Well, The Genius was a bit bummed out by my last blog entry. He said he “liked” it BUT it depressed him. So, I thought I’d try to lighten things up a bit.
Grace – that wonderful pre-meal tradition where you thank
some invisible dude for the food you’re about to eat that you know damn well
was actually grown or produced by a farmer somewhere, purchased with your hard-earned
money and cooked in your stifling hot kitchen. When I was a kid, grace was a big deal. It was always said before each
meal and the honor of spouting it off was usually rotated through myself and my
three older siblings. My parents never had to say it, although on special
occasions – like Christmas, Easter or Thanksgiving – my mother seemed to have
the power to whip a long, flowery one out of thin air. It would go on and on and
on and on as the food steamed and went cold around us.
As the youngest and least powerful member of my family, the
job of saying grace seemed to fall on my shoulders a bit more often than
everyone else. I hated it. I was hungry. I wanted to eat the meal that I knew
my mother actually prepared, not some high and mighty invisible deity. Why’d I have to
thank HIM? As with all things I didn’t want to do, I eventually rebelled.
I think I was about 14 or 15 when the incident happened. For
my 13th birthday, my father had finally given in to my years and
years of incessant whining and begging and had purchased me my very own horse.
His name was Pongo (named in honor of the dog in One Hundred and One
Dalmations) because he resembled a dalmation – white and covered in brown
spots. He was purchased at the annual Norwich horse auction and I was never
prouder than the afternoon I led him up our farm driveway, much to the horror
of my mother (she wasn’t a fan of horses).
Owning Pongo resulted in many adventures that I might share
with you some other day, including near death experiences for both the horse
and myself. As a result of an illness that almost killed Pongo – a story for
another day – he experienced “off” days when he wasn’t 100 per cent
healthy and would lay around groaning in the field. It was amazing how often
these episodes seemed to correlate to the times when I wanted to go for a ride.
It was during one of these bouts of equine malaise the
great grace incident happened. It was a Saturday and I had spent most of the
afternoon sitting beside my groaning horse in his pasture rather than actually
hacking with him down the road. I was concerned I might have to phone the vet –
again – and my father wasn’t home to bounce the idea off or finance the visit.
I was contemplating selling my new English saddle to pay for the vet bill when
my mother yelled out the back door for me to come in and have dinner. About 10
minutes later, she was back shouting for me again. After the third shout and
the use of all three of my names, I decided I better go in. With one last
concerned glance back at my suffering steed, I went in the house to eat.
It was just a small group for the evening meal – my sister,
her boyfriend, my mom and I. As I sat down after scrubbing my hands in the
laundry room sink, my mother informed me they had already said grace but I was
going to need to say it again since I was so late to the table.
“GodisgreatGodisgoodletusthankhimforourfoodamen,” I mumbled,
actually reciting that blessing faster than the speed of sound.
I reached out for a bowl of mashed potatoes but was stopped
by the sharp use of my name.
My mother wasn’t impressed with my amazingly speedy
recitation. She trembled in her chair with outrage.
“You’re going to say it again but this time, with feeling,”
she said through clenched teeth.
I’m not sure what made me do it. Maybe it was the idea of
entertaining my sister’s boyfriend. Maybe I was unstable after the stress of
caring for my sickly horse all afternoon. Maybe I just wanted to be a smart
ass. Whatever the reason, I mentally snapped. She wanted a grace said with
feeling, she’d get a grace said with feeling.
The rest of them were open mouthed in disbelief as I stood
up from my chair.
“GOD IS GREAT,” I boomed in my best impression of a Baptist
preacher, both of my arms extended up to the ceiling like I was worshiping the
wagon wheel chandelier.
“GOD IS GOOD,” I added, pointing at each one of them sitting
around the table.
“LET US – THANK HIM – FOR OUR – FOOOOD!” I shouted, rattling
the plates and silverware as I pounded my fist on the surface of the dining
room table to the beat of my voice.
Now for the big finish.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMEN,” I sang, holding the note for as long
as I could.
I plunked back down into my chair and once again reached for
the potatoes. I KNEW those acting lessons would come in handy some day.
My performance was met with complete silence. I think I was
two spoonfuls in to loading my plate when I heard the first noise. It was a
choking sound deep in the throat of my sister’s boyfriend. I quickly glanced up
at him. His face was turning deep purple and I knew I had him. A laugh exploded
out of his mouth along with some green beans. He gasped for breath in between
bouts of laughter, tears streaming down his face. My sister soon followed, her
shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to keep in the sound. She soon lost
the battle, hanging onto her boyfriend for support as she laughed and laughed.
My eyes turned to my mother. If I thought she was trembling
before, now she looked like she was experiencing her very own internal
earthquake. She positively vibrated in her chair. Her eyes were huge, her face
pale except for bright red patches on each of her cheeks. She gripped her
cutlery, her knuckles white. We stared at each other for what seemed like
hours. At first I was worried. She looked pretty pissed off and she was holding a knife in her hand. But then I saw it,
that slight quiver in the corner of her mouth, a small curve to her lip. She
was fighting back a smile. Without a word, she dropped her eyes back down to
her plate of food and I did the same.
It took my sister and her boyfriend a few minutes to gain
back their composure but they too were soon eating their meals.
The battle of grace had been waged and I had won. I had made
my point, expressed my opinion, let my view on the exercise be known in the
best way I knew how – like the smart ass I was.
After that, my mother always paused before asking me to say
grace. Perhaps she wasn’t sure what I would actually do. Or maybe she was just
trying to choke back a chuckle.
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