A woman's altar

Right after man discovered fire, I am sure that woman advised him on the best use of it.  Sure, the water must be boiled (because cooties were in the water even back then), and warmth must be obtained (because moving around with a bear on your back while tending to the kids…well, let’s just say a monkey is lighter) and even he had to admit that food took on a better flavor once it was cooked.  But woman also knew of another purpose.  Fire would lead to all sorts of crafts that would keep him busy (while he pretended not to hear cave baby crying for something).  The most important craft he would eventually take up with all his rudimentary tools, born from the fire, would be woodworking.  She was already used to stirring with a stick, but what she really wanted was a table.  Inside every woman burns the need and respect for a good table. 

In spite of all the “I will always be free and loving it” designer’s declaration that it is the fireplace that is the focal point of a home (ok, now that is just silly.  First off, if a person in the South has a fireplace, it only has candles in it or it is totally blocked off with baby guards.  Secondly, even in the Arctic regions, no one gets continually romantic in front of the fireplace.  Sure, sure, maybe a little smooching, but eventually the conversation is going to get around to comfort and waking up the younguns.  Fireplaces are usually placed in the living room and typically living rooms have no doors.  Except formal living rooms.  Personally, I don’t think I know anyone with a formal living room.  But even if I do, I certainly don’t know any woman who would agree to mess it up for something that could just as easily be accomplished in comfort in another room!) But even cave woman knew, in the end, the fire watching is a man thing.  The epicenter of any home is a table. 

When I was a child, no matter how much our family grew, we always had some sort of table we could all sit around.  Daddy was always at the head of the table so he could open the eating session with a prayer uttered with a speed that could outrun a sonic boom.  The rest of the seating order didn’t really matter, but it helped to strategically place the kids with the longer arms for passing the butter and farther placed foods.  The family gathered round and all food was placed on the table in front of us.  Once the nano second prayer was offered, there was no getting up until permission was granted. 

So naturally when I furnished a home of my own, my biggest concern was the table.  Like most newly married couples, the first table was proudly carried away from a garage sale. This table not only became the altar for experimental recipes, but also the unpaid bills desk and resting place for the morning newspaper.  As our family evolved, we added tables.  Tables that attached to a baby chair, tables to put keys on, tables to rest reading lamps on, and tables that propped up small plants and made them look bigger.  

Tables are significant.  Wars have started and ended around tables.  Lives have been saved and lost on tables.  Romances have begun and broken with a table in between.  Tables are dear to a woman.  She knows their power and their silent absorption of life.

The most magnificent table I have ever seen belongs to my cousin.  She inherited it from some great, great relative of her husband.  It is solid oak and has a little bell underneath, right next to the head of the table.  It is called a “servant’s bell”.  It still works perfectly and calls the nonexistent staff to attend the needs of all those seated around the table.  My cousin regaled me with stories of how her children and grandchildren took turns sitting at the head of the table to be the bell ringer.  Later, when her family grew, her grandchildren would argue over who would put their sleeping bag under the table for the night.  Her table fed family, entertained guests, and became a coveted tent on rainy days and family reunions.  And there was the bell.  The bell was the table’s signature.

I wanted such a table.  And finally, I got one.  It is a beauty.  It expands or retracts, depending on how many faces surround it.  It has been the centerpiece of Thanksgiving thanks, Christmas celebration, Easter anticipation, birthday wishes, loving wedding showers, and joyful baby showers.  But mostly, it stands every day to be the foundation for homework, discussion, and family gathering.  It is the most important and beautiful piece of furniture in my house.

So last night my grandchild informed me that he was working on a surprise, so “don’t peek”.  I was cuddled next to my “I knew you when you were young but I love you even now that you are a grandma” husband, so I gave him my blessing.  I didn’t peek.  Little did I know that he launched, on my perfect table, a smack dab in the middle of September… Valentine…armed with scrap paper and a Sharpie (also known as the love child of enamel paint and quick drying cement).  

After rousing from my “ain’t I a lucky woman” embrace, I was presented with my September Valentine.  It was lovely.  “I Love You Mimi” was surrounded by a heart and fireworks.  A true treasure.   I kissed the best kid on earth goodnight and we all went to bed with smiles on our faces.

This morning, I began clearing the evidence of last night’s perfection.  Oh mercy!!!! Underneath the scrap….I mean Valentine paper…..was a bunch of indelible black, Sharpie (I live forever!) marks!!!!  My table….. my perfect table!!!!  

In a panic, I hit the internet.  Cyber angels surrounded me and gave me suggestions on how to save my perfect table.  Hairspray, alcohol, toothpaste, baking soda….they all were dumped on my “I will always be with you” table.

And guess what.  It worked.  Most of it came off.  All except the faint outline of a heart.  I kept that.  Now my table has its own signature.

Illuminating the past

In understanding how a person came to be, I have found that it usually helps to know where they came from and how they grew up.  I have always felt that I grew up in a home of oddness.  And that was a good thing.

As children, I think we all knew we were different from our neighbors.   The most obvious difference was that we were Catholics in a sea of colloquial Protestants.  Our worshipping cultures separated us….we had a culture filled with large families, fine fabrics, and an appreciation for all things associated with royalty.  We didn’t live in a small house in the middle of a blue collar, plant working area.  We lived in the magical, imaginary land of our ancestors, people of entitlement rich with ritualistic tradition.  Our neighbors lived simply.  Happy with half as many children, thanking God for that good paying plant work that was made available upon high school graduation, and knowing that they lived in a small but clean house (even if it was next to that big family who really didn’t have a clue as to where they were). 

An even more dramatic difference came due to the fact that both of my parents are university graduates (Daddy even did some post graduate work…well, so did Momma in a way, because trust me, she never stopped studying).  Perhaps that might not sound like a big deal, but back then and in that neighborhood, it was like revealing that they could both glow in the dark.  They are both voracious readers.  (This is also true of most of my siblings.  I did not naturally love to read.  I began reading primarily because it was the only acceptable reason to shirk doing your jobs.   But, well, once a habit is formed….) Books were all over our house, marked with the library due date slips, lying open when temporarily abandoned  in haste and stacked up waiting for their turn to be devoured with eager eyes and inquisitive imaginations. When I would visit kids in the neighborhood, I never saw any books except the current year’s school books.  Daddy’s education lead him straight into a management position at a chemical plant.  This was further delineating because our neighbors were all unionized plant workers. One strike was all it took for me to have the difference seared into my mind. Even the whiteness of our shirts set us apart.  I remember a lady asking me why our clothes were so bright.  I rushed to our laundry room to see if we were able to afford Tide, only to finally figure out that it was just another college trick…Momma was separating the dirty clothes according to color rather than piling them all in.

But those are just the everyday, easy to figure out things.  The thing that really separated us from everyone else was my parent’s principles and their unwavering displaying of them.  I knew of Red Skelton, but only because of few skits involving Gertrude and Heathcliff.  As soon as Mr. Skelton began his Willie Lump Lump or Cauliflower McPugg skits, the television was turned off.  Alcohol abuse or the ridiculing of a person with a brain injury was never tolerated in our home. (Note that the television was turned OFF.  If you are going to make a dramatic statement to your children, do not attempt to mask your statement with confusion that perhaps you just wanted to check out the only other channel received. Turn OFF the ignorant filth and let them know why.) Same thing went for The Honeymooners.  Jackie Gleason was a cruel sexist who made his best friend laugh by threatening to harm his wife.

 My parents never “cussed”.  While that was not unusual for a woman back then, it was very unusual for a man (especially for a man raising so many children with no air conditioning).  The most Daddy ever uttered was an occasional “dadburnit”.  Not so with the neighbors.  One of my brother’s favorite imitations was that of the man next door and his colorful admonishing to pick up the dog’s excrement.  The funny thing is that my parents were not worried about the power or ugliness of the words themselves.  What disturbed them is that there could be a person of intellect who did not possess the vocabulary to express themselves more creatively. 

There are many, many things that set us apart.  But everything paled in comparison to how my parents handled the issue of civil rights in the early sixties.  My parents were friends with a colored priest. (OK, folks, don’t start in on me about the use of the word “colored”.  That was the respected and socially correct way back then of describing what was later known as “black” and then “African American”.)  The “n” word was NEVER used in our house or tolerated in our company.  My parents wouldn’t hesitate to ask another adult to refrain from its use and explain to a full grown person that the word is despicable and hurtful.  No “colored” jokes would ever survive being uttered without a stony stare and a heated launching of “how would you like it if” comparisons.

And the lesson did not stop with just talk.  “Colored” people were invited to our home to eat with us.  We attended a colored Catholic church (my brothers were the only white altar boys).  I attended a colored vacation Bible school.  My sister was baptized in a colored Catholic church, by our friend the colored priest with an all colored choir singing in the background.  It was emphasized that all people were the same in God’s eyes and by golly; they were going to be the same in ours.  I remembered Daddy illustrating his convictions one day at Grandberry’s ice cream shop.  After the sugary, thirst inducing sweets were consumed, right in front of God and everybody, he walked us right over to the water fountain marked “colored” and started us off by taking a big gulp of the segregated water. 

Yes, my parents had principles and weren’t afraid to use them.  As a parent and grandparent myself now, my wish is that I display and teach what I believe goodness to be.  At the very least, I hope I made at least one person, perhaps for just one split second, wonder if I could glow in the dark.