Fist Bumps. Not Just for Anyone

Selective Sharing

Our family spends lot of time together.

Visiting.

In fact, if I were to pick a favourite activity, it would be that one.

My eldest daughter, Caitlin, and her family were over.

We were having a comfortable gab-fest after a hearty and satisfying dinner together.

Don't I sound like an advertisement for something?

Moving on . . .

Her Baby Daughter, nearly two, was busy playing at our feet.

She managed to put a toy train together.

All by herself.

“Oh, good job!” Caitlin told her. “Fist bumps!”

Baby Daughter grinned, doubled up her hand into a tiny fist and punched Mom gently on her knuckles.

“Yeah!” Caitlin said. “Now go and give Grampa fist bumps!”

I should mention, here, that our grandkids adore their Grampa. He plays with them.

Constantly.

Ponies. Troll under the bridge. Pirates.

But fist bumps?

The grin disappeared.

Baby Daughter gave her Grampa a sidelong glance, then, simply tipped full-length onto the couch and lay there.

Her attitude said it all.

'I . . . would rather . . . die!'

“Hey!” Grampa said. “I want fist bumps!”

His only response was a giggle.

“Hey!”

More giggles.

He never got his fist bumps.

I guess you have to be selective about what you share . . .

Food 'Allergies'

The Bean Man . . . and family.

My Dad always claimed to be allergic to onions.

Whenever he ordered any burger, he always asked them to 'hold the onions'.

We just assumed that he really was allergic to onions.

Later in life, we discovered that his reticence was due, not to allergies, but to aversions.

There's a difference.

But what a scheme!

My kids tried to use it, too.

Our eldest, Mark, became quite expert.

His particular nemesis?

Beans.

Harmless, deep-browned, baked beans.

My personal favourite.

And one of the major ingredients in my award-winning chili.

Something that appeared with amazing regularity on the family dinner table.

Mmmmm.

From his very earliest years, Mark exhibited an unparallelled reluctance to put those nasty, evil beans anywhere near his mouth.

Regardless of how many times they might appear on his table.

Once, when he was just learning to say the blessing on the food, his father tried to trick him into 'bean acceptance'.

“Father in Heaven.” Grant.

“Father in Heaven.” Mark. (But imagine it in a little 20 month-old voice.)

“We thank thee for this food.” Grant.

“We thank thee for this food.” Mark.

“Because it's so yum.” Grant.

“Because it's so not yum.” Mark.

Laughter (Grant).

More laughter (Mom).

Grin (Mark).

And so it went.

For 19 years.

At the age of 19, Mark received a mission call for our church to Boston, Massachusetts.

He excitedly prepared to go.

I took him aside. “Mark, you know what they call Boston, don't you?”

“What?”

“Bean Town.”

His face whitened a little. “Bean Town?”

“Yep. Where do you think the term 'Boston Baked Beans' comes from?”

He had to sit down for that one. “Boston Baked Beans,” he said, faintly.

“Yep. So you'd better get used to eating them, because you will probably be getting them morning, noon and night.”

“Oh.”

He went anyways, brave boy that he was.

And returned two years later.

We met him at the airport.

We had sent our little boy.

We brought back an adult.

The first thing I asked him was how he felt about beans now that he had spent two years in the midst of the world's best bean eaters.

His response?

“I just got served beans for the first time yesterday.”

Even the 'Bean Towners' catered to my son . . .

Mark eats beans today.

Mostly to show his children it can be done.

But he doesn't wage much of a battle.

His oldest daughter, Megan's favourite food is Grandma's chili.

Okay, maybe the acorn skipped a generation, but it still landed near the tree.

My OCD was given to me

Better Meals!

For the first twelve years of my life, 'cleanliness' and I really only had a nodding acquaintance.

I admit it.

Oh, I bathed. Whenever my Mom told me to.

And I cleaned my room/living quarters.

Again when my Mom told me.

Mom was a clean nut.

But the Christmas of my twelfth year, something happened that changed me forever.

And made me realize that I like things to be clean around me.

Really clean.

Let me explain . . .

We had been invited to the home of some good friends for dinner.

It was exciting.

Families with six kids didn't get invited out very often.

For purely logistical reasons.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Moving on . . .

We drove up and were warmly welcomed into the house.

We stepped into the entryway.

And, for the first time in my life, I noticed dirt.

The house was filthy.

I mean filthy.

You couldn't tell what colour the floor tiles were, or even if there were floor tiles. I honestly think some of them were missing, but it was hard to know.

We were led to the kitchen, where the grand feast was being prepared.

I stopped in the doorway.

Frozen.

Or stuck.

It was hard to tell the difference.

Both the counter and the table in the kitchen were generously coated in the reminder of many, many meals. And things had obviously overflowed more than a few times and dripped down the front of the cupboards to pool on the floor.

The stove was unrecognizable.

Even the walls were a hazy sort of conglomerate yellow-grey. The result of the overlapping of hundreds of filthy fingerprints, splashed whatever, and humidity.

Light was dimly provided by several bare, yellowed bulbs.

Perhaps that was a blessing.

One couldn't quite make out exactly what the rubble was, lying heaped in the far corners of the room.

And under the table.

My parents stepped carefully and cheerfully into the room, already deep in conversation with our hosts.

"Is there anything we can help with?" Mom said. This was her usual and inevitable response when entering anyone's home.

Or garden.

Or feed lot.

Huh. Speaking of feed lots. And cleanliness . . .

But I digress . . .

"Oh, no, Enes, we've got things well in hand," was her response.

Well in hand?!

I'll just keep mine in my pockets, thank you very much.

"Diane, come and help us."

Mom had noticed my hesitation.

But had somehow missed the rising green colour.

"Thanks, Mom. But I think I need to go outside for a moment."

I remember her look.

Suspicion with just a slight touch of concern.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm really not feeling very well."

She came over to me.

I remember the sound of her feet, sticking to the floor with every step.

She put a hand on my forehead.

"Hmm. You seem a little warm. Maybe you'd better join the men in the front room."

The mess went on?

I couldn't bear to venture further.

"No, I really think I'd better go outside."

I was beginning to sound more than a bit rushed.

"Do you need the bathroom, honey?" our hostess asked solicitously.

My eyes widened. I could only imagine.

"Um, no. Just some fresh air."

I bolted towards the door.

And I do mean bolted. I hardly noticed my feet sticking to the floor.

Soon, I was outside in the fresh air.

Happily sitting in the nice clean dirt.

With the family dog.

He and I knew a good thing when we found it.

Would You Like Some Butter With That?

Fresh, Tasty, and good for the hands . . .?
Picture credit: omnomicon.com

We had manners in our family.

Bad manners are still manners, aren't they?

Let me restart.

We had good manners in our family.

And some bad dinnertime pranks.

Better.

The evening meal was always special at the Stringam Ranch.

Mom was a terrific cook so the food was always good.

The conversation, with two parents, six kids and assorted hired men would be endless and, if not brilliant, at least entertaining.

The day's ranchwork was done, so the men were happy and relaxed.

And the pranks and hijinks were ongoing.

There were several tricks that ocurred regularly.

But the favourite had to do with the butter.

Butter?

With such a large group at mealtimes, much passing of dishes from hand to hand was expected.

And necessary.

Most of it was done politely. With a nod and a 'thanks'.

The meal proceeded smoothly.

But occassionally, someone would decide to 'liven things up a bit'.

And this usually accompanied the passing of the butter.

Now, the butter at the Stringam table was always freshly churned and delicious.

And went with everything.

So it was passed frequently.

Now, I should point out here that it was good manners to receive a passed dish directly, especially if one had asked to have it passed. Thus, if one requested the butter, one should then take the dish right from the passer's hand.

Common courtesy.

But the trick at the Stringam table was to pass it in just such a manner that the receiver's thumb would get stuck in the butter.

Okay I don't know what that's called.

Common dis-courtesy?

Or just plain funny.

Inevitably, nearly everyone at the table would end up, at one point or another, with their thumb in the butter.

Good thing Mom made everyone scrub up 'doctor style' before meals or we might have gotten more than nutrition served with our food.

But I digress . . .

With 'butter dipping' a common prank, it was inevitable that the receivers would get more and more creative with their receiving.

A nod and a simple gesture to set the butter down on the table was usually the first attempt.

It was inevitably ignored as the passer waited patiently for a more polite method of transferrance.

Finally, the receiver would put out his or her hand, thumb tucked as far out of sight as possible.

It can be done.

It just isn't very comfortable.

Inevitably, no matter how hard the receiver would try to avoid, one digit or another would go in the butter.

And the passer would happily return to their meal, content in the knowledge that they had contributed to the evening's fun-filled mealtime.

While the receiver carefully wiped their fingers on their napkin.

Oh, I forgot to mention – napkins were a necessary part of the every meal.

Moving on . . .

Finally, because the prank became such a common part of the meals, people stopped receiving.

The passer could sit there forever with the butter dish in their hand.

No one would reach out to take it.

In fact, people had been know to simply put out their knife and take a bit of butter while the passer was still holding it.

Unheard of!

But clever.

But one night, my brother forgot the new order of things.

He asked my Dad for the butter and put out his hand to take it.

He did remember to tuck in his thumb.

Dad regarded the outstretched hand for a moment.

No visible thumb.

What to do?

Finally, he simply turned the entire dish over and set it, butter side down, on Jerry's hand.

Mission accomplished.

Dad went back to eating.

Jerry went to wash.

After that, no one went butter-dipping anymore.

Who could top that?