Swanson’s new TV dinners had nothing on my mom. Not owning a television, we didn’t peel back the foil to eat a pre-made Salisbury steak in front of “I Love Lucy.” And though we were jealous of kids who did, we had something better—reading suppers.
On evenings my dad was out of town, we’d troop to the table, the seven of us, with a picture book or a Hardy Boys mystery or The Diary of a Young Girl. And after saying grace for the mashed potatoes and meat gravy, we’d fall into a silence that was usually broken only by the turning of pages and the scraping of forks.
Occasionally, one of the little kids would chuckle over The Cat in the Hat. Or someone would look up from the latest Guinness World Records to ask if we all wanted to see a picture of the tallest man in the world. Sometimes we’d hear someone chuckle or sigh or say, “Please pass the potatoes,” but these interruptions were usually ignored and certainly not applauded.
My mom would glance up from her book now and then. And as she trailed her eyes around the table, she’d look downright pleased with herself. As a child, I thought she was delighting in our literary gain.
But years later on a cranky summer evening when my own kids had nothing nice to say, I got an idea.
“Guess what!” I said to my kids, and I sent them for books.
As pages turned and bickering stopped, I understood that long-ago smugness on my mother’s face.
But my mother gave me more than a tool for grumpy kids. She also showed me how to compound joys. So since I’ve retired, I bring two things to my daily lunch—a sandwich and a book.
“Eating and reading,” C.S. Lewis said, “are two pleasures that combine admirably.”
Apple to Apple 