Moms Leftovers

Moms Leftovers

"SUPPER!" Echoed off the neighbours houses. "SUPPERTIME BOYS!" was the invite my Mom would rattle the windows with. She would stand at the open door and collect her brood of four boys from across the neighbourhood with this echoing invitation.
Mom stood all of (with thick socks) five feet tall. The mother of four noisy, rambunctious males with as much as a twelve year age difference. Because of this, she was a woman of mixed emotions. Proud and happy on graduation day, and 'Oh my gosh here we go again', on registration day for grade one all in the same year. Potty training and dating advice had to be administered at the same time, being careful not to mix them up. Nothing worse than telling a girl you like her and then dropping your pants and running to the toilet. On the bright side you did get a sticker either way.
Every family on our block pretty much had the same form of letting the kids know it was supper. Some loud noise from an open window or door, banging a pot, ringing a bell or just hollering the fact it was time to get in. Time to come home and sit down as a family together sharing a meal. Supper, 'Old School' style.
Now we were not your Norman Rockwell kind of perfect family all gathered around the table. Not even our table with three metal legs and a short wooden one with the folded cardboard under it was what we'd say an inviting scene. All four boys, two on stools, one in chair and one in a high chair with a big age difference all sat at the same height. With Dad on the end of the table and Mom in the middle, close to the stove, this completed our Rockwell moment.
Prayer was offered up before every meal in our home. Dad did the Monday to Saturday meal prayer and Mom, who seemed to store up a weeks full of thanksgiving laid bare her heart on Sunday evening. I think she could of won, if ever a prize was given, the longest blessing over dinner that ever was said. If I believed my brothers would have kept their eyes closed I could of gotten up, gone to the bathroom, gone outside rode my bike around and still made it back in plenty of time for the 'Amen'. But brothers are always looking for a chance to get the other in trouble. Direct Mom and Dads pent up anger away from ones self by finking on a sibling.
After thanks was given for our daily meal, Mom, whose hands had just been blessed (...'and bless the hands that prepared dinner'. Didn't Dad know who had made dinner?) forked out the food. It was a ravenous affair. She would stand on her chair and stab a meat-by-product of some form or other from off of the platter, and to the best of her ability with the fork and wrist motion, propel it to the desired recipient. Loud accusations of a brother receiving a larger piece than the one you got ensued. Knives and forks of different patterns attacked the steaming flesh. This allowed a more civilized delivery of potatoes and veggies. Me,...I really didn't care if I got veggies at all. I had been snacking on the lead paint chips from off the window sill for a good part of the afternoon anyway.
Dinner, or the food part of our dinner was mostly complete by the time Mom started hers. If any extra food was available, it was given to the first finished. This resulted in a very hurried intake of the evening meal.
We all had to wait for dessert while Mom finished her meal. This was a period of time where some families tell of their day. We would try and tell things on the other brothers so to get them in trouble. Guess what Ian did. Guess what Dale did. Guess what Trevor did. To this, my parents never did guess what ....?...did, they were enlightened immediately before a chance was given. The only way a brother could escape from the truth being told was to hand over his allowance for a required amount of time equivalent to the sin committed. Every meal was like third party confessional.
Mom now finished dinner, dessert could be served. This was always something Mom would bake. And she was the Queen of substitutions. If a recipe called for butter and she didn't have any....no problem. Oil, margarine, lard, any petroleum by-product would do. She could make the same dessert every night and with a different substitution it was totally different every time. She would substitute substitutes. Apple pie made from Ritz Crackers was substituted with bread and Saltines. But no matter what was served we always had enough money to put a scoop of ice-cream on it. My Dad figured he could eat dirt if it had ice-cream on it. Mom would probably substituted the dirt for chocolate pudding.
Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, and Birthdays were all celebrated by Mom putting on a special meal. Turkey, Ham or whatever the Birthday Boy wanted was provided for supper, with a scoop of ice-cream on something at the end.
Most people, myself included, remember their mom for that. The special times. But I also remember, now, the week to week grind of feeding a family of six on a small budget. Trying to make the most from nothing proved to be the harder meals, and they were prepared much more often. We never had the luxury of eating out, Mom cooked everyday, stretching what little we had.
A chicken dinner was always followed by soup for two days. Turkey and soup took a week and a half. All accompanied with fresh biscuits or buns. A tough old pot roast on Monday would be Tuesdays some sort of tender beef hash, with a killer gravy. Meal after meal all expertly done. But did we appreciate it? No! We'd complain if there was mashed potatoes instead of fried, and fried instead of mashed. The only vegetable we wanted was corn, anything else was met with disappointment.
And then after the complaining was done, and a brother thrown under the bus, we'd pushed ourselves away from the table with not as much as a thank-you and we're out the door. Half a day of preparation, a week of planning and five minutes of devouring was a Monday night meal. Six days till she gets to say how she feels in the envelope of saying thanks for all she has over dinner
It's not that she waited till Sunday night dinner to pray, she prayed everyday and it seemed continually. Always going about her house work humming or softly singing a hymn. Reading her Bible was how, and still is, how she starts her day ( now, she just cramming for finals). I don't think she's even ever said anything bad, or gossiped about anyone. She has accepted what she has and longs for no more. Content, and always has been, even with birth.
Mom had wanted girls. God gave her four boys. So she substituted the girls with boys. She wanted sweetness and charm in her recipe but went with loud and uncaring. Not what the original recipe called for but she'd make it work.
Four boys, four tough pot roasts thinking they had all the answers, as pot roasts do. But given time and a Sunday night prayer over us daily what was left of the original pot roast combined with her special style of biscuits, buns and gravy we became better than what was originally planned.
I can say that this once tough old roast is here today because of her. I'm now a tender grandpa of four because of her prayers. I'm still not beyond my best sell by date, and if given the choice I still would rather have corn. And when my end comes I want to go out with a scoop of ice-cream on my coffin. If I'm going to eat dirt I want ice-cream on it!

Bob Niles


bobby did this