Childbirth

Childbirth must be just as an emotional experience for a father as it is for a mother. James and I had four kids in 5 ½ years. We knew we wanted several kids, and I wanted to be able to stay home with them for as long as I could; so we saw no reason for spreading this child birth thing out over too much time. When our oldest daughter was born, James took one look at her and decided right then and there that he wanted ten little girls. He was overcome with instantaneous love and adoration. His mistake came when he informed me of his decision to have 9 more little girls. It was 23 minutes after Kristin was born. I am glad now that he was so taken with his daughter that he could not read the raw emotion that the mere mention of having just one more child brought forth in me, much less enduring the process for 9 more occasions. Timing is everything. The experience of childbirth proved to be quite emotional for my dad as well. My mom was in labor for many hours with their firstborn child. Consequently, when my oldest brother, Cookie, arrived kicking, screaming, rather cone-headed, and a little red-faced, my father took one look at him and got all queasy. He, too, had something to say 23 minutes after the miraculous birth of his first child. Papa assured Bama, the infant’s grandmother, and his mother, that he knew he would be able to clothe the child. He knew he could feed the child and not let it starve. But, he also felt a certain assuredness that he would never, under any circumstances, be able to love that child that was screaming there in the nursery window. Now, please keep in mind that these were the times when no one was allowed in the delivery room. He did not see my mother during active labor. He did not witness the unrelenting hours of pain followed by the instant maternal love which makes any suffering worthwhile. When he finally got to see my mother for the first time after the birth of their first child; he told her that he just could not go through something like this ever again. There was entirely too much stress involved in giving birth to a baby.

My mother grew to love her stays in the hospital. The hospital staff in Navasota called it her yearly vacation. How things in the world of obstetrics have changed! It is a good thing that mom kept all of her receipts from her hospital stays or I might have openly questioned not only the money, but the length of her stays with each birth. When Cookie was born, Mom stayed in the hospital for 3 full weeks. The cost for the hospital, nursery, delivery room, and any other extra expenses for the three week stay was $53.00. She was not to get up out of her bed until there was someone there to help, and then only for a short trek. The nurses brought the swaddled child in once every four hours to eat. The schedule did not, could not, and dared not vary. Children under twelve were not allowed on the maternity floor at that time. At each birth, Papa would line all of us up on the sidewalk outside of the hospital to watch my mom wave at us through her window. The line of waving siblings kept getting longer and longer with each birth. I think that the line of cars that would drive by to see the line of waving kids also got longer and longer. Birthing one of the Swanson’s was a community event in Navasota. The staff delegated Room 104 to be the Mary Grace Swanson room in the maternity ward. Not often was anyone else allowed to use that room. Rarely was it available. When Sallie was born, Mom’s bill had increased and her hospital stay time had decreased. Her vacation with Sallie only lasted 7 days and her bill rose to an astronomical $252.00.

I know that Mom had several things to wonder about each time she headed home from the hospital. Where would this child sleep? When would she herself find time to sleep? Would she get all these names mixed up? Who would go to the store? Who would keep an eye on all the other little ones? What number child was this again? What would the house look like after her latest vacation? Who would be the most excited to see a new sibling? The questions swirling around, I am sure, were endless. However, she would not have to spend as much time getting to know the intimate idiosyncrasies of each child like some parents would have to do. Many traits were already known purely by the order of the child’s birth. This is another strange phenomenon that has seemed to occur only in my family. The legitimacy and strength of this particular Swanson family trait is undeniable. Before the baby could talk, or walk, or even roll over; we all knew the most vital and important facts of its life. I mean the really crucial things. Things like what they liked on their sandwich. If the baby was an odd numbered child, it would like mayonnaise. If it was an even numbered sibling, it would only eat mustard. What kind of candy would it take to make the child quiet and happy? Odd numbered children would eat Milk Duds; even numbered kids preferred Jr. Mints. If you are opening a can of tomato soup for an odd numbered kid, you better have a can of chicken noodle for the even numbered one. The behaviors of each of the odd numbered children were all identical. We were more out-going and boisterous. Our mouths were seldom closed. We acted exclusively on impulse, and thrived on activity and excitement. We worked better under pressure. Our personalities could best be summed up by the motto, “ready, shoot, aim.” Every other sibling in line had the exact opposite traits. The even numbered children were quiet and thoughtful. They needed to have order and planning in their life. They loved to dress nicely and could sit and read, or converse, or ponder for hours. Decisions were difficult to make, for all options needed to be weighed and each consequence assessed. The motto that governed their existence was, “ready, aim…aim…aim…aim, oh, here; one of you odd numbered kids shoot!” Life was a perfect balance of harmony if no one disturbed the dependability of evens and odds. For breakfast there were scrambled eggs, and fried eggs. For peace, an odd sat by an even. For laughs, there was an audience for a comedian. For production, there was a plan for ideas. For secrets, there was always exactly who you needed. Life was odd, but seemed pretty even.

Even with the quirks of the evens and odds, it seems there was still a pretty distinct individuality with each child. Are personalities determined by birth order, by experiences, by locale, by family values, by how long your mother’s vacation in the hospital was? It seems there was plenty of fodder for research in my family alone to be able to efficiently answer this question. Aside from the “even and oddness” that existed, the birth order inarguably played a great factor in the development of who we were. When my older three brothers would leave home, my mom would always call out to them. “Cookie, don’t get into trouble; Hunty, don’t get hurt, and Jimmie, don’t hurt anyone!” The three boy’s personalities were also poignantly clear in the home video of them jumping off of the high diving board at the Navasota city pool. Cookie was Captain America. He posed for the camera, and made sure everyone was watching. Because his two younger brothers were already on the diving board ready for their turn, he gave last minute instructions to them on where to stand and when to go. Once again posing for the camera before his launch from the high dive, he raised his muscle man arms and took off and seemed to be animated all the way to the water. Hunty, the 2nd born, was next. Slowly, agonizingly, cautiously he crept to the end of the board. He checked to see where his brother had landed. He calculated the length of time he would be in the air before hitting the water. He counted his steps back and forth from the ladder to the end of the board realizing as the line of people waiting to dive got longer and longer that there was no way down but off the end of the board and into the water. Again, he took his stance by the ladder. He warily took himself closer and closer to the end of the board determined that he could make himself jump this time. He held his nose and kept walking right off the diving board. Before he hit the water, Jimmie had launched himself cannonball style right over Hunty hitting the water before his older brother did. These same personalities were seemingly repeated again, along with the personalities of the 4th and 5th children as the last five little ones came along. Once again, mom did not have to wonder about who she was bringing home from the hospital. Birth order. There is something to be said for its influence.

After having four kids of my own, I have learned that much advice is dispensed on the whole event of childbirth. Everyone has a different story of what would, could or should occur both during birth and during the raising of the perfect child. Personally, I was pretty sure I knew it all and did not need everyone else’s advice. I was number 7. Seven is an odd number. As I look back now, I realize that my mom was pregnant for 100 months. Although she did not offer advice unless she was specifically asked, any guidance given by my mom should have been listened to. As I was steadfast in my belief of the natural childbirth method, I remember now that I did hear her offer a tidbit for me to consider. “Lucy, as far as childbirth goes, let me just say that I have had a child every way there is to have one. Take all they offer to give you!” Then there were those things that she didn’t say but as I look back I see that they were spoken in volumes. “Yes, I know that you are an odd numbered child and you will like certain things.” “Yes, I understand that you are the oldest and you need to have someone to lead.” “Yes, I know that you will need to share your room with one more person and at times it might make you feel lost.” “Yes, I understand that you love your brother or sister more than anything, but just needed to yell.” “Yes, I can forget the cleaning and cooking and read you a story.” All those “yeses” helped each one of us from childbirth on to know without a single doubt the most important part of raising a child. Without her ever saying a word, you could always hear loud and clear from her actions that “ yes, you are my child, and you are my favorite.”

The Menagerie

When I moved to Austin, Texas, I was hoping to allow my heart to find a time and a place to heal. I hoped that the environment of a bigger city would be different enough from the small town atmosphere to keep my mind occupied on something other than my loss. I found respite in the walks I could enjoy on the beautiful hike and bike trails that are woven throughout the city and I immersed myself in this daily activity. The repetition, the challenge, and the release of endorphins allowed me a chance to slowly learn to live again. I was able now to notice things that I had never paid attention to before. Things like pets. On these walking trails, many people bring their pets. I started to notice that, either Austin people were completely different in the way they treated their pets, or big city folks had to handle their pets differently than those in a rural community. As I walked and observed, I tried to remember the pets that have been a part of my life both as a child and as a parent. The memories that are so vivid to me, the ones that make me smile, would probably scare the pet loving people that I see in the city. I can tell that the pets on the trails and in the parks are well loved and cherished. Just as the pets of my childhood were. I can see that city pets come in every shape, size and model. As did the pets I remember so clearly. The pets in the city are well groomed, well behaved, and well trained. Not at all what I recall from my pets of the past.

Tinker. I have heard that people tend to resemble their pets. I have looked closely at my siblings, my parents, and myself; and thankfully I cannot find any support for that myth. I know I may just be too close to the situation to be an impartial judge. However, my first and most lasting memories of our dog Tinker, don’t really remind me of any members of my family. Tinker lasted through all of the Swanson children. She was very old when she died. I know during her lifetime she had guarded my brothers during their escapades, listened to complaints from whomever needed to purge themselves, hidden behind bushes during games of hide and go seek, and given birth almost as many times as my mother. Tinker never complained. Tinker never left home. Tinker never took sides. Tinker was always loved as a member of the family. And, Tinker was not too pretty. She was a cocker spaniel and actually was a pretty dog until she got hit by a car. She lived, but one of her eyes was destroyed in the accident. The result was very unattractive, but none of us really cared. We were just proud she was alive. When others saw Tinker for the very first time, you could hear the quick intake of breath when they spotted the mutilation surrounding her eye. It took this reaction from others to remind us that our dog was not a normal looking dog. The stories at the lunch table always have a reference to Tinker or one of her offspring, Briquetta. I am not really sure why my mom consented to letting us keep one of Tinker’s puppies. That was just one more mouth to feed. I know that Tinker was getting up in years and perhaps Mom saw this pup as one who could fill the empty spot when our beloved Tinker was gone. The puppy’s name came about pretty naturally. My dad manufactured charcoal. When we saw Tinker’s puppy for the first time, we noticed the special markings of her fur. She had a soft, curly black coat, and her paws were all a light gray color that extended halfway up her legs and just simply faded into the black fur. It reminded all of us of a partially burned charcoal briquette. Because she was female, we made the adjustment and added “etta” to briquette. I am sure that no other family in the entire world would have seen a partially burned briquette when they looked at this dog, but it was crystal clear to us. We knew charcoal.
Although I might hesitate to utter this sentiment aloud in Austin, Texas, I have discovered that I am not a real dog lover. Of course I would never want any harm to come to any pet, but I just have no desire to put forth all of the effort that it takes to keep a dog alive, healthy, active and happy. It was perfect when I had children at home. My kids needed a pet for the same reasons that my siblings and I needed one when I grew up. A pet’s love is unconditional and life lessons are learned just by the caretaking involved. My kids were the Persons In Charge of our dog. Consequently, Boofers was worshipped. Boofers. I cannot even begin to rationalize from whence the name came. Boofers had a dog house built by one of the premier builders in East Texas. You would think it would be a thing of beauty. It was solid. And, it was sturdy. But it was kid decorated and the name “Boofers” was the biggest thing painted on the outside of the house. Boofers was part border collie and part chow and was rescued from the pound. Boofers stubbornly refused to ride in a vehicle of any sort. (We are pretty sure she did not react in this manner to transportation until we took her to the vet to have some medical attention and had to leave her for a few days.) Being married to a home builder, part of our life involved packing up and moving quite often. Try as we might, we could never get Boofers in the truck to move with us. I guess she just learned to recognize that when a trailer was being loaded with furniture, it would soon be time to take off on another “trek”. Thank goodness our moving was confined to Jacksonville. Moving day was the only time Boofers would ever leave the house and she would only leave then on foot. No amount of bribing or coaxing would convince the dog that we were not going back to the vet. So, as we made our move to a new home, all four kids would hang out of the windows of the truck whistling and encouraging Boofers along. We would make stops often to try to get her on board but to no avail. It would sometimes take a couple of days to have Boofer’s breathing return to a regular pattern after a move, but she obviously felt that it was worth it. I am sure our neighbors thought that we were abusers. The labored breathing from long trips was probably not the only reason that onlookers would tend to question our treatment of Boofers. Our kids also tended to the grooming of our animal. Apparently this was another huge difference in the city dogs on the trails and the dog that belonged to my kids. When my son would trim Boofer’s fur in the summer time, he would want her to match the lawn that he had just mowed. With the lawn mower Bud had meticulously mowed his name in the grass. The letters were cut large enough and deep enough that they were easily seen and quite legible to everyone driving by the house. If passersby could tear their eyes away from the strange trimming of the yard, they would notice the dog whose fur sported the same name. B-U-D was buzzed into Boofers fur so that he could match the yard. That way, I was told, our dog would not have to wear a collar. It was be easy to find where she belonged if she ever got lost. As the years went on, and the groomings occurred less often, Boofers’ adverse reaction to getting bathed took on a force equal to that of her desire to never ride in a car. The fur around Boofers hind legs was so matted that it almost became animated as she walked. My kids’ friends came over just to see Boofers. They loved our dog with the funny fur and I am quite sure that the looks of our pet became topics of Sunday lunches all over town.

A portion of the stories at lunchtime dealt with Jake, the bird dog that my dad so romantically presented to mom on her anniversary. However, dogs were not the only pets that were part of our formative years. My brother Bill could only have been thinking of his younger brothers and sisters when he brought home some guinea pigs for us to keep while he was away at college. And, Martin had all five of us digging a pit in the back yard for the alligator that he acquired. We each took turns feeding the pet gator, and were often forced to build small fires in the pit to keep it from freezing. One of my brothers brought home a boa constrictor. What excitement that stirred in our house! No one else had a boa constrictor and thus another reason existed for a line of visitors to keep filing into the Swanson home. So that my mom would not have to worry about feeding the snake, Bill also brought home a little white mouse for the snake to eat. Anxious to see nature at work, several of the brave kids stood around as the mouse was dropped into the cage with the snake. Minutes passed and nothing happened. Minutes turned into hours and still the mouse was not touched by the snake. We decided that the snake would not eat until night time so we all turned in for the evening. My uncle was visiting us at the time and he was asleep in the room with the snake. Uncle Jim was my dad’s older brother and had no kids of his own. I am sure that each visit to our home was an experience, but this particular visit must have been one of his most memorable. Early the next morning, those that were anywhere near Uncle Jim’s room could hear the exact time when he awoke. The kind, gentle, quiet man was heard quite loudly and clearly the next morning when he exclaimed, “My God, it’s a rat!” My brothers went rushing in to check on him and saw that the little white mouse that was supposed to be snake food was sitting on Uncle Jim’s chest enjoying a siesta outside of his cage of doom. Quickly the mouse was returned to the cage. The next morning, as we checked on the status of the mouse, we were all surprised to see that this mouse had not become dinner for the snake. The snake had become the meal for the mouse! I am pretty sure that this was an occurrence that could not have happened in any other home. Combine 11 kids, a bachelor uncle, a boa constrictor, and a mouse and you just never know what might happen next. Never a dull moment.

The hamster/ gerbil phase was big in our line of pets, too. I know that my brother Pat saved enough money to buy 4 gerbils one year. We kept them in a cage in the den. I am not sure how much food those gerbils had, but as I look back, I know that each one of us would give them a little food each time we passed through the den. That had to be a lot of food, even for rats. One day my mom was pretty upset that one of the gerbils had escaped, but she calmly reached down, caught the rodent by his tail and plopped him back into the gerbil den. As she turned to leave, she stopped to count the number of gerbils. There seemed to be one extra. Upon closer inspection, she realized that she had just picked up a mouse and tossed him into the cage with the gerbils. Another testimony as to the vastness of my mother’s endless capabilities! My own kids also had hamster experiences. Rambo the hamster, that was cousin Hunter’s school take home charge over the summer, provided lots of entertainment for everyone. Sometimes the adults were not privy to the various methods of entertainment until it was too late. For instance, on one occasion, the kids would each grab a corner of a blanket, place the hamster in the middle of the blanket, and see how far in the air they could “flick” Rambo. The hamster seemed to be enjoying the rides and so they moved the hamster launching pad to the den where the ceiling was much higher and the little guy could fly even further! 1….2…..3….flick….fly! When we heard the laughter in the den getting louder and louder we went to check out the source of the fun. We opened the door and distracted the “flicking” of Rambo. When the kids turned to look at who was entering the room the blanket went much tauter and the hamster consequently went much higher. Rambo went so high that it hit the moving ceiling fan and was sent flying off of the fan blades and across the room. After slamming into the wall, and sliding down to the floor Rambo seemed a little dazed and confused. All of the kids were concerned but after a while, Rambo seemed to recover without any ill effects. I am sure that it was the only hamster in history that was actually grateful when school started up again and it could return to the peace and quiet of 25 school children on a daily basis.

I guess the list of pets and this chapter could go on and on and on. Pets at Easter time were highly anticipated. Papa would always bring home brightly colored chicks for all of the kids. We would sit and play with the chicks for hours upon hours. We each had our own special color of chicken. I know that after Easter the chicks were always taken out to a farm where they would have a better chance of living a peaceful life. Well, those chicks that made it through the holiday were taken to the farm. As we all shared the status of our chicks with our parents each evening, Randy, the calmest and most gentle of the younger boys, always had the same report for his pet. His line was always, “My chicken died.” He delivered it the same way, in the same tone, with the same sadness each year. We never really figured out what happened to Randy’s Easter chickens. We just knew that without fail, it was always, “my chicken died”.

I understand that most people cannot relate to these unusual pet episodes. Many would cringe as they think that these animals were possibly even abused. I did not see it that way. No animals could have had more love lavished on them by more people. Although hamsters are not supposed to go flying through the air, my kids got to see first hand how being careless could really harm something that was alive. Just telling them that they could hurt Rambo would not have made such an impact. All of my kids have dogs today and the houses of those dogs are decorated by their kids. So far, all of their fur remains nameless. Just yesterday, we gathered most of the Swanson clan for Easter at Martin and Jackie’s ranch. This has become a tradition that is much anticipated each year. My Mom, now 87 years young, was, as always, the guest of honor. I watched her as she studied the crowd. Was she wondering who was going to say “mine died” as she watched her grandkids play with the still present brightly colored chicks? Did it bring back memories of anniversary presents, gerbils, white rats, and Tinker? I am not ever quite sure what goes through her mind as she studies all of the action at these family gatherings. I know she has been a source of inspiration to me as I continue to search for a way to heal. I hate for her to see me hurting, but know that she is one of the few that can truly understand the pain of my loss. There she was on Easter Sunday surrounded by her family. I watched her as she covertly studied me to see how I was coping. She leaned over with that ever present wry smile, held out her arms to indicate the chaos and said, “Just look what I started.” As I turned to take a more focused look around I saw exactly what she meant. I think I could see what I know now that James must have felt at these gatherings. I saw the kids, the grandkids, the great-grandkids, the in-laws, and an assortment of pets. Even if James and Papa are gone, there will always be part of “what they started” present. I smiled and watched my grandkids as they played with the chickens on Easter Sunday. I smiled as it was my own kids’ turn to rescue dirty dogs and flying hamsters. And, I could actually smile at the end of the day when I softly whispered, “Look, James. See what we started?”

Luxurious Entertainment

Entertainment. It was built in. There was always someone to play with. Always a team or two for baseball. Always enough to play a game of kick the can after dark. Always a Batcave that needed superheroes. Always someone to organize surprises. Always someone around to put on plays and plenty still left to be the audience. Always a building crew nearby for the forts that needed to be constructed. Always a swimming pool to be dug. Always treasures to search for. Always clues to encourage explorations in the woods. Always picnics to be enjoyed. And, there were always neighbors nearby who did not want to miss out on any excitement. There never seemed to be a dull moment around our house. I am not sure that we even recognized that there was constant level of stimulation surrounding our home. (I do know that after we moved to Jacksonville, every single house on our block of Fort Worth Street, except for the brave Kerzee and Groom families, was put on the market in the next few years.) No matter what kind of entertainment was on tap at the moment, because of the sheer number of people involved, a certain level of excitement always accompanied every activity. I guess excitement can be defined in a number of ways. Perhaps age has something to do with the definition. Maybe those who were not members of a large family had a different image in their head of what excitement really was. I am almost positive that when you achieved parenthood, your idea of excitement definitely changed. I am pretty sure that different levels of excitement exist no matter who you are or where you come from or what your position in life might be at the time. No matter who was observing my parents’ life there could be no doubt that sheer madness was their constant companion. How did my mom and dad maintain such a consistent level of tranquility with all the exciting entertainment? As I hear story after story at Sunday lunch, and look back on my own kid’s exciting adventures, I am sure that my parent’s serenity was a result of only one thing. Practice. Day in and day out the constant level of worry, scurry, and mayhem could either wear them out or they could just adjust to the idea that this abnormal amount of activity was their normal. Did they practice counting to 50? Did they practice hiding their worries? Did they practice suppressing moans? Or did they learn to just give in and enjoy the ride?

Surely with all of this constant entertainment, there was a need for my parents to have some down time. I know that when my kids were young, a trip to the grocery store all by myself was a luxury. James would always recognize when I sorely needed a break, and off I would go to the exciting world of grocery shopping. All alone and unattended. Pure indulgence. I realize now that bringing home a 4th child brought about the idea that grocery shopping could be luxurious. I certainly had never thought of that activity in those terms before. What, then, could constitute such an indulgence if you were to come home with your 9th, 10th, or even 11th child? Perhaps just a moment of peace and quiet in the midst of all of the excitement of everyday life could be simply sumptuous. When I hear about the day that occurred during the 2nd week after Pat was brought home from the hospital, I marvel at the complacency with which my mom tells the story. Pat was the 9th child and mom seemed to be able to exist on little or no sleep. My oldest brother had decided he would try to help my mom and take some of the kids away from the house for awhile. Pat was just 2 weeks old, mom needed rest, and Cookie was more than willing to help entertain the masses. With promises of excitement and entertainment for the youngsters, and armed with the help of the older kids, he piled as many of us as he could into the little English Ford and we all took out for a spin. This left the house relatively quiet for mom. Along with the newborn, there were only 2 toddlers left at home. I imagine that Mom put this moment down as one of luxury. Only 3 children at home for at least an hour meant plenty of time to recharge and recoup. As Cookie entertained his brothers and sisters I guess that the level of excitement must have started to wane a little. After all, there were so many people crammed into one car and we had been on so many “drives” for so many different reasons, that we had seen all there was to see in Navasota. Leave it to Cookie, though, to make sure that there would not be a dull moment for us. What would be wrong with seeing if the little English Ford (loaded with 6 little Swansons) could fit on the railroad tracks? It certainly looked as though the wheels were about the same width as the railroad tracks that wound their way through downtown Navasota. With much encouragement from Hunter and Jimmie; and with the inspiring looks of awe that he constantly received from the younger kids, Cookie guided the Ford onto the tracks. There was success for a minute, but of course, there was no way that the car could stay on the tracks for long. And, of course, there was no way the car was coming off of the tracks, either. Now, this was excitement! Try as they might, the boys could not get the car free from the tracks. Being the resourceful son that he was, Cookie sent Bill running home to tell mom that somehow the car got stuck on the train tracks downtown. In the meantime, a crowd was gathering to watch the latest Swanson situation. A train was scheduled to arrive on the tracks in the next few minutes. When Bill arrived home out of breath to relay the situation to mom, she was galvanized into action. As she tells the story, she says she “grabbed the infant off of the top bunk and swept the two toddlers under her arms.” She went to my grandmother’s house in the block behind our house to find a vehicle that could take her to the rescue. (When I ask her why there was an infant on the top bunk she just shrugs and says, “That’s just where I put him!”) She piles the group of kids into the only car available. Never mind that the car did not have brakes; there were children to be rescued, and surely she could manage. As Bill guides her through downtown toward the location of the trouble, she spots my dad’s car parked at the coffee shop. Without use of any brakes, she whips the car around and coasts to a halt in front of the cafe. After explaining the situation, my dad, and the rest of the coffee shop regulars, head for the tracks in the next block. One man runs down the railroad line in hopes of flagging down the train that is now well on its way to town. Several men, along with most of my brothers, helped to lift the car off of the track as the train grinded to a halt before there was any harm or damage inflicted to anyone or anything. My dad thanks his friends, the train starts back on its journey, the kids all pile back into the little English Ford, the townspeople head back home and we are all idly wondering what we would have for dinner that night. My mom had already returned home and missed the car being lifted off of the tracks. At the telling of this story, I am shocked that she did not stay to see if the train actually stopped before ramming the car. How did she make herself leave before knowing that all of her kids were safe? She calmly explains that she knew that everyone was out of the car and that Papa was in charge of the situation. She needed to make sure that she could get home safely with no brakes and since everyone in town was near the tracks watching all of the excitement, the most practical time to leave was right then while there was no one on the road. She had to keep making several extra turns around several extra blocks to make sure that the car would slow down, but she, too, arrived home safe and sound. I know that the coffee shop and Pookie’s beauty shop and Pederson’s Drug Store had plenty to talk about that day. Accounts of the near miss provided lots of entertainment for everyone around town. For my mom and dad, it was just another typical day at the office. The more that I look back, the more I realize that it must have taken a massive amount of creativity to be able to recognize when one of those moments of luxurious peace and quiet actually occurred. My parents must have intuitively known when to grab hold of those sweet, uncomplicated, sparse moments of calm, and bask in the peacefulness that each one must have brought. Is that why I have such a clear picture of my 5 foot tall mom standing on tip toe to kiss my 6 foot 2 tall dad every single morning before he left for work and every single evening when he returned home from work? Were they just grabbing a moment of peace?
The train story is just one of the Sunday lunch stories that show me that, indeed, everything is relative. Things like excitement, entertainment, and luxury. Sure, the kids were stuck on the railroad tracks, but all of us felt the thrill of being alive. Maybe the rescue vehicle didn’t have any brakes, but how capable my mom must have felt to have beaten the odds. Perhaps the respite from having everyone underfoot did not last quite as long as anticipated, but just look how the younger kids kept putting Cookie higher and higher on a pedestal for his powers of entertainment. Maybe there was always a bit a drama surrounding our family, but just consider how a whole village was mesmerized. I am sure that there were nerves that were stretched thin during the whole escapade, but it was followed up with smiles and what ifs and a gratefulness that is still crystal clear as the story is told today. As I look back on my childhood and life, I see that perhaps we did not recognize until later the pure luxury of having parents that handled constant excitement with such a strong sense of confidence and calm. After becoming a parent myself, I will be forever grateful that their actions helped me to recognize and acknowledge the most ultimate of luxuries. The luxury of having a husband with kind, gentle, strong and capable arms that could hold me tight through all forms of excitement. The luxury of having a husband who knew how to enjoy all that life could throw at him. The luxury of having a husband who could recognize and share those rare moments of peace that are sometimes hidden when raising children. Truly there are forms of entertainment that make the heart grow stronger. How luxurious to be able to sit back and really enjoy the ride.

The Mayor

Papa always seemed a giant among men. Does everyone inherently feel that way about their father? Maybe it was his tall stature, or his persistently calm demeanor, or perhaps it was the smile that emanated from way down deep inside that made each one of us feel as though everything would be okay as long as Papa was around. Apparently we were not the only ones who felt that way. Papa was elected mayor of our hometown of Navasota. I look back now and wonder where in the world he found the time to take the reins of this small town. I am sure he thought if he could run his extraordinarily large family with an appearance of success, then running the town would be nothing. Part of the confidence people placed in my dad came from the unquestioning supposition that he would always do what was right. If we ever found ourselves wavering on what we should or should not do, he would tilt his head to the side a little, and calmly say, “Just do what you feel is right.” No more questioning, no arguing and no explanations. Just the calm delivery of his basic philosophy of life, and his absolute belief in us. He lived pretty simply for someone who seemed so important. He would leave his charcoal plant and head for a meeting with the town council. Papa did not run home and change clothes. He would just fold his long legs to scrunch his 6 foot 2 inch frame in his tiny car, head for town hall, stomp his charcoal covered feet at the door and become the town’s mayor as he entered the building dusting the black soot off of his clothes. He was real. He was honest. He was stable. I am sure he was to Navasota what he was to our family. The voice of reason in a mass of confusion. The reality that there is so much goodness all around us if we just take a minute to look. The gentleness that makes you understand that there is beauty everywhere; in clouds, in colors, in architecture, in food, in family, in Sunday drives, in quiet, and even in chaos.

Papa would never dream of calling in favors by using his position of mayor. His children, however, seemed to have a little trouble understanding this particular stand. There were times when “my dad’s the mayor” just came in way too handy. Bill and Martin in particular seemed to invoke that statement much more often than the rest of us. One of the major advantages of being part of a large family is that playmates were built in. Bill and Martin woke up every morning ready for an adventure. Their imaginations sparked such remarkable excursions! I am sure that most of these exploits did not intend to involve the law, but with them, even a simple game of good old neighborhood football could provide extra excitement. On one particular occasion, the gang had gathered at the football field for a quick pick-up game. The next play was on the verge of being snapped when Bill’s attention was drawn toward a movement off to the side of the field. As the boys studied the object, they noticed that whatever was causing the commotion was closing in on them. And “it” was coming at them pretty fast. But, they knew no fear. They were the self-appointed protectors of the city of Navasota, Texas. As the object drew nearer, they all stood stock still and watched in amazement as the animal came loping toward them. According to the story the animal was an escaped kangaroo. As their interest grew, so did the realization that if this was indeed an animal that had escaped from a circus (and where else would a kangaroo come from?) then there would no doubt be quite a sizeable reward for its capture and return. The kangaroo leapt across the entire width of the football field in only 2 gigantic bounds, and the boys were in hot pursuit. Now, you must keep in mind that the adventure started on the actual high school football field which was close to downtown Navasota. Their chase took them past the statue of LaSalle and behind houses. They sailed past downtown businesses and darted through alleyways. The caravan of kids chased the kangaroo to a vacant house which the animal skirted beneath to hide (or rest). According to who tells the story, it was without any thoughts of danger to themselves and only the desire to protect all of Navasota that they tried to crawl under the house to flush out the beast. Our dog, Tinker, growled and snapped at the boys as she tried to protect them from their zealousness. The dog was the only thing standing between the boys and the underground hiding spot of the animal. After several anxious moments, the kangaroo made a mad dash from the back side of the house and the chase continued. They ran back through the streets of downtown and headed to the creek which runs through Navasota. Finally, they had the animal cornered. After studying the situation, the boys were not sure what to do next. Although it was hidden in the brush and not plainly visible, the animal was definitely trapped. The gang decided they would need extra reinforcements to capture the beast. They played a quick paper, rock, scissors game to decide who would call the police this time. Martin, the youngest in the group, lost and had to make the rescue call. Martin called for the help of Navasota’s finest. Now, the police department had experienced calls from the Swanson kids before and tried to be polite and understanding as they told the boys to let the animal go. Kangaroos would probably not inflict harm on anyone. But persistence, and a vision of the weapons that could be bought with reward money, ignited their desire to succeed and they would not be put off so easily. This was not Martin’s lucky day as the 2nd paper, rock, scissors routine landed him the odd man out once again. He repeated the call to the police department and announced that his dad was mayor and if someone did not come out to help with this situation, and come quickly, he would have them all fired. Not only the police, but the fire department as well became involved in the hunt for the escaped kangaroo. It seems that the animal was captured quite easily once the law arrived on the scene. As it turned out, the animal was not actually a kangaroo. When you think about it, a greyhound dog could easily be confused with a kangaroo if it was being chased and was traveling at a high rate of speed.

Papa was not the only important person in town. The boys had a club whose main mission was the protection of the citizens of Navasota. The club, whose numbers varied but seemed to hover around ten, had meeting places all over town. However, the headquarters of “The Home of the Brave” was the old Emory home down the street from our house. This house was vacant and was on a huge lot overgrown with bushes, trees, and brush. An absolute paradise for young fertile imaginations. The clubs main purpose was to protect everyone from the Russians. Every single day they would add to their arsenal. The trees were loaded with bottle rockets aimed in every direction. The members all sported blisters as the lot was eventually filled with deep trenches and holes that were camouflaged with brush. Sling shots were ready should the enemy attack. B-B guns were secreted away. Extra supplies of food and drink were always kept on hand. And, daily each of the boys would take a little of their lunch money to beef up the club’s account. To make sure the money was safe; they buried the funds on the vacant lot right next to their headquarters. After a plan of attack was mapped out in case of a Russian invasion, and all weapons were properly positioned, the boys went about their other business. You know, the business of camping out, playing whatever ball that was in season, building things, roasting birds (with or without cleaning them), chasing kangaroos, spying, and any other activities that came to mind. Since the Russians never did actually attack, the vacant lot with all of its weapons was almost forgotten. They did find out later, however, that their traps worked. When new construction started in that area, several workmen fell into ditches. When brush and trash were burned, the bottle rockets did not scare the Russians, but carpenters ran for cover. Even invoking the “my dad’s the mayor” line did not convince the crews to tear up the slab so that the club’s money chest could be recovered.

I guess my mother was lucky in that she really did not have time to wonder where the boys would be heading as they left home each day to pursue another adventure. And, I am sure that my dad may have cringed a little when he found out that the boys pulled rank on the policemen by informing them that their dad was mayor. Was my mother too busy to worry, or did she just let her sons gain confidence by giving them time to explore life on their own? Was it the easy way out for my Dad to just encourage us to “do the right thing” or was it more difficult for him to bite his tongue as he watched us try to understand for ourselves what really felt right? Even though he may not have approved of the boys using his title to get what they needed, I can see the smile that could not be suppressed each time the kangaroo story was told. I watch the way that my brothers still rush to rescue others to this day and know that there are bottle rockets still in position if they are ever needed. In their actions I see the gentleness, the kindness and the beauty that Papa was always aching for us to see. I see his head tilted and his smile spreading as his boys gently remind me that I am still surrounded by so much goodness no matter how heavy my heart feels. And anyway, if things don’t pan out like we want them to, we can always listen. I am sure we can still call on the mayor for advice.

The Clubhouse

My sister lived ten years as the only girl in the family. Five brothers and Mary Claire. At family gatherings even today Cookie, Hunter, and Jimmie talk about how easy it was to make Mary Claire cry. They act like it was a role they relished and each one can always top the other’s story. All the while, when they talk about these times, they have their arm around Mary Claire, or they can’t get the stories completely out because of the goofy smile on their face. As I study the family pictures, I see that Mom took refuge in her girl. Mary Claire’s hair was always curled just right, she always had on a perfectly pressed dress for church, and she was always standing in the middle. But, the biggest hint that gave away the position that Mary Claire held as the only girl in the family was that there were rules that were apparently established just for her. At Sunday lunch, I heard the stories about how “special” she was; and as we raised our own children, I understood the “she gets anything she wants” whining first hand. Just to give you an idea, there is a picture of Cookie, Hunter, Jimmie, and Mary Claire standing beside their clubhouse in Navasota. It was a little difficult to tell the girl apart from the boys. They all had on jeans with worn out knees, cowboy hats situated on their heads each tilted in a different direction, guns and holsters, and a real tough guy smirk for the camera. The soft curls seen in most pictures featuring Mary Claire were hidden under her hat. She was at home with the boys and apparently that is where she spent most of her time. Anywhere her brothers went, she would be there, too. She did not want to miss out on one adventure and there seemed to be an adventure everyday. Upon closer inspection of the picture, you can see the lettering scrawled on the old wooden door of the clubhouse. Painted up high were the words: “no girls allowed except Mary Claire because mama made us.” Now that’s how I know for certain the magnitude of the position that Mary Claire held. Even the neighborhood kids knew and accepted that Mary Claire had her place of importance deeply entrenched.

I was born when she was ten years old. One would think that she would not want another girl to come along and usurp the attention she gained being the only female, but quite the opposite was true. She was thrilled to finally have a sister. She lavished attention on me. Even though there was a difference in our years that would distance most siblings, our bond proved to be strong. When the teenagers went out cruising, it was just like the clubhouse scene. Lucy came along “because Mary Claire said so.” And, no one argued. It never occurred to me that I was not welcome in my grandmother’s big old car that all the teenagers and I rode around in. After all, the boys had painted the car Navasota High School blue, and Mary Claire used her artistic talents to paint the NHS rattlesnakes on each door of the car. It was the clubhouse of the time, and I was now a part of it. Mary Claire was head cheerleader for the Navasota Rattlers and I was the mascot with my own uniform. I performed at the pep rallies and out on the field every Friday night. We were always at the football field. For years, during any game, junior high, junior varsity, or varsity, there was always a brother playing. The announcer would call out the plays saying, “Swanson passes to Swanson”, or, “Onto the field comes Swanson” or, “Swanson calls time out”, or “Swanson fumbles”. The Navasota football coach had to love my parents. They provided him with a football team and consequently, most of the crowd in the stands. And, I was always right beside Mary Claire. We shared a room and we shared secrets.

My brother Jimmie was closest in age to Mary Claire and they, too, shared a special relationship. Jimmie always did well in school and Mary Claire still laments having to follow him scholastically, but their closeness was easily apparent. When Jimmie went to Rice University and became an All-American football player, Mary Claire would go to visit. On one visit she met Stan Smith, one of the Rice football players. They eventually became engaged and it was easy to see that Mary Claire’s status in the family had not diminished. My mom’s oldest girl was getting married! We did not have a lot of money, but my parents wanted to have everything perfect when Stan came to meet the family for the first time. With so many kids, the best entertainment for our family was cooking hamburgers in the back yard. The kids could run around freely, neighbors would always stop by, and it was a ritual that the meal would be topped off with homemade peppermint ice cream for dessert. It is easy to understand that when your house is small and your numbers are large, the safest place is outside. So, a big cookout was planned for Stan with our standard tried and true fare. Papa and most of the five little ones would help prepare the hamburger patties for the grill. He would divide up the tasks for us to do. After he seasoned the meat just so, the even numbered kids would shape the ground beef into balls; and the odd numbered ones would smash the meat into patties using the salad plate that Papa assured us would make the hamburgers just the right size. Papa’s only concern would be that we were making the meal “nearly too good to eat!” The older kids were assigned to cleaning up the backyard, getting the grill ready and making everything nice for their sister. Mary Claire herself was going to attempt to make the peppermint ice cream. It would all be perfect. To his credit, when Stan met the family, he did not even flinch. He joined in the perpetual basketball game while the burgers were cooking and withstood jibes from my brothers. He did not even comment on my younger brother Pat’s condition. (Pat’s state resulted after he went around from adult to adult asking for a sip of their beer; each one of them indulging the youngster unaware that everyone else was doing the same.) Stan even did his turn with the hand cranked ice cream freezer and commented on how wonderful the dessert would be because Mary Claire made it. All in all, the evening was going quite well. When the ice cream was finally firm enough to dish out, it seemed that everyone gathered around the freezer for their helping all at once. It was almost eerily quiet as we all paused to gauge Stan’s reaction to Mary Claire’s part of the meal. As he spooned the first bite of the sweet, pink concoction into his mouth, there was a collective sigh. She really could make ice cream. It looked just like Mom’s, so how could he not like it? Then, as everyone else started to partake of the dessert, laughter slowly trickled about. There was nothing wrong with the flavor of the ice cream. However, it was a little difficult to eat. The trouble was that the wrappers from the peppermints that were used to make the ice cream were never taken off of the candy. Stan just smiled and removed each wrapper as he came to it and kept eating. Did he see some sort of unwritten sign that said, “Enjoy it because Mama said so”? Was he scared of saying anything because he knew that my brothers were very protective of their sister? Was he still in shock at the sheer size and numbers involved with the woman he had pledged to spend the rest of his life with? Or, did he just see the evening as a whole? Forty years later, Stan is still a part of this family and Mary Claire stills holds her high ranking of importance and the peppermint ice cream story is still one of those most told at Sunday lunch. All in all the wrappers were a good sign. The sign stated loud and clear that hardly ever in life would everything be perfect no matter how much effort was made to make it so. When surrounded by family, imperfection can be handled and even relished. The greatest lessons can be learned by watching the ones you love deal with the unexpected. Whether these are the monumental life-changing things that are thrown your way or just the peppermint wrappers of life, it is nice to know that you will always be welcome in the clubhouse. Mama says so.

Pimiento Cheese

I am pretty sure I know what it is that could solve all the problems in the world. No. I am certain that I have the answer. My mom’s pimiento cheese was the perfect peacemaker growing up and I have no doubt of its powers now. Did I like pimiento cheese growing up? Not on your life. It had little green onions in it. Did I get pimiento cheese made just the way I liked it after establishing that I did not care in the least for little green onions? Of course I did. Did I then eat pimiento cheese? No way. It was a little embarrassing to admit to anyone that you actually liked pimiento cheese. I would only eat it in secret. Mom must have realized this, for each time there would be one dish of pimiento cheese with little green onions and one dish put aside without little green onions. What then, is the secret that pimiento cheese holds to give it such power? Try to immerse yourself in a day in the life of my mother.

When we moved to Jacksonville, Texas, from Navasota, Texas, my father bought a lake house for us to live in on Lake Jacksonville. We lived there one summer before we actually moved from our house in Navasota and that meant that all of the kids were home from college. All thirteen of us in this one bedroom, one bath house on the lake. My dad got busy and added a huge screened in porch to the lake house that he equipped with six army style bunk beds. Our bedroom. Home sweet home. There remained only one bathroom, but we did have the lake. This to us kids was a huge adventure. The age range was such that there were still little kids running around everywhere. The worry for my parents was the lake and the threat of one of the kids falling in when no one else was around. So, there was “the rule”. No matter where you were going, if you were one of the five little ones, you had to wear a life jacket whenever you stepped foot outside of the house. It simply did not matter if you were headed to the lake or not. The life jackets were the orange ones that fit snugly around your neck and buckled with a strap that wrapped around your back. You have to understand that the lure of the outside was strong to us in this new place. There were forts to be built, woods to be explored, cases to be solved, and not much to hold us indoors. We simply had to go outside. And, as much as we tried to resist, wear the life jackets we did. As I struggle to remember that summer, I see my mom heading to the washateria with an unbelievable mountain of laundry. I see Papa and my brothers coming in from work at the charcoal plant their faces, hands, and clothes covered with the black coal. I see brothers bringing in the huge bottles of drinking water because we could not drink the water from the faucets. And, I see my mom eating her pimiento cheese sandwich. It was spread on one piece of rye bread and topped with a piece of lettuce sprinkled with black pepper. She would take a look at a situation, and calmly take a bite of her sandwich. It seemed to compose her enough to enable her to take everything in stride. I think that pimiento cheese had to be the ingredient that made it possible for her to understand and tolerate the move to a new place, allay fears of her youngsters playing around the lake, support those trying to make a new business grow, and cope with thirteen humans living in the three room house. She ate pimiento cheese a lot.

As the years went on and we moved into our huge house on O’Keefe Road, the power of pimiento cheese was still apparent. Yes, the house was big. Mary Claire and I had our own room. The older boys lived in a garage apartment that was actually attached to the main house thus making the house seem huge. Pat and Randy were in a room that was in the center of the home. This room had four doors in it and no matter where you were going in the house you had to pass through this room. When Pat got mad at someone, he would close all the doors and insist that everyone was to stay out of his room. It is a good thing that this did not happen too often. My mom’s most prized room was not a fancy dining room or a big, accommodating kitchen, but what we called the fold room. Though it was not heated or cooled, the garage was walled in for a laundry room. Close your eyes and try to imagine the loads of clothes that would be involved with the day to day activities of the family. Just think about the sheer number of towels alone that were used. Towels used for the kids who splashed water everywhere at bath time. Towels used and disposed by teenagers who would use three, minimum, in order to get ready for their date. And, towels used to mop up spills that occurred every hour on the hour. Papa had a huge red picnic table installed in the laundry room where the clothes were folded. As they were folded, they were stacked in piles according to the kid. Mom spent a lot of time folding clothes out in this room. When someone was trying to locate her, the first place to look was the fold room. I wonder now if there was a stash of pimiento cheese in the fold room. How else could she so calmly face that mountain of clothes?

Papa always tried to make everything wonderful for my mom. With eleven kids the money situation always seemed to be tight so he was excited when he was able to surprise her with new furniture for the den. He announced one Sunday at lunch that he had bought new furniture to replace the pieces that had been completely worn out by the wear and tear of our busy and demanding life. My mom was so excited to have something new and nice! Now, you have to understand that my father was such a brilliant man. He had visions that were way ahead of his time and possessed the drive to put them into play. He did not harbor a mean bone in his body and was held with the utmost of respect from all that knew him. But, as any of his kids can tell you, he did not have the greatest of taste. One of the favorite Sunday lunch stories is when Papa brought home the new furniture that was sure to brighten Mom’s day. The furniture was couches, and they were made of black plastic. Not only were there black plastic couches, but the ensemble was completed with a bright yellow plastic coffee table and two bright yellow plastic end tables to match. These were to go into the room that he had just painted what we dubbed “radioactive green”. Papa had also proudly installed new green indoor/outdoor carpet. Mom watched the furniture being unloaded and carried into the house. She went immediately to fix herself a pimiento cheese sandwich. After a couple of bites, there was no way you could ever detect the disappointment she must have felt in the selection of the furniture that would surely remain in the house for a long time. Wasn’t Papa the greatest for providing us with such wonderful furnishings? A week later (and only several days before my sister’s wedding reception was to be held at our house) Randy was melting crayolas in the den using the tin can contraption that he built in cub scouts. The can toppled over and melted a big gaping hole in the new carpet. If I had not seen my mom going into the kitchen to prepare a pimiento cheese sandwich, I may not have realized how upset she really was at the accident. A couple of bites and we were all engaged in rigging up a way to conceal the mishap.
It is difficult to describe a typical day in the life of my mother. I guess that is because there was nothing typical in her day. I do know that it was filled with what seemed like excitement to us, but after experiencing parenthood myself, I see that the constant excitement had to be trying to her. When Sallie tripped over our dog and had a knot the size of Dallas on her forehead, it was exciting. When the principal of the school would call my mom and tell her several kids (including her own) were skipping school and did she know where they were, it was exciting. It was even more exciting when she would load up all of her preschoolers and go ferret out the escapees and deliver them all back to school. It was exciting when one of us would hide from the occasional baby sitter and a whole search and rescue would be called out. It was exciting when the charcoal plant caught fire. It was exciting when Martin and Bill would take Randy and Pat by their feet, and swing them around and around outside in the yard. We were concerned, but still excited when Randy and Pat’s head collided with a huge sickening thud in one such incident. The excitement went on and on. Hearing about all of these incidences in stories at Sunday lunch, I wonder how in the world my mother survived. It was the pimiento cheese. The magic power of pimiento cheese. I forgot to mention that out of all of the countless doors that were in the house in Jacksonville, there was only one that possessed a lock. That lock was located on the door to one of the bathrooms. When things got really “exciting” my mom would take her pimiento cheese sandwich into the bathroom, and try to hide behind the lock. We always seemed to find her even though I know now that she must have put forth great effort to try to make herself disappear, even if just for an instant. We would lie down on the floor outside the bathroom and talk to her through the door. We would slip her notes. We would entertain ourselves by picking at the chips of paint coming up on the outside of the bathroom door. I suppose that this is what it might be like, although on a much smaller scale, for presidents of companies that have people hanging on their every word. Is it possible that the President of the United States could solve his problems by occasionally hiding behind a door with a lock? Would we all wait for him to emerge from behind the lock and know that all was right in the world just by the look on his face? I am sure that it would not happen without the added power of pimiento cheese. With or without the little green onions.

Nacho Night

Looking back, I see that it was the simple things that made love grow in my own family. I realize, too, that simple is entirely relative. Simple is not simple for everyone. Nacho night for me was simple and it was the cornerstone on which my husband and I built our home. Nacho night. Our Sunday lunch.
When I think of nacho night, the simple way we entertained ourselves comes to mind. When we found ourselves all six in the car together, someone would invariably start the “what would you do for a million dollars” game. I know you know this game. “Who would lick the entire floor clean in Mercado’s restaurant for a million dollars? Who would throw our dog, Boofers, off a cliff for a million dollars? Who would consent to live in a foreign country for the rest of their lives never to return to the United States for a million dollars? For a million dollars, Dad, would you get out on the roof of our house on busy O’Keefe Road in only your “whitie tighties” and your tool belt and stay for 3 hours promising to wave at every single car that drives by?” Oh, the conversations that would entail from these questions! The simple entertainment was the best. Nothing needed to be plugged in, nothing needed to have earphones, no batteries were required, no one was right or wrong, and no one had to be in a particular seat. Simple. The questions would vary and I am reminded of nacho night because of one particular variation. On one family jaunt, the question of the day was, “If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?” James delivered his answer unequivocally and without hesitation. It was nachos, and the answer for him was simple. Lately I have wondered at the confidence in which his answer was delivered. As I have made the effort to look back at who we were, it is simple to see the reason for his conviction. Nacho night let me feel every ounce of love that was sent my direction from my husband. Nacho night let my kids feel the depth of what it was that held us all together. Nacho night was simple. Nacho night was huge. Thinking about nacho night helps me to heal.
To set the scene for nacho night conjure up the image of three toddlers wrapped in towels. Their hair would be dripping wet and they would be running into the kitchen followed closely by their Dad. The youngest child would be slung over James’shoulder in a towel. Squeals and peals of laughter would always accompany bath time with Dad and this bath time ritual would set the mood for the rest of the evening. I would be busy grating cheese, chopping tomatoes, or lining a tray with chips and would almost miss the look I received from him. The look cast my way from those beautiful blue eyes would convey more love and anticipation than any words could capture. I knew that nacho night was our night. Without fail he would steal a taste of the guacamole and I would feign annoyance. And then, he would give me a kiss to gain forgiveness. That was simple. There is not a doubt in my mind that our kids felt the love that was strengthened each and every nacho night. Simple entertainment with huge benefits. After one kid heads straight for the paper plates and one is on the counter helping to smash the avocados and two spread out the softies for our pallet, the feast in ready. Sit by the fire. Tell us a story. Conduct stare downs. And, pass the nachos. Our kids would fall asleep on the pallet confident in the love that we shared for not only them, but for each other. One by one we would take the kids to their beds. It was simple. No babysitters, no worries about leaving one baby crying, no extra expense, but lots of love. Adult nachos were after the kids were taken to their beds. Onions and jalapenos and margaritas and a great big helping of love. The rest of the night was ours. Who couldn’t live the rest of their life on that?

Flaming Toast

Precision. That is what made the extraordinarily large household run. I think. Because the center of my Mom’s world was my father, the routine of the household, too, usually centered on Papa. The breakfast regimen was no different. To an outsider just observing the chaos of getting everyone up and out each day, it would seem that the only thing that could possibly be routine in this morning procedure was that there was no routine. But to us,the busy, smoke filled, chaotic kitchen seemed entirely normal. The smell from the first pound of cooking bacon permeated through the air conditioning vents each morning and served as our alarm clock. As one round of siblings was roused and claimed one of the five bathrooms, Mom would be listening for the tell-tale signs that had become her signal to start Papa’s special breakfast. The signals did not vary and the timing on her part was always perfect. Eggs were put on exactly when the sound of the water from Papa’s shower was heard through the pipes in our big, loud, noisy two story house. I am not sure how that sound was so loud and distinguishable to my mom amidst all the confusion, but clear it was and it meant there was only minutes until Papa would walk into the kitchen. The eggs needed to be started precisely at this moment.

The type of eggs mom cooked for Papa may have differed over the years, but somehow the timing of cooking them always remained the same. My first recollection of the type of eggs cooked for Papa (and anyone else who wanted them) was bubble eggs. These were fried eggs cooked quite quickly and efficiently in the big iron skillet. Mom would break the eggs into hot bacon grease then splash the grease over and over the eggs with a spatula until the desired yolk consistency was obtained. When the egg white was a little crusted and the yolk was a little runnier than most of us younger ones liked it, the eggs were perfect for Papa. Someone in the brood dubbed them bubble eggs because of the big bubbles that would explode over the eggs while they were being splashed with grease. I think my mom liked cooking this type of eggs because the five little ones that were lined up at the bar watching this whole event take place were always momentarily entertained by the bubble development. (I never knew that “bubble eggs” was not a universally renowned term for fried eggs until much later.) When the cholesterol scare was brought to the forefront, the fried eggs were replaced with poached eggs. These eggs always looked pretty nil in texture, color, and taste when compared to the bubble eggs, but Papa’s health was the main concern and there would be no diminishing the drive that my mom had to keep Papa healthy. Somehow he managed to consume this type egg with the same zeal and pleasure as he did the bubble eggs. To cook the poached eggs, the iron skillet was replaced with a Teflon skillet. An egg was gently broken and placed into a small amount of water that was steaming in a covered pan. I continue to be baffled by the way the egg was always unfailingly ready to slide onto the plate precisely when Papa walked into the kitchen.

When the bread was popped into the toaster, we knew that Mom had heard the last of the signals. Who needed a clock when you could just listen for the unmistakable squeak of the big dresser drawer? This sound indicated that Papa had pulled the drawer open to reach for his starched white shirt; his last step in getting dressed. The toast would pop up out of the toaster and be placed onto the Mel-Mac plate alongside the perfectly cooked egg and bacon. It would be put at Papa’s designated spot at the bar exactly at the precise moment that he strolled into the kitchen. The place was set with what we knew as Papa’s preferred glass (the one whose thickness was just right), the fork that was always reserved specifically for him, and a perfectly folded blue napkin. The precision may have been unapparent to an outsider, but it was real.

Now, it may sound from this description that my father expected perfection for anything that concerned him. It may also seem that my Mom operated under a certain fear to achieve that expectation. Nothing could be further from the truth. Let me fill in the rest of the breakfast routine story. My mother was always the first one up in the mornings and as I look back I see that I just expected her to be in the kitchen. She would get out pans, start sack lunches, find socks, settle disputes, coax smiles, welcome the milkman, check on neighbors, sign notes, and hurry stragglers. This was all in addition to feeding the different shifts of people coming and going. Everyone always got fed. Everyone always got what they needed for the day. And, everyone almost always left the house happy. She did not do all of this alone, but she made it happen. The kitchen was by necessity a considerable room. It was big enough for someone to move in and take over cooking the bacon when needed. It was big enough for an older brother or sister to help the little ones crack the eggs before being scrambled. It was big enough for someone to be loading the dishwasher. It was big enough for someone to butter the bread that was crammed onto the tray to make tiger toast. It was big enough for several to finish their homework while they ate. It was big enough for someone to mop up the spilled milk. It was big enough to spread out all of the slices of bread that were being readied for lunches. And, it was big enough for no one to get burned as my mom would calmly reach into the oven and pull out the tray of toast that had erupted into flames. (This happened routinely if no one had been given the assignment to guard the toast from burning that morning.) She would open the back door; throw the flaming toast outside and without hesitation start buttering bread for another attempt. Everyone pitched in, but my mom ran the ship. When the sound of Papa’s shower was heard, we all knew the routine. Timing was everything. Gently, she would take over cooking his breakfast. If one of us insisted that we wanted to cook breakfast for Papa, she would let us. But she would keep an eye out and make sure it was perfect. This was her gift to him. His gift was to make her feel like it was the best breakfast he had ever eaten. Ever. This was the way they started their day. Looking back, I see that this was the way they started ours. Amidst what most would consider chaos, there was the routine. The routine of spoiling the one you love most no matter what else was happening. Just because you wanted to. I look back on my marriage and I am grateful that the most important lessons I learned were not acquired in school, but were those discovered in a most precise manner around food.

Start readings here with "Sunday Lunch"

I did not know that my life was a story. I look back to study my life after the death of my husband and surprisingly I see a real story unfold. A life’s story. A love story. A story that I need to tell. Many memories that help to form my story seem to stem from the huge oval table where my family gathered for lunch each Sunday after mass. These Sunday lunches brought my comically large family together and it is there that I find the root of my life. I see now how deep and strong the root system is. My family story begins on a Sunday…

When the congregation is seated after communion the smell comes to me and apparently to my brothers and sisters as well. I attribute the calming of the squirming, wiggling, poking, and prodding that were present all through mass to the smell that we left behind in the house that morning. It has to be the smell from home. Not the smell of the flowers or the incense or the perfume of Mrs. Pinkard in the pew in front of us, but the distinct smell of Sunday morning. In the waning minutes of the mass, the smell from home is still with me. It conjures up the images of the early morning and what had occurred before any of us ever left to go to church. The schedule on Sunday rarely varied. It started early with the smell of rump roast searing in the hot oil. That is the smell that wakes up the army of people. The smell is more accurate than any time piece, and the family knows exactly how much time is left before the first crew is herded off to church. The smell reminds us that the altar boys get first dubs on the bathrooms for they will be in the earliest car load of people out the door. From the smell emerges the clear picture of my mom in her navy blue Sunday dress with a cup towel thrown over her shoulder. She is standing on tip toe lifting the heavy lid to the black cast iron kettle from where the smell originates. She is small in stature and exudes a calmness that is bigger than life. Her calmness seems to combine with the familiar smell of Sunday to guide us all through the morning. There is no question that Sunday lunch is already underway as Papa takes the first crew to church. When we arrive at church the third pew from the front is occupied and eventually completely filled by my family. The older siblings always helped entertain the younger children during mass so that the rest of the congregation could celebrate the service in peace. After mass we all file outside. I can clearly see the genuine smiles my Dad and Mom offer to each of their friends. No one would think there was anything more important or more pressing for my parents than this visitation with members of the congregation. The mayhem that undoubtedly awaits them as they ready a meal to feed a herd of people could not possibly have been detected by their friends as my parents calmly share and listen each Sunday morning. I wonder….does the story of my life start here? Soon we all pack ourselves into the cars to head home. Without prompting, we consecutively call out our numbers. (Our numbers were those that coincided with the order of our birth.) If a number was not called out we would turn around and go back to find the missing child. I am not sure now whether we numbered off to reassure my parents that we had everyone on board or just to keep the peace on the ride home. We pull up to the house and spill out of the cars. Everyone is running ahead at full throttle in order to grab a bathroom first and to get out of Sunday clothes. How many times was the door thrown open with the extra force of the anxious anticipation that the smell brought with it? How many times did we notice that even the door with its automatic hinge brought about a peace in the way it slowly closed after each assault? Did we even detect that we were all a part of the preparation for the Sunday lunch that unleashed the smell? Who set the table, who changed the diapers, who drained the potatoes, who entertained the young ones, who guarded the rolls from burning, who made the gravy? How was all of this so precise an operation that most of us did not even realize the effort? Did we ever wonder how the food was always ready for each Sunday lunch? Did we ever doubt that the smell would be there? The smell permeates through the entire house and adds more to our life than we could possibly understand. The smell of Sunday lunch is powerful. Perhaps its power is not fully understood until we look back at the scenes that unfold as they are remembered and told at the table. My personal story begins with an ending…

I am the first of the last five little ones. Number seven of eleven children. That means that by the time I was born there had already been 728 Sunday lunches without me and that there would be plenty more ahead. My birth order determined that I would lead. I was certainly the boss of the second crew and I relished my role. I felt empowered to make things right for everyone. There was not much that I could not handle. I realize now that these Sunday lunches fostered this feeling inside of me, and it was inherent that I fulfill this leadership role for the rest of my life. I married my high school sweetheart after convincing him that he really did want to become my husband. During our courtship and marriage, James became as ingrained in this family as any of the original eleven children. We were joyous at the birth of our kids and knew from the stories of Sunday lunch exactly how we wanted to raise our children. Later, I became a teacher and showed others the way. I loved every minute in the classroom and needed the feeling that I was making a difference to someone. Truly, I had the fairy tale life. I was strong, my marriage was strong, my children were healthy and independent, and my husband was superman. Then, kryptonite appeared on the scene. My sweet, beautiful husband of 28 years died tragically and instantaneously in a helicopter crash after we had spent an absolute perfect evening together. In an instant, I could no longer lead, but had to be lead. In a heartbeat, I was not helping others to cope and live and hope, but was on the receiving end of such ministrations. I had no idea who I was without James by my side. I was reduced to a state that made me question every single thing I thought I believed in. Who was I? Where would I gain the strength to continue? How could I show my kids courage when I needed to give up? What made me think that I was strong and capable? My search for this new life and role has made me take a long look at where I came from. As I studied, it was the Sunday lunches that slowly came into focus. Because my husband shared his life with me, he also shared in the dramas of Sunday lunch. Sunday lunch is what made my brothers and sisters rush to take care of me in the face of my tragedy. Sunday lunch is what made my family feel the loss of James as much as my kids and I did. Sunday lunch nourished my soul when I thought it could not be repaired. Sunday lunch gave me the courage to keep on picking up the scattered pieces of myself even though at times I could feel no headway. Perhaps it is the same old habits coming to life in me again as I now feel compelled to share these stories that have helped me to think that I might want to survive. I know that in some way it was the Sunday lunches that made James feel that he was such an integral and important entity in this huge clan of a family. I suppose to an outsider it would seem impossible that any one individual could feel important and loved when so many are around. As I search for understanding, I see a man with no formal education past high school surrounded by the doctors and entrepreneurs and artists and scientists and so much intelligence that defines my siblings. And, I see the way he was respected and valued and cherished by them all. I will be forever grateful for the love he felt from this family. He lived his life more fully than anyone I know, and I am convinced that the strength of Sunday lunch may have empowered him to do so. Through these stories I will try to search for who I am and try to build some courage of my own. I hope you can see yourself along the way and know that no matter what life has to serve; Sunday lunch will always welcome each of us home.