Family Dinner

The heat of the day gave way to a cool breeze on an August evening. My family was crammed into the modest size house, preparing to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. Children and adults bustled around like bees as we attempted to organize a sit down dinner for ten. The roles that each one of us had were our focus at the moment, yet the finishing product was something we all could share.

Papa, my father's father, sat stiffly in a gliding chair, concentrating deeply on the baseball game being played on television. His work roughened hands were gripping a glass of amber liquid that matched the color of his eyes. The single ice cube did little to lighten the whisky that it was cooling.

Grandma, the one responsible for our birthday celebration, was closely observing my mother's performance in the kitchen. Her silver hair was lined with several black bobby pins, concealed only by the red bandana tied loosely in her hair. Every few moments, she would be distracted by the games of her great grand children. The clucking of her tongue warned the children to be mindful of the breakable items displayed elegantly in the formal dining room.

Meanwhile, Dad was on the wooden porch wearing a wrinkled brow as he concentrated on his task. His military fashioned posture warned everyone else not to interrupt him as he worked out the strategy of placing all the meat evenly on the grill. Glancing back and forth from Dad to Papa, the similarities in them were impossible to ignore. They both styled their ebony colored hair in a meticulous fashion, as both were blessed without the need for hair replacements. Their features shared the no nonsense expressions, yet their dark eyes told the truth. They were always holding in warmth and love.

Mom was preoccupied with the job of smoothing out any upheavals in a chaotic household. She was a flash of lightning as she went about her business. She pretended not to notice the critical eye of her mother-in-law, but her frustration was apparent when she took her occasional swallow of the Margarita wine cooler.

My sister Sadie was a sight on her own. Her expensive perfume wafted into the nostrils surrounding her, and her makeup was an artist's masterpiece. Her stylish outfit refused to wrinkle, even as she hurried up and down halls, trying to keep up with her five year old ball of energy.

My flaxen haired twin nieces, Katie and Marybeth, were busy artists coloring pictures to distribute to family members. Their motivation to finish their creations before sharing a meal with us was intense. Neither would set aside their work when it was time to eat. Their eight year old minds to far too busy occupied on their projects.

Michael, my 5 year old nephew, was a fireball flying around the house. He wanted to be sure that everyone was aware of the importance of "Thomas the Engine." He would pause briefly to admire the baseball players