In the twelfth grade at Moncton High School our wonderful English teacher introduced us to the poetry of Robert Frost. We were the better for it, and for having been her pupils. It seems everyone knows at least one line of a Robert Frost poem and will recite it if suitably inspired or properly provoked. “Good fences make good neighbors” is one such line from Mending Wall, and is often quoted as unquestioned truth even though the rest of the poem challenges the validity of the notion. (Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it where there are cows? But here there are no cows.) Then there’s The Death of the Hired Man, a dialogue poem in which the speakers, a husband and wife, discuss the nature of family. The husband famously declares:
“Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.”
That’s the verse we love to quote, but we forget the wife’s reply:
“I should have called it
Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”
He speaks of ‘home’ in terms of obligation while she knows it’s a matter of grace; “something you somehow haven’t to deserve.” That’s how I’ve come to see things. Not long ago it dawned on me that I’m grateful for the way life has unfolded. I wish I could make up for the suffering I’ve caused over the years, but other than that, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Most happy memories of my childhood revolve around the kitchen. I’ve just read Cooked, the new book by Michael Pollan. He writes of how cooking “implicates us in a whole web of social and ecological relationships: with plants and animals, with the soil, with farmers, with the microbes both inside and outside our bodies, and, of course, with the people our cooking nourishes and delights.” (Michael Pollan, Cooked, New York, 2013, p.18) The book helped me see how fortunate we were that cooking played such an important role in the life of our family.
My favorite meals are my sister’s boiled dinner and anything my brother cooks outdoors on the grill. My father enjoyed cooking, especially after he retired. He would prepare from scratch a big pot of savory stew or soup which he always called ‘fricot.’ Dad knew only a few French words and ‘fricot’ was one of them, so he used it with aplomb. Not surprisingly, my mother did most of the heavy lifting in the culinary department, and she excelled at it just as she did at so many things. Her roast chicken dinners were the stuff of legend and her dressing, the best ever. Her cold slaw was a perennial favorite. She got the recipe from Daisy at the Blue Circle Restaurant on Main Street. She even learned to make her own versions of the ‘sweet and sour chicken’ and ‘garlic spareribs’ she served customers when she worked at The Golden Dragon Restaurant, also on Main. If you recall either of those fine Moncton establishments you’re old enough to remember when phones were for talking with people and worked. But I digress.
The kitchen also was where music was played and where we gathered for parties. The living room held more people, but we always gravitated to the kitchen. Both my brother and sister played the guitar. Sometimes there might be fiddle music or an accordion in the mix depending on which relatives showed up. Dad did not play a musical instrument but was an avid listener, and if we didn’t know the words to the Wilf Carter song he’d request (The Smoke Went up the Chimney Just the Same), anything by Hank Williams would do. When my mother played the guitar and sang I thought she sounded exactly like Miss Kitty Wells, but of course I was biased, and six.
When I was writing Family Reunion I discussed it with my mother whose suggestions are reflected in the finished product. I once heard my friend Kimberly sing this song so beautifully that I changed the lyrics to keep the alteration she made; which is how I got an Uncle Norman. Anyways…
FAMILY REUNION
The highway still follows the river below
It winds through the valley where apple trees grow
And though no one’s with me I don’t feel alone
‘Cause I know that I’m headed for home
I drive by the school yard where children still play
I pass by the church house where pilgrims still pray
I smile and I’m grateful that some things don’t change
As I turn down the old road for home
At a family reunion it’s so good to be
With brothers and sisters I’m happy to see
And all of these cousins I’m so glad to find
And blest be the old ties that bind
There’s Uncle Norman, he’s talking to Dad
Whose hard work provided all that we had
And there in the doorway with tears in her eyes
Is my mother, I knew I’d surprise
She runs out to greet me with arms open wide
I’m filled with emotions I don’t try to hide
It’s so good to be where my thoughts often roam
Like the song says, there’s no place like home
At a family reunion it’s so good to be
With brothers and sisters I’m happy to see
And all of these cousins I’m so glad to find
And blest be the old ties that bind
(Repeat)
Blest be the ties that bind.
© 1994 Dale Petley (Petitcodiac)
