Phoebe tried to break up a cat fight this morning. Being a young dog, she has less experience with cats than the other dogs and she thought, with the eternal optimism of youth, that she could do it. Now, it wasn’t a real fight, not yet, just that vocal preliminary to what might or might not turn into a full fledged cat fight. It was Ole Yeller, a battle scarred veteran, and the upstart Chubby, who probably outweighs his counterpart but doesn’t measure up in experience. When I came in the house, Phoebe was still trying to break up the quarrel and the combatants were hurling insults in a language I probably didn’t want to translate. My advice to her was to leave them to it if she didn’t want to end up the object of the fight herself.
We had a small dog fight in the house the other night. I was the inadvertent cause of it because I stepped on Tess’s tail. A collie tail takes up a lot of floor space. She yelped and I moved my foot and that would have been the end of it had Phoebe not walked by at that exact moment. To Tess, who doesn’t always have a good grasp of cause and effect, it was obvious that whatever happened with her tail must have been Phoebe’s fault and that she must learn not to do whatever it was she did again. Phoebe, of course, had no idea why she was being punished. It wasn’t the first time an innocent bystander bore the brunt of a situation between others and it won’t be the last.
I remember one day at my mom’s house, when one of my puppies was with me in her kitchen and one of her indoor cats apparantly took offense at something she said. She jumped on poor Maggie, who wasted no time fleeing the scene and finding refuge under the bed. But that didn’t end things because the other house cat who was somewhere in another room heard the beginning of the fight and flew into the kitchen where she jumped into the now non-existent fight and proceeded to beat the stuffing out of the cat who must have wondered how she ended up as the victim. Cats are like that. They don’t care who started the fight or why. A fight is a fight and takes on a life of its own. When I was growing up, I witnessed this phenomenon many times. Two cats in the backyard would come to blows over some perceived insult and cats would come from all over the farm to rumble. Never mind that only the original pair knew how it started and what it was about. Nothing can move as fast as a cat who hears a fight starting, and it didn’t matter where they were or what they were doing – it was mandatory that they participate. It was just amazing how fast the yard could fill up with angry cats.
I always wondered what they all thought when the fight was over and I wondered how they decided the winner. There never seemed to be hard feelings; everyone just walked away to lick their ruffled fur and take a nap. Too bad human fights don’t end as easily.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Around the Table
I saw part of an interview with Michelle Obama this week and my attention was caught by her explanation of their dinner table tradition of “roses and thorns.” Family members at the table sahare the best (rose) and worst (thorn) thing that happened to them that day. What a great idea for families. But maybe the better idea is the simple act of having a meal together around a table, a tradition I suspect is pretty rare today.
I grew up in a multi-generational household. My grandparents, parents, uncle and I lived under one roof of a big rambling farmhouse and every meal took place around a big oval table in a real dining room. We didn’t have anything as formal as a “roses and thorns” tradition, but we did have a tradition of conversation and discussion of everything from farm prices to what happened at school that day or the latest gossip from town. That’s where I learned, not so much which fork to use or how to correctly fold a napkin, but how to carry on a conversation. I probably learned how to argue a point there too, although I don’t remember much arguing going on.
Extended family was sometimes a part of that dinner table. When I was very young, great uncles, aunts, and cousins from West Memphis came every year for a week or so to visit. These were happy occasions, for the most part. (I do have one vivid memory of hiding under the bed once because I didn’t want to deal with a particularly unlikable great aunt!) But even the less beloved visitors probably taught me valuable lessons about being polite in mixed company. My great aunts and cousins from Nashville visited us pretty regularly, and my great grandmother Fannie Tate Colley was a frequent addition to the dinner table as long as she was alive. Those visits were a source of much merriment; laughter and good conversation was a family trait of the Colleys, and it was no wonder that one of those family members made her mark as country music’s great comedian, Minnie Pearl. To those of us around that table, she was just Ophelia and just as funny in that role as her alter ego. She was just one more talented storyteller in the midst of whole collection of storytellers.
And then there was the food. Hot biscuits and homemade butter every night. Fried chicken, roast beef, pork chops, vegetables from the garden, and desserts with a bowl of whipped cream to put on top. Milk fresh from the cow or sweet tea with lemon. Hog killing time provided tenderloin and fresh sausage and winter brought Granddaddy’s country ham baked by his own special method. We had a feast at every meal, and the only difference in “company dinner” was the quantity of the food and the number of leafs in the table.
Another great memory I have of the dinner table was silo filling time. The tradition on Lower Shipps Bend Road was for all the neighbors to get together to fill the trench silos that everyone had as part of their farm. The silage was cut, usually in August or early September, hauled to the silo where it was dumped inside, packed tightly and covered to ferment until it was needed to feed the livestock in the winter. The neighbors moved from farm to farm until every silo was full and dinner (which was the noon meal in the country) was the only pay anyone received. Hosting the silo filling was an event even bigger than Thanksgiving. The table groaned with platters of fried chicken and roast beef, green beans, mashed potatoes, potato salad, corn, peas, squash, okra, skillets of cornbread and a variety of pies to finish off the meal. I was always anxious about the date for the silo filling at our house because sometimes it came late enough that school interfered with my participation in the event. In good years, I was still at home and was able to partake of the bounty. On other years, I could depend on my mother and grandmother to save me my favorite piece of the chicken and at least a slice or two of chocolate pie.
Living alone, of course my mealtimes are very different now. But one of my favorite things to do is still to have dinner with a big group of friends around a table filled with conversation and lots of laughter. A big part of the fun of traveling to horse shows is sharing a meal after the show with my fellow horse people. Even lunch during the work week sometimes turns into a mini party as friends join us at the “big table” at Breeces or the Farmhouse. Breaking bread together is more than eating at the same table – it’s a fellowship. I can’t help but wonder about the generation of people who grow up without the memories of those times around the dinner table with family and friends. Somehow I just don’t think it will feel the same to look back on solitary meals in front of the television or in the back seat of the car or in front of the computer screen. I cannot remember any specific piece of knowledge I learned around that big table of my childhood, but somehow I know I learned a lot. And I’m glad I have those memories.
I grew up in a multi-generational household. My grandparents, parents, uncle and I lived under one roof of a big rambling farmhouse and every meal took place around a big oval table in a real dining room. We didn’t have anything as formal as a “roses and thorns” tradition, but we did have a tradition of conversation and discussion of everything from farm prices to what happened at school that day or the latest gossip from town. That’s where I learned, not so much which fork to use or how to correctly fold a napkin, but how to carry on a conversation. I probably learned how to argue a point there too, although I don’t remember much arguing going on.
Extended family was sometimes a part of that dinner table. When I was very young, great uncles, aunts, and cousins from West Memphis came every year for a week or so to visit. These were happy occasions, for the most part. (I do have one vivid memory of hiding under the bed once because I didn’t want to deal with a particularly unlikable great aunt!) But even the less beloved visitors probably taught me valuable lessons about being polite in mixed company. My great aunts and cousins from Nashville visited us pretty regularly, and my great grandmother Fannie Tate Colley was a frequent addition to the dinner table as long as she was alive. Those visits were a source of much merriment; laughter and good conversation was a family trait of the Colleys, and it was no wonder that one of those family members made her mark as country music’s great comedian, Minnie Pearl. To those of us around that table, she was just Ophelia and just as funny in that role as her alter ego. She was just one more talented storyteller in the midst of whole collection of storytellers.
And then there was the food. Hot biscuits and homemade butter every night. Fried chicken, roast beef, pork chops, vegetables from the garden, and desserts with a bowl of whipped cream to put on top. Milk fresh from the cow or sweet tea with lemon. Hog killing time provided tenderloin and fresh sausage and winter brought Granddaddy’s country ham baked by his own special method. We had a feast at every meal, and the only difference in “company dinner” was the quantity of the food and the number of leafs in the table.
Another great memory I have of the dinner table was silo filling time. The tradition on Lower Shipps Bend Road was for all the neighbors to get together to fill the trench silos that everyone had as part of their farm. The silage was cut, usually in August or early September, hauled to the silo where it was dumped inside, packed tightly and covered to ferment until it was needed to feed the livestock in the winter. The neighbors moved from farm to farm until every silo was full and dinner (which was the noon meal in the country) was the only pay anyone received. Hosting the silo filling was an event even bigger than Thanksgiving. The table groaned with platters of fried chicken and roast beef, green beans, mashed potatoes, potato salad, corn, peas, squash, okra, skillets of cornbread and a variety of pies to finish off the meal. I was always anxious about the date for the silo filling at our house because sometimes it came late enough that school interfered with my participation in the event. In good years, I was still at home and was able to partake of the bounty. On other years, I could depend on my mother and grandmother to save me my favorite piece of the chicken and at least a slice or two of chocolate pie.
Living alone, of course my mealtimes are very different now. But one of my favorite things to do is still to have dinner with a big group of friends around a table filled with conversation and lots of laughter. A big part of the fun of traveling to horse shows is sharing a meal after the show with my fellow horse people. Even lunch during the work week sometimes turns into a mini party as friends join us at the “big table” at Breeces or the Farmhouse. Breaking bread together is more than eating at the same table – it’s a fellowship. I can’t help but wonder about the generation of people who grow up without the memories of those times around the dinner table with family and friends. Somehow I just don’t think it will feel the same to look back on solitary meals in front of the television or in the back seat of the car or in front of the computer screen. I cannot remember any specific piece of knowledge I learned around that big table of my childhood, but somehow I know I learned a lot. And I’m glad I have those memories.
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