Bringing Dad Dinner
She remembered walking with her
brother. She held the lunch pail in one hand and her brother’s hand in the
other. She was trying to remember her mother. Had she been at home, did she
make the lunch? Or was she at work herself? But, if she was at work, wouldn’t
they be bringing her a lunch as well?
These questions fade as her mind
wanders along the streets heading toward the mill. It was quiet. Most people
were home at dinner. Ah, now she remembered; her father worked second shift and
the meal she carried was supper, still hot from the stove, in a metal pail
covered with a thin towel. A meat pie and some potatoes, probably some peas,
bread with butter. Her mother made delicious bread and the smell returned to
her just then. The house often smelled of baking bread. She became quiet
relishing in that smell for a while, before returning to her story.
Albert never liked brining dinner
to their father, there were other things he wanted to do, but she was too young
to go alone so her big brother was sent as well. Probably, he would have
preferred, if he had to do the chore, to do it alone, faster, without his
dawdling little sister slowing him down. She enjoyed the walks and tried to
make them last. In the spring and summer their were blue cone flowers growing
along the edge of the sidewalk, or Queen Anne’s lace which looked like the
doilies her mother made, crisp and white. Perhaps, on her way home, her brother
might let her stop to pick a few, but she knew they had to make it on time to
meet Dad for his meal break so he would have enough time to eat.
She tried to remember if her
brother carried a drink to go with the meal. She has no memory of drink, just
that warm pail with meatloaf or meat pie or a bit of roast. And the bread, of
course, always the warm bread, the butter already melted into it.
There was a courtyard, she
remembered going through a gate. Their father knew where to meet them and they
went straight to that spot. The men were just now filing out of the mill for
their meal and some fresh air. A few men, she knew, would walk over to the pub
to get some food and a beer. She had heard her mother talking about that with a
neighbor, something about who went in and who had better not. She smiled, and
paused again in the story.
Their father sat on a low brick
wall and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. His face was red and his hair wet
with sweat. He pulled the towel off the top of the pail and inhaled deeply. He
spread the towel on his lap and began taking things out of the pail, biting
into each before placing it on his lap. Mother would have put some gravy in a
bowl and she must have put in a small plate and a fork and knife. She just
remembered the food, the smell of it, the pride when she said she had stirred
the gravy or kneaded the bread dough. The extra delight he showed when tasting
the food she described. He ate quickly, talking little. Albert would tell him
about school and the trouble their oldest brother was getting into. Dad would
either frown or chuckle, depending on his mood and the type of trouble. “And
how about you?” He would always ask, after Albert had finished. She tried to
tell him only things that would make him smile: how she helped mother with the
laundry, or finished her homework right after school. And he did smile, almost
always.
Some days, he seemed too tired to
smile, or distracted. She couldn’t remember a pattern but now, these many years
later, she wonders if his distraction came around bill paying days, or rumors
at the mill. He had been through some difficult times, she knew. Very difficult
times. Mother had told her how they never expected her to survive, the youngest
of the brood. They had very little and were doing their best to feed the children
in front of them rather than the child yet unborn, unknown. She was so small
when she was born that her father could
hold her in his one hand. They fitted the bottom drawer of mother’s dresser
with blankets and made that her bed so she could sleep near them. They had
already lost the twins, and did not want to lose her too, but what was there to
do but prepare themselves and love her while they could.
She surprised them all by reaching
her first birthday, and look at her now, outlived all of them.
But now, the work was steady, they
had enough to eat and a good place to live. They all went to school and had the
books they needed and good clothes to wear. Dad even brought home ice cream on
payday, waking them all up when his shift was over, since it wouldn’t last in
the icebox. They went out to the lake sometimes. Still, there were days that
distracted him and he ate without hearing the prattling of either child.
Albert, older brother that he was, would quickly see his father’s mood and
quiet himself, but she was just a little girl and she was sure she went on in
oblivion and probably added to his distress.
When he finished eating, he would
carefully put everything back into the pail, arranging whatever dishes there
were so that they would not break. “Tell your mother that was delicious. Thank
you.” And then he would kiss her and pat Albert on the shoulder and turn to get
back to work. She remembers walking by several men still at their meals or
smoking or laughing with one another. She remembers urging them in her head to
get back to work, worried they would be late. It never occurred to her that her
father was the odd one, going back in early. She thinks she remembers him
talking about working on a few problems, taking the time to come up with better
ways to do things, or of repairing a piece of machinery. He and her oldest
brother Clifford would talk about machinery on the weekends when they worked on
the car together. It occurs to her now that her father must have been more like
Cliff than she knew. Perhaps he took part of his dinner break to fiddle with
some machines the way Clifford always did at home. It didn’t occur to her to
wonder about any of this as a child. She had no picture of her father at work;
he ceased to be real until she saw him again in the morning.
On the walks home, Albert let her
fall behind. She knew the way and wouldn’t get lost, despite what their mother
feared. She had time to pet a cat or pick a flower or make a pass through a
hopscotch course. If she lingered too long with a friend, Albert would be back
to fetch her to avoid getting into trouble, but then again, he might linger
himself. He had a lot of friends in the neighborhood.
She loved bringing her father his
meals, but she’s quite sure she didn’t do it every night. She wondered for a
minute what he ate when she didn’t make that walk. She smiled and I wondered if
she was remembering those men who’d better not be at the pub.
Now, more than seventy years later,
she still couldn’t make that walk herself; nor was Albert around to walk with
her. She might be able to do it if she could hold on to my arm. But, she’s not
sure she would know the way. I assured her, that once she was there, she would
know. So much is still the same.
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