Put The Kettle ON

“PUT THE KETTLE ON”
My Mother's House
Philadelphia, PA
1962-1998

“I’ll miss the tea the most”, said Deb, my college friend.  We were at my mother’s grave site when Deb made this statement.  “I’ll miss the hours around the kitchen table, just talking and drinking tea.”

And I thought to myself, “So will I.”   While I had never taken these moments for granted, I never really thought about how lucky I was to have the pleasure of just sitting and talking with the good company of my good family.

At any time during the course of the day, my mother would call for the gathering of those who were interested to have a cup of tea with her.  But consistently, we had tea after dinner.  We ate dinner together every night and then we would clear the table and my mother would give the direction to “put the kettle on.”  It was large, maybe it held a gallon of water and the latch was taped with duct tape to make it easier to handle when it was hot.

There were usually lots of us at the table.  In addition to my parents and six siblings, my grandparents shared many, many dinners with us.  And from time to time, one of us would have invited a friend to dinner.  And frequently, the doorbell would ring and a neighborhood or two would meander in to the kitchen, my mother would gesture to those of us on the bench against the wall.  ‘Schooch down” she would say.  And we would scrunch together and make room for our neighbors who joined us at the table.

The water would boil, the kettle would whistle, tea mugs were scattered amongst us, a box of tea bags, spoons, sugar and milk appeared in the middle of the table. And then, one of us would start pouring cup after cup until everyone was served.

And then the stories of the day would begin. Being Irish, we had an unwritten rule, an understanding, that our stories didn’t have to be filled with facts.  There was really no concern for this.  They just had to be entertaining.  The stories had to be filled with great, vivid, humorous details. the truth was secondary, almost of little importance.

Sometimes we spoke individually and demanded everyone’s attention. Other times, multiple stories would be going on as small pockets of audiences had huddled together.

My father attempted to set the tone. “What have you done today to better the world”?  He asked this question every night.  And every night we laughed at him and dismissed him.  Instead we highlighted our days, our thoughts, and our focus.

Kathy spoke with annoyance about those of us who got in trouble at school.  This usually resulted in a reprimand to me from my mother.  Jimmy made fun of his teachers.  And my mother always took exception to this disregard for authority. Sharon told outrageous stories of classmates and their follies.  Christopher was quiet but spoke with pleasure of classmates who pulled one over on their teachers.  This too, resulted in a comment from my mother. Patricia spoke of her friendship.  I kept quiet because too much had already been disclosed about me.  Brian, much younger than the rest of us, struggled to find his voice amongst his loud siblings.

My grandparents spoke of their travels around the world and their lifelong friends.  My father, a lawyer, at the time, handled all of our disagreements as if he were a judge in a courthouse.  We would have to defend our position and present logic to our thinking. And no matter how rational we thought our argument was, we were always told that our adolescent thinking wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. My mother talked about art and her radio talk shows and injustices from her point of view.  She would critique the meal and then talk about tomorrow’s meal. And she would often use this time to present her list of what needed to be done around the house. Our neighbors told us of the happenings in their families. And our dinner guests usually said nothing; they just sat and tried to take it all in: this loud exchange of stories and random thoughts and sarcasm and laughter.

Sometimes, we would sit for an hour or more.  And then slowly, we wandered off, one by one, as obligations of homework called to us.  The last two or three who remained, stayed behind and cleaned up, leaving no trace of the conversations that had just occurred.

2/14/2011