Monday Memories

Grandma's farm
Did I ever tell you about Sunday night suppers?
Thirty years ago, my children thought eating sandwiches and potato chips for Sunday night supper on trays in the living room was just about the most exciting treat ever! That’s because we didn’t do it very often. Our only TV was in the living room, so they probably watched a Disney show. I was pretty strict about eating together as a family, and even for breakfast, the table was set. By 1976 the lime green shag living room carpet (we didn’t have a family room until 1982) was about four years old, so we probably didn’t do it at all when it was new (and they would have been too small to manage a tray much before that).

When I was a child in the 1950s, Sunday night suppers were special, too. Oh, Mom made wonderful dinners--my mouth waters as I think of it. She’d put the roast in before we went to church or she fixed fried chicken when she got home. The table in the dining room in our house on Hannah Avenue or in our Forreston home would be set with the white linen table cloth and the good white china with a gold rim. Dad would always say the prayer--and I would know the ending if I heard it today, but I‘ve forgotten it now. I’m sure there were mashed potatoes and gravy and vegetables and fruit from the cellar where she kept the home canned items in gleaming glass jars. Even though at the time I didn’t think the clean up and dishes were so great (no one had dishwashers then and she had 3 daughters), I remember that fondly now as a time to chat with Mom.

As good as dinner was at noon, Sunday night with various relatives stopping by was especially nice. Can’t even remember now what we had--maybe sandwiches or left-overs, perhaps a second helping of her fabulous apple pie. But it was casual and relaxed. And occasionally Daddy would disappear and come back with 2 pints of ice cream (we had a refrigerator, but no freezer). We children would just die of excitement and try to guess the flavor until he would get back. Mom would slice the two pints into six even portions and put them into cereal bowls. You wanted it to last as long as possible, but Dad ate quickly and would look in our bowls with his spoon poised and tease, “Do you need any help finishing that?”

Also, I know my Grandmother Mary was without electricity for only a short time after WWII at her farm in Franklin Grove, but I remember Sunday evening suppers in the 1940s of sandwiches on trays by kerosene lamp. Grandma wasn’t much of a cook, but I thought her baloney sandwiches spread thick with butter (we had neither at our house) were a fabulous treat. After a supper of sandwiches, her homemade grape juice from her backyard arbor, and factory canned peaches in dainty little glass dishes, we’d load up the car and start down the gravel lane for home. I’d press my nose against the car window and watch Grandma waving good-bye from the porch silhouetted against the flickering kerosene light in the kitchen.

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