I’m from the Ballard kitchen table . . .
Where using the back door is a sign of intimacy.
Where we knew it was company when someone used the front door, requiring us to holler out an apology for taking so long to open the door that was perpetually locked and stuck tight.
I’m from the Ballard kitchen table . . .
Where grown-ups sip Luzianne coffee
so strong it puts hair on the chest of women
and scares it off the men.
I’m from the Ballard kitchen table . . .
where the women
cry silently throughout the day
and years later
decades later
lifetimes later
their children remember and wonder why.
I’m from the Ballard kitchen table . . .
Where the women have their own heavily lacquered chair
within reach of the refrigerator, the sideboard, and the stove. Chairs
seldom used as the women keep plates filled with nourishment and glasses filled
with sweet tea to wash it down with.
I’m from the Ballard kitchen table . . .
where the men shoot guns
and butcher hogs
while the women swap fabric scraps in brown paper bags
and sew quilts for every family member
and plant, tend, and harvest the summer garden,
cooking fresh vegetables for lunch
and stocking the pantry with canned vegetables for the winter.
I’m from the Ballard kitchen table . . .
where Grandmother refused the gift of a dishwasher,
sending it straightaway to its final resting place in the back of the barn
preferring to spend however long it took to wash, rinse, and dry the considerable number of containers and utensils used at any given meal.
I’m from the Ballard kitchen table . . .
where Granddaddy told his stories over and over and over again
where Grandmother remained silent as though she had none.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I’m from the Hewell table . . .
where the women enjoy dressing nicely, being with men and each other.
where women earn their keep by taking care of the men in their lives.
I’m from the Hewell table . . .
where personal information is kept
tucked safely away behind closed lips
so it can’t be used as a weapon against you.
I’m from the Hewell table . . .
where it’s nobody’s business how old you are
’cause if they know how old you are, they’ll treat you that way.
Just ’cause you can count something, doesn’t mean it counts.
I’m from the Hewell table . . .
where the women hate to bother anybody.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I write at a kitchen table that belonged to both my grandmothers
and to the town library before them.
A table where Granddaddy Hewell patiently fed my
Grandmother one bite at a time after the strokes
left her arms and hands useless.
I write at a kitchen table where the leftovers
were pushed to the center of the table after the meal
and covered with a clean tablecloth, allowing
us to graze our way through the rest of the day
not knowing what was available to eat
until
we lifted the covering and looked underneath.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I’m from women who have staying power.
Resiliency?
I don’t think so. They didn’t bounce back as much as they persevered.
Determination.
Resolve.
Those are words that work.
Resignation.
Perhaps that’s The Word I seek.
I’m from women who just kept putting one foot in front of the other
Motion.
Keep moving.
“You’ll feel better if you move”, they’d say.
along with:
“This, too, shall pass”
or
“It could be worse.”
“Did your life turn out the way you’d imagined it would?” I’d ask them.
If not – and I’d hasten to ask Does it ever? –
Why did they stay?
Why didn’t they change something?
Or did they try?
Did they feel helpless?
Did they buy into the patriarchy-infested religion,
believing that their lot in life was precisely what they’d earned?
What they deserved?
Did they believe that some male figure sat Up There
and decided that they were worth no more or no less
than their current lot in life at any given time?
How did they make themselves believe that everything was okay?
And who am I to say it wasn’t?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
