The Kitchen Table.
As a child, the arrival of summer meant weekends in Yarmouthport, Massachusetts, at my grandparents' quintessential Cape Cod ranch. Complete with a birdhouse, garden gnome, and a lower-level camp, it was where my brother and I burst through the front door, ecstatic and oozing with anticipation. These weekends were magical, filled with beach trips, visits to the Christmas Tree Shop, and memorable rides down historic Route 6A in my grandfather’s Dodge Dart. I still recall the tick-tock of the blinker as he turned into "Batman’s," our local country store, for donuts and the daily paper. Only I was blessed to share this ritual with my grandfather, to be followed by hoisting the American Flag up the tall pole across the street from home.
It was here that I learned to knit and crochet, a patient hobby that never stuck with me but blessed me with the dexterity to later become a professional pool player, just like my great Uncle Eddy. During these visits, I also learned the calming art of “gleaning” the cranberry bogs with my grandmother - affectionately known as "Bina" or "Gram," by those who loved her the most. Together, we made cranberry nut bread from scratch while I stood next to her favorite bar cart which now lovingly lives in my own kitchen. And it was on Cape Cod that I learned to make dozens of words out of one larger word, a game that would later serve as the foundation of my love for words, reading, and learning. My grandmother was a self-taught, classy lady who often cleverly advised me to “look it up in the dictionary.”
And even though it brought me closer to leaving, I awoke early on Sunday mornings, ready for conversations around The Kitchen Table.
While my grandfather cooked bacon and corn toasties, our family would sit and debate. Still clad in pajamas with sleepy hair, we discussed religion, politics, death, love, gun control, drugs…no topic was “off the table.” These conversations, sometimes heated but always civil, were presided over by my grandmother, who enforced respect and listening. My brother was repeatedly reminded to remove his hat.
I can vividly recall that kitchen table with its white cloth, adorned with Gram’s favorite owl salt and pepper shakers, Situated next to a wall of sliding glass doors, it overlooked an expansive cranberry colored deck, speckled with bird feeders. Occasionally, Gram would leap from her seat to chastise another squirrel gorging on seed. “Oh Bina,” my grandfather would chuckle, “Leave them be.” My Saturday afternoons were spent flipping through the pages of the National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds in search of the tufted titmouse, goldfinch or red-winged blackbird.
As the discussions continued, it wasn’t long before the neighborhood kids pulled up chairs for a seat at The Kitchen Table. Parents would call to make sure their sons and daughters weren’t a bother…we would be hours deep into freedom of speech or the right to bear arms. There were tears, changes of heart and laughter. So much laughter. We talked until we lost Gram to cancer. She was 72. I was 18. And devastated.
The smell of bacon still brings me back and I can feel my grandfather, Clayton, rest his hand on my shoulder as he placed a glass of milk by my plate. I would hold that hand for the last time sixteen years later, gnarled and shaking as the Parkinson’s took hold, and kiss him goodbye. He smelled like Safeguard soap mingled with pipe tobacco.
Though Gram could never have envisioned conversations in online spaces, I know she is smiling when I gather ‘round The Kitchen Table with my son, born seven years after we lost her. I can only imagine the conversations they would have enjoyed! It is with enormous love that I continue her tradition, welcoming newcomers to my table, just as she did so many years ago.
All my love, Gram –
Laurie
