner table

I’ll stick to the dinner table in Windy Knob, Wenham, Massachusetts. There have been many dinner tables in my life; in Europe, on steamships, camps, etc.

Mother always sat at the head, her back to the light and my father sat opposite her. On the table there were always two silver baskets. The one next to mother was filled with what my father called “female crackers.” They were rather like wheat thins. The one next to my father was filled with “male crackers.” They were round, thick and tough to bite into.

At my mother’s place there was a little silver bell which she rang when she wanted to summon the waitress for second helpings or, oh bliss, when it was time for dessert.

What ever happened to that bell? Where is it now?

Barbara O’Neil
December 4, 2008

The dinner table

My father sat at one end of the shiny mahogany table in our dining room at 160 Oak Ridge Avenue. My mother sat to this right and I was next to her. Across from us sat Ruthie and John. My oldest brother, Donny, was away at boarding school in Massachusetts so except for vacations, the seat at the other end of the table was empty.

Conversation moved along quickly. As my siblings were asked about school, they both blurted out stories, cutting each other off, talking fast. My parents listened attentively; laughing or nodding with interest. They talked about teachers, their classes. I even seem to remember them speaking in french sometimes. This was too much.

Midway through the meal, I wanted a chance. It was hard to fit a word in edgewise with this talkative crowd and they were so much older. Their lives were more important and of greater interest to my parents than mine.

I began to poke my mother’s arm. First softly, then with insistence. She’d look down at me, breaking away from the lively dinner conversation, “what is it?” she seemed to say as her eyebrows scrunched up.

“Can I talk now?”

With a sigh, my mother would intercede for me. She’d get everyone’s attention until finally the dining room was quiet. Too quiet. All eyes turned to me.

What had I wanted to say? In a small voice, I’d slowly begin a description of the things I had done that day with my friend Gay Parker. Perhaps we had climbed the tree behind the playhouse and spied on the Araneos next door, thrown a ball for our dog Brydie to fetch, had a tea party with our dolls, jammed our sneakered feet into metal skates, tightened them with a key and then roller skated down Magnolia Place. After a few minutes, my voice trailed off and the four big people at the table were back at it. By now my siblings were taking dishes to the kitchen and bringing out dessert.

I sat in silence, picking up my fork to finish the mashed potatoes and gravy and hiding a few peas under the potatoes hoping they would go unnoticed as Ruthie came to clear my plate.

I was glad to have gotten a little attention. And just as glad to be out of the spotlight. It felt good to be one of a busy family; a part of something bigger than myself.