Sunday Dinners

Tuesday nights have become one of my favorite evenings in Charlottesvile. No, I am not dancing on tables* or watching sports, two of my greatest passions. Instead, I meet with girls from local churches for a couple hours of chatting, commiserating, and mentally justifying the fifth cookie I eat. It has been one of the greatest blessings since I moved, as week after week, I covet their love and friendship more. While reading and digesting passages of Scripture or books, we are able to challenge one another, encourage one another or be slightly overwhelmed together.

This past week, we broke from the usual routine of delving into Scripture and instead, simply relaxed. After catching up on the week’s activities, Dorothy suggested we describe childhood meals. Answering this would be no problem, and perhaps I could make it through one Bible study without flirting with an emotional breakdown. Alas, my anecdotes rarely go as planned.

I spent every Sunday evening of childhood at my grandparents**. I anxiously awaited my parents at the bottom of our stairs around five o'clock, as I knew we were running late. Indeed, when we arrived at 5:05, someone reprimanded the family for tardiness. After saying hello, I was again scolded for stealing a Reese's cup before dinner. Definitely worth it.

As I stepped sheepishly into the adjacent dining room, barefoot so as not to stain the carpet, I beheld the veritable smorgasbord Grandma had prepared for family. Like ravenous animals, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and significant others filled their plates with spaghetti, hamburgers or beef. Of course, one optimistic aunt always brought salad, but we did not bother with unnecessary greens. Unless it was deep fried cauliflower or scalloped potatoes, vegetation was a means to the end of a balanced diet, which one does not consider on Sundays.

The adults had their tables and as children, we had ours. Of course, the children's table emptied much quicker than the adults', as we were anxious to frolic. We swung on the tire, teased the neighbor's dog, played a game of tag, or climbed the tree. Every backyard should have a tree with branches perfectly spaced apart so a child can accomplish reaching the top, and in doing so, prove to themselves that they are capable of making that climb, metaphorically relating to the obstacles of life. Grandma, however, did not appreciate the tree on this deeper level. She constantly yelled at us, as only grandmas can, warning of the dangers of falling and breaking legs. In the winter months, we kept ourselves occupied with school, which I believe was merely an excuse for the elder cousins to boss the younger around, and candy poker, which I often lost because tootsie rolls are irresistible.

Sometimes, I would sneak to the adult table, acting as the "little piggie with big ears." Around that table, discussion and outrageous laughter flourished. Aunt Jill made fun of Dad, and Mother immediately jumped to his defense. My cousins discussed their "big kid" problems, aunts picked out the best coupons from the paper and someone demanded that a child do the dishes so Grandma did not have to. In the middle of the table, there was always dessert. Brownies, cheesecake, peanut butter cups, apple pie - since there were roughly thirty of us, there was always a birthday to celebrate. The list of baked goods is endless, and my extensive palette for sweets can be credited to a family who loved sugar - so much so I have witnessed physical fights over gobs. Although in my opinion the cinnamon roll is the pastry worth a punch, it is nonetheless enjoyable to watch two forty year old women go at it for chocolate cakes filled with an insufficient amount of frosting. (To be fair, my motto in life is, "Everything is better double-stuffed", so the correct cake to frosting ratio is debatable.)

The most impacting memories of that small house, however, came in a more intimate setting. When I was near the age of eight, Grandpa was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Before that point, I remember him sitting in the garage on a summer day, drinking a beer and laughing heartily, his plump belly bouncing. I loved Pappy's hugs just as I love my father's.

After he was diagnosed and as his condition worsened, my father took us down on a nightly basis. My older sisters had school, jobs, and friends, but I was fortunate enough to have no care in the world greater than the choice between playing PIG or knockout. Therefore, my nights were quite available, and I spent many of them repeating a routine I still cherish. We watched Wheel of Fortune followed by Jeopardy, and Grandma rarely failed to outperform the WoF contestants. After those programs, there was usually an Indians game, murder show or Lifetime movie to view. Sometimes we would listen to old time country music and do a small version of the twist, Grandma’s specialty. Grandpa lay on the couch and a box of nuts sat on the side table, as my father and he shared a mutual love for salty cashews. He also had a neat device that broadcast the communications of local policemen, and his ears perked each time it began to beep. Grandma always sat at the end of the couch, ready to tend to his every need, be it pills, water, or assistance using the bathroom. She loved him.

More than that, he loved her, and he loved us. I could hear it when he chuckled weakly at the silly jokes I made. I could feel it in his feeble hug when we embraced every night upon our departure. But most apparently, I could see it in his frail body. As he lay on his back, I saw bent knees too small for the frame of a coal miner. His arms were perpetually every shade of purple, blue and black from the multiple IVs that kept him alive. Grandpa clung to life as long as he could for his wife, his children and his grandchildren.

One night, we were watching television, and although I cannot quite remember, I would bet the discussion revolved around a ref's bad call, crazy politicians, or a local Chardon family. I looked at Dad, sitting on the recliner, and a tear was rolling down his face. It was the first time I saw Dad cry. I would see it again when he baptized Grandpa using a cup of sink water in the presence of the whole family and again when he held me on his lap the morning Grandpa passed.

Looking back, I have a better understanding of those tears and why they were shed. It is the same reason Grandma still gets a small glimmer in her eye anytime she talks about Grandpa and the Jive, the way he preferred his eggs prepared or "quitting" him multiple times. My grandpa loved, and in that love, he sacrificed. I am grateful that I was able to experience a taste of that love. More than that, I am grateful his love has lived on in his son and his wife, who continued to have the family over every Sunday for dinner at 5 (5:05 for the Navatsyks.)

*Keep reading, as some day, I will explain my theory as to how Bible studies and dancing on tables do not have to be mutually exclusive in one's life.

** Keep reading, as some day, I will write about my immense adoration and respect for the love and strength of Grandma.