to save you some money, Laura,” Daddy says, without looking up at her.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
Mom hurries back into the kitchen to dismantle the rest of Daddy’s latest invention. She rattles around in there for almost an hour, cursing to herself all the while, noisily preparing supper. Wandering in, I sit at the table watching her, mesmerized by her hardworking hands holding a wooden spoon, beating and folding and mixing something. Nobody cooks like my mom. Nobody has better hands. She talks with her hands; she kneads with her hands; she loves with her hands.
Sitting at the table when dinner is ready, we bow ourheads and close our eyes while I say grace: “God is great. God is good. Thank you, God, for this food.”
Before I open my eyes again, I inhale and try to guess what Mom has made. It might be borscht or her delicious brisket with French onion soup, chopped liver or chicken with dumplings, Hungarian goulash or noodles with cottage cheese.
“Thanks, Sergeant,” Dad says, giving Mom a mock salute as she serves him his plateful. His mouth full, he begins to regale us with tales of his evening the night before. “President Kennedy and his wife hosted a dinner for King Saud of Saudi Arabia last night, and we played Strauss while the king danced all around the room in a long dress.”
I laugh and laugh at his stories, rocking back on my chair. My mother, in spite of herself, has to crack a smile too.
Clearing away the dishes, she throws a comment over her shoulder, “By the way, did you go to the store last night and rearrange my show window?” Her eyebrows arched in suspicion.
“Yes, I did.” My father grins, winking at me across the table. “I thought it needed my artistic touch.”
“I spent half the day putting it back to normal, Rut.”
“Normal? What’s that?” my dad asks.
Daddy and Mommy are two separate people to me. Apples and oranges. I spend time either with one or with the other, rarely together. Whenever she rants at him in one of their one-sided arguments, he flicks the switch on the vacuum cleaner to drown her out. Once, when they were arguing while wallpapering the bathroom, he recorded every word of it, to play back to her later. He was hilarious. I helped Mom clear the table while Dad went upstairs to change into his tuxedo as he did almost every night, to play at parties thrown by various dignitaries in Washington, D.C. I was awakened late that night to the smell of hush puppies and chili-mac. I can just see my dad in the kitchen now,preparing his late-night snack in his tuxedo and the white blouse he borrowed from my mother because his white tuxedo shirt was dirty. I closed my eyes and laughed myself to sleep. There’s nobody like him, I thought to myself, nobody like him in the whole world.
In the morning, I am the first up to fix eggs and cream cheese before school. The first thing I see as I come down the stairs is my mother’s stuffed pheasant, which always stands on the living-room mantelpiece. It was a wedding present from my mother’s eccentric father, Max. As usual, my dad always has the last laugh. He had dressed the pheasant with her glasses, her hairpiece planted firmly on its head. Beside it lay her purse. He had his own little private moment of mirth with his absurd take on life. I always think of that bird as a representation of his humor, his spirit and, yes, his anger. As I’m cooking my eggs, I hear my mother’s footsteps coming down the stairs. I wait and listen as she stops and takes in my father’s latest creation. I hear her deep and throaty laugh.
This is what Daddy does best. He makes her laugh.
Eleven years old and only just able to reach the ground astride my blue Schwinn bicycle. (Author’s Collection)
fear
It is what we don’t know that frightens us, and nothing stifles joy like fear.
A ll is well with my world, or so I believe. It is a beautiful sunny day, and I am in the sixth grade at the school that is half a mile
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
Mom hurries back into the kitchen to dismantle the rest of Daddy’s latest invention. She rattles around in there for almost an hour, cursing to herself all the while, noisily preparing supper. Wandering in, I sit at the table watching her, mesmerized by her hardworking hands holding a wooden spoon, beating and folding and mixing something. Nobody cooks like my mom. Nobody has better hands. She talks with her hands; she kneads with her hands; she loves with her hands.
Sitting at the table when dinner is ready, we bow ourheads and close our eyes while I say grace: “God is great. God is good. Thank you, God, for this food.”
Before I open my eyes again, I inhale and try to guess what Mom has made. It might be borscht or her delicious brisket with French onion soup, chopped liver or chicken with dumplings, Hungarian goulash or noodles with cottage cheese.
“Thanks, Sergeant,” Dad says, giving Mom a mock salute as she serves him his plateful. His mouth full, he begins to regale us with tales of his evening the night before. “President Kennedy and his wife hosted a dinner for King Saud of Saudi Arabia last night, and we played Strauss while the king danced all around the room in a long dress.”
I laugh and laugh at his stories, rocking back on my chair. My mother, in spite of herself, has to crack a smile too.
Clearing away the dishes, she throws a comment over her shoulder, “By the way, did you go to the store last night and rearrange my show window?” Her eyebrows arched in suspicion.
“Yes, I did.” My father grins, winking at me across the table. “I thought it needed my artistic touch.”
“I spent half the day putting it back to normal, Rut.”
“Normal? What’s that?” my dad asks.
Daddy and Mommy are two separate people to me. Apples and oranges. I spend time either with one or with the other, rarely together. Whenever she rants at him in one of their one-sided arguments, he flicks the switch on the vacuum cleaner to drown her out. Once, when they were arguing while wallpapering the bathroom, he recorded every word of it, to play back to her later. He was hilarious. I helped Mom clear the table while Dad went upstairs to change into his tuxedo as he did almost every night, to play at parties thrown by various dignitaries in Washington, D.C. I was awakened late that night to the smell of hush puppies and chili-mac. I can just see my dad in the kitchen now,preparing his late-night snack in his tuxedo and the white blouse he borrowed from my mother because his white tuxedo shirt was dirty. I closed my eyes and laughed myself to sleep. There’s nobody like him, I thought to myself, nobody like him in the whole world.
In the morning, I am the first up to fix eggs and cream cheese before school. The first thing I see as I come down the stairs is my mother’s stuffed pheasant, which always stands on the living-room mantelpiece. It was a wedding present from my mother’s eccentric father, Max. As usual, my dad always has the last laugh. He had dressed the pheasant with her glasses, her hairpiece planted firmly on its head. Beside it lay her purse. He had his own little private moment of mirth with his absurd take on life. I always think of that bird as a representation of his humor, his spirit and, yes, his anger. As I’m cooking my eggs, I hear my mother’s footsteps coming down the stairs. I wait and listen as she stops and takes in my father’s latest creation. I hear her deep and throaty laugh.
This is what Daddy does best. He makes her laugh.
Eleven years old and only just able to reach the ground astride my blue Schwinn bicycle. (Author’s Collection)
fear
It is what we don’t know that frightens us, and nothing stifles joy like fear.
A ll is well with my world, or so I believe. It is a beautiful sunny day, and I am in the sixth grade at the school that is half a mile
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