Holidays

Family, Thy Name is Déjà vu

by LINDA GERMAIN 
11/04/22
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Over the river and through those metaphorical woods we are drawn to the gathering. Maybe it’s Grandmother’s house. Maybe not anymore, but every year it looks and smells the same.

Recently waylaid with an injury, I sit by the big window facing the driveway and watch as each vehicle arrives. Most of the occupants are tasked with carrying this or that goody. I recognize Aunt Fergie with her large foil-covered pan that only can contain green bean casserole. It’s a mysterious unwritten decree or something. Once a person brings a dish, that offering becomes a contract for life.

Right behind her is Aunt Maggie Ann. She doesn’t pretend to be a cook so always brings pickles. Somebody has to.

Even though faces have changed over the years, the ones who have passed can be seen in the generations they left behind. The pattern of genes is undeniable.

I glance across the room reminiscing about past feasts as the long table seems to groan with more food than any of us can consume today. Its position never changes, nor the two temporary ones pushed together in the corner and covered with a paper cloth to absorb spills and messes. In hundreds of homes, that rite of passage is boringly known as the children’s table.

I remember back when Cousin Joe hid peas under his plate and his brother, Buddy, tried to pass yams to the dog when grownups were busy chattering at the big table.

Today, I notice Joe’s wife, Emma, seems to have some beginning dementia. When they arrive, he is smiling as usual and toting his famous baked zucchini-squash-carrot-ginger-cinnamon dish. Sounds awful. An acquired taste for sure!

She seems a little lost and stands to the side until he helps remove her coat. They remind me so much of his parents many years ago.

I am introduced to sweet fresh faces and happily greet newly wrinkled ones. The sound of spoons against bowls, the tinkling of ice in glasses, the smell of coffee percolating with gusto, and the aroma of fresh-baked rolls hot out of the oven signal to hungry family and friends it’s time to gather in that familiar circle for grace.

There will be no arguing. Politics and clashing social points of view have no place here. Long ago, my grandpa, a general back in the war as well as a leader in business and in his own family, pronounced the rules of loving fellowship at holiday times.

Those family commandments were not carved on stone tablets and numbered, but quietly handed down and followed in his honor. Since his imposing portrait hangs over the fireplace, we are inclined to continue to observe behavior he would consider respectful and kind and sprinkled heavily with laughter.

After Uncle Charlie, a pastor for decades, leads us to the amen part of the blessing, someone assists me to the new seat fixed especially for a wobbly person with a pain.

It isn’t at the head of the table. It’s way over in the corner. I’m not alone.

“Hey, Joe,” I say with as much humor as I can muster, “you still push green peas under plates?”

As he helps sweet Emma to sit and gives her a spoon, there’s a twinkle in his eye. Buddy joins us. We have a fine time chuckling about the antics of our youth. While Cousin Joe tells his dear wife to take another bite, his very funny brother doesn't disappoint. I hope the current dog in residence is a fan of yams.

A sudden revelation tiptoes in and surprises me! I guess that now we’re seated at the old folk's table.

That’s okay. All’s right with the world in this clan, at least for today.
_____

Proverbs 15:17 NKJV
Better is a dinner of herbs where love is than a fatted calf with hatred.