It was also in that kitchen where
our traditional Sunday dinner was born.
When Momma was growing up, she’d go to her Nana’s house every Sunday for
homemade spaghetti sauce and meatballs, as only Italians can make them. Making the commitment to be there every week
drew the family close, and Momma wanted to carry on the tradition. There was no way she had the time to prepare
a pot of sauce every Sunday though. The
idea was abandoned for a while until one Sunday afternoon; we were shopping at
Sam’s Club in Green Bay and saw they sold rotisserie chickens. We thought they would make a tasty meal for
dinner that night, so we went next door to Walmart to buy some other dishes to
go with it. We picked out Pillsbury
biscuits- none but the flaky layers kind would do, some mixed vegetables, Uncle
Ben’s cheesy rice, and refrigerated chocolate chip cookie dough to make
dessert. The meal was so good that we wanted
to buy it again next week and the week after that. The type of vegetables and side dishes have
varied slightly, but to this day we have had that same meal every Sunday.
Every week day from September to May I’d sit at the left hand kitchen
chair and do my schoolwork directly after breakfast. Many days I felt that was my wooden prison as
I did my algebra. I started high school
at the kitchen table, when Momma and I read aloud Tolstoy and O. Henry together
for English class. I was doing my homework
there when Momma received the call from the doctor diagnosing Neal with type
1 diabetes. A nurse had driven out to
the house and sat at one of the chairs to give us initial instructions on how
to test Neal’s blood sugar and give him an insulin shot.
The table was also where a police officer had sat to write out a report
about the person who shot one of our outdoor cats with a BB gun. The bullet went through and through, leaving
a pink fleshy hole located in front of her hip bones. There wasn’t much the officer could do, since
he didn’t know he did it, but he said he’d keep an eye out. Miraculously, our cat healed fine. She was the one who jumped- either before or
after the injury- several feet to catch a bird flying out of the ivy, an impressive
feat considering she was declawed.
On birthdays, our presents would be waiting for us in the middle of the
table, with streamers and balloons dangling from the light fixture. Just like Christmas, we would have to wait
for our parents to wake up before we could open them. One birthday, to lengthen Kaitlyn’s patience,
we played with her new Barbie doll with her they came downstairs. The table was spacious surface to play at, and
eventually all our little doll stories caused us to get along better until we
were inseparable.
~~~~~~~~
Driving down that long country road, I see the rickety old barn about a
foot from the road. The red paint has
long faded, and the wooden planks that barely hold it together are bowed from
several years’ exposure to the harsh wind and snow. It looked so close whenever our van drove
past it that I had affectionately called it the "close barn." I had
come to know that once we passed it, we would be home within a couple
minutes. My body leans slightly forward
as our van rolls to a stop, and I stare at the white signs with the black S and
C painted on them. Only two other houses
are visible from all corners of the stop.
After rounding the corner and driving down several feet, I hear gravel
from our driveway crunch under the tires.
I walk out of the van and stare at the ivy-covered red brick house. This is home- laughter, pain, good food, and
fond memories leak through the walls and warm my heart. Wherever I go, that is the place I always come
back to.
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