March/April 2025 (Volume 17, Issue 2)

 

By Arvid Huisman

 

One of my favorite old country songs is “Suppertime.” The lyrics made famous by Gov. Jimmie Davis recall the days of childhood when a boy heard his mother call him home for supper. “Come home, come home,” the song says, “it’s suppertime.”

 

Whenever I hear that song my thoughts are taken back to my own boyhood days when our family of eight gathered around a fully-extended kitchen table for supper.

 

As the oldest of six children (four boys and two girls, in that order) I sometimes longed for a quieter, less hectic dining atmosphere. Still, those family supper times are precious memories.

 

 

Mom had supper nearly prepared by the time Dad got home from the feed mill. After removing the day’s layer of grain and feed dust, he took his seat at the head of the table. Within a minute or so, the rest of us fell into our assigned places. Dad didn’t like waiting for supper.

 

Our assigned seats were not the result of an overly structured household. Rather, it was our parents’ way of separating the siblings most likely to cause physical or emotional harm to each other.

 

Eight heads automatically bowed and from the youngest to the oldest we recited our table graces in sing-song fashion, followed by Dad’s more extemporaneous blessing.

 

The reverence was short lived. As soon as the final “amen” left our lips, the noise level increased and it was suppertime. Table conversation was as abundant as the delicious home cooking.

 

“Dad, Paul had his eyes open while we prayed.”

 

“You must have had your eyes open to notice.”

 

“Well, just to check on him.”

 

“Don’t worry about Paul. Just take care of yourself.”

 

“Dad, Arvid got in trouble on the school bus today.”

 

“It wasn’t my fault …”

 

“If you get in trouble in school you know there will be more trouble waiting at home.”

 

“Mom, David kicked me.”

 

“David Lee, keep your feet to home. And wipe that grin off your face.”

 

“Mom, David made a face at me.”

 

“David, leave Shirley alone!”

 

“Pee-yoo, I smell a dirty diaper.”

 

“That’s enough, Gerald …”

 

“But it stinks!”

 

“I’ll take care of it.”

 

“Mom, Trudy put a bean in her nose.”

 

“Trudy Ann, you know better than that. What if that got stuck in there?”

 

“David kicked me again.”

 

“This is your last warning, young man!”

 

“Dad, David got yelled at by his teacher today.”

 

“Liar, liar, pants on fire …”

 

“That’s enough! Now just shut up and eat.”

 

“But I can’t eat with my mouth shut …”

 

“Don’t be a smart aleck. You know what I mean.”

 

“What’s for dessert, Mom?”

 

“Apple sauce.”

 

“Apple sauce? That’s all we ever get for dessert.”

 

“When you’re old enough to buy your own groceries you can have whatever you want for dessert. Until then, you can either eat what’s on the table or go hungry.” (None of us ever left the table hungry.) Soon our plates were empty and our stomachs full. 

 

Before we were free to leave the table, Dad read a chapter from the well-worn family Bible. Though I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I would dearly love to hear my father read from the Bible one more time.

 

Then the noise began again. Frankly, I don’t remember the noise level tapering off much until all of us kids were in bed. Even then a sibling spat could erupt at the drop of … well, anything.

 

Until I left home and was on my own I didn’t realize how much work it took for our parents to feed their brood. And I still don’t understand how they put up with all the clamor.

 

Sometimes I think it would be fun to revisit those hectic times, even if just for a few minutes. But those things that we take for granted at the time slip through our fingers never to return except in the theater of our memory.

 

“Come home, come home, it’s suppertime. The shadows lengthen fast …”

 

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