My New Seating Chart

The story below was among my first blog posts.  With Ruth’s passing, I’ve updated it a bit.  It’s a long read, but worth a second look.

Many people – perhaps most around the world – never have the chance to share a meal at a table with their family.  I’ve been lucky to have four dinner tables in my life.

My first table was with my mom and dad.  My sister Sharron joined us in 1950 and Jackie arrived in 1954.  The table had a Formica top with a leaf that you could add for company.  What I remember most about the experience is we all ate together.  While that wasn’t always possible because of my father’s long work hours, the kids and mom were always together at the table.  Dad was there most of the time.  He made up for lost dinners by making breakfast on the weekends for everyone.

We had an undocumented seating chart.   I sat next to the wall and Sharron sat to my left.   Mom sat directly across from me.  Jackie’s highchair (and eventually regular chair) was to the right of mom’s.  Dad sat at the end between Sharron and Jackie.  My Grandma Tebo joined us for a couple of years after my Grandpa Tebo passed.  The chart was rearranged during those years, but the process of sharing time remained the same.

I don’t remember what we talked about, but I know we talked.  We had a set of finger puppets that Dad often brought out to speak with the girls after we finished eating.  The puppets whistled rather than spoke, but everyone knew what they were saying.  It was a high-pitched through the teeth whistle with great expression. The puppets offered advice, often asked questions, and frequently reminded Sharron to finish her dinner.

I very distinctly remember (and I’m not proud to share this) one conversation that went awry for me.

I had the habit of saying, “tough rocks” to my sister, Sharron, whenever she would complain about anything.  I may have offered the two words even if she wasn’t complaining.  I was the cool older brother, and she needed my words of wisdom.  I was about eleven when I switched up a bit and threw this out to her at the dinner table.

Me:  “Tough titty said the kitty but the milk’s still good.”

Mom:  “Where did you hear that?”

Me: “I don’t know.”   

Mom: “Don’t ever say that again.”

So, I didn’t.

My second shared table was in college.  Gary, Jim and I lived together in apartments for the final two plus years of our college education.  An assortment of guys joined us to complete the foursome and share the rent, but the three of us were the constant amigos.

The summer between our second and third years of college we met to discuss our plan to move out of the dorm and into an apartment.  We decided to kick in $15.00 a week to purchase our food, cleaning supplies, etc.  Jim became our cook, Gary did the dishes, and I cleaned the place.  As chief cook, the shopping duties and meal scheduling fell upon Jim.   We offered our input to the meal schedule, but Jim took on the major duties.

Pot pies and BLTs were on the menu every week.  You could have any flavor of pie you wished, and we always had two each.  We were growing boys.

The BLTs were not your momma’s BLTs.  They were Jim’s.   He felt his mother had scrimped on the bacon when she made BLTs for his family.  The bacon was piled high on Jim’s, and they were deeeeeeelicious.

Our dinner conversations focused on our classes, career choices, current events, upcoming parties and girls.  But mostly parties and girls.

My third table has been shared with Ruth in two distinct phases – with children and without.  While the shape and size of our table has changed throughout the years, its purpose has always remained the same.   It’s the place that we’ve planned for our future, lived in the present and reminisced our past.  We’ve laughed and cried on several occasions.  

Our very first table was ash and an antique when we bought it.   We shared it for forty-four years until we decided to ship it to Flagstaff, Arizona where Sutton and Elizabeth share it today.   We’ve stopped in several times to visit the three of them and look forward to our next visit.  I expect that they are experiencing similar happy and sad times.

Ruth and I are fortunate to have two tables in our lives.  One remains in Michigan where we raised three children.  David had a lone seat at the table for the first two years of his life.  Michael had a lone seat as well, but his was held after David and Elizabeth went off the college where I expect they ate pot pies and BLTs with their new friends. Michael moved on a year later to share similar meals with his roommates.  Elizabeth never had a lone seat but that might be the subconscious reason we shipped that ash table to Arizona.

Another table is housed in Florida where we are experiencing new things with new people.  It’s our refuge to avoid the cold of Michigan’s winter, and more importantly, Michigan’s snow.

No matter where Ruth and I sit today to share our dinner, we always look forward to our children and their families sitting with us.

When David, Elizabeth and Michael were young we always did our best to have dinner together. This table was the busiest. With two working parents, and three kids participating in a variety of school activities, this was sometimes a challenge. We made it work, because it was important. We had a lot of “what if” conversations at our table. Ruth, or I, would throw out a conversation starter like, “What would you do if a stranger approached you at the bus stop?” and the discussion would progress from that point. “What would you do if one of your friends came to school without his lunch?” is another example.  We discussed a vast array of topics with a variety of voice inflections.

The most important thing about these discussions was they were inclusive. Everyone participated. We shared our time and thoughts with each other. We did what we did because we were a family, and this was an important part of being together. We learned with, and from, each other.

Some of our conversations took surprising turns. Not for the kids, but for Ruth and me. I remember after more than one such dinner conversation, we’d retreat to another part of the house and ask, “Do you believe what we just talked about? I wouldn’t talk to my parents about this, even today. Wow!!!”

I still have tables in Michigan and Florida.  They aren’t the same as I had when I originally wrote this tale. Ruth was always on the lookout for something new, even if it was just new to the two of us.  We were in a constant state of revision.  New looks and new feels ruled the day.

My plans are simple.  I’ll maintain the status quo.  I don’t see any new tables in the near future.  I’m still adjusting to sitting alone and relying on memories to keep me company.  The biggest change is the silence.

I celebrate the fact that David, Elizabeth and Michael have tables of their own.  They’ve moved them from place to place, with more moves and seating arrangements on the horizon, but they are theirs with conversations of their own.  I think Ruth and I provided a good model for each to adapt as they see fit.  And that makes me smile.