Some of the best things that go through my stupid old head come from breakfast and dinner conversations that take place around the family table during family meals. I get ideas for topics, scenes, jokes, and notions for use in my fiction writing or in my nonfiction blog by chewing the mental fat with my kids. My daughter likes to talk about artwork, how to paint, how to compose a picture, and how to put it into the form of a picture book for children that she intends to write about mushrooms growing under the kid’s bed when the kid puts off the cleaning under the bed for too long.
This morning they made the mistake of asking me about my connections to literary nudists on Twitter. I added details about the first nudists I ever met in Austin, Texas in the 1980s. I told them about visiting an old girl friend in the Clothing-optional Apartments in Austin where she often stayed with her sister and her sister’s husband who lived there. I told them about how, being a visitor, I was given the option of being there with all my clothes on. I told them about making friends with nudists there that I stayed in contact with by mail. And this was an opportunity to talk about such things without totally mortifying them like I did the last time I talked about that particular subject at a Mexican restaurant where people we didn’t know could hear.
My number two son, the jailor for Dallas County, gets the chance to tell us his stories about being in jail (being a guard of course, not an inmate.) When his mother is not present he gets to share some of the profoundly blue-colored vocabulary he is learning from work at his new institution for the incarceration of serious criminals and mentally ill people. We get to discuss guns and gun culture, as long as we are careful to never criticize my son’s newfound conservative values, deeply held and violently defended in the manner of most conservatives.
And, of course, the dog is always there to look at the table with beg-eyes, because she can smell the meat that was cooked and usually consumed before she’s allowed to get near enough to snoop and see the tabletop. She has to settle for head scratching, tummy pats, and and smacks on the ear when she tries to jump into laps where she is not actually wanted.
Table talk is critical time for connecting with family, something that is far too rare in today’s world. And we make a conscious effort to keep it going because we are awake to its basic value.
Table Scraps
While the family dog was watching me intently as I was cooking the breakfast sausages, she decided to strike up a conversation with me.
“You know, beloved father and giver of people food, a lot of other dogs tell me that they get table scraps at meal time.”
“That’s a self-serving comment. And when do you ever talk to other dogs? You’re a house dog that stays inside all the time.”
“I listen to news on the nightly howl, and it’s been a fool moon lately.”
“You mean full moon, not fool moon.”
“That’s not what other dogs call it. It makes their people act like fools.”
“It doesn’t take a phase of the moon to make that happen.”
“So, you will give me table scraps more often?”
“Dogs who eat table scraps get fat and unhealthy and die of heart attacks.”
“Sausages would be worth it.”
“You get enough fat and cholesterol in your diet from eating the burglars that come into the house at night.”
“No burglars came in last night, or any other night that I can remember.”
“Well, that’s probably because in Texas, we elect our burglars to office, especially in the Senate.”
“Euw! I could never eat Cruz or Cornyn. I don’t like the taste of oil mixed with hairspray and arthritis cream. But I could eat Trump, probably. Of all the politicians, he’s probably the only one that looks like he’s made of cheddar cheese.”
“You’d never survive the fat content in the head. Instant myocardial infarction. “
“Well, I don’t know what those last two words mean, but I’ll bet I could survive it. So, when are you gonna start substitute teaching? You get rushed when you have stuff like that to do, and you drop more food on the floor.”
“Well, the school districts are in no hurry to hire me. They seem to have enough subs for the start of this semester, so I have to wait for them to schedule another sub orientation. We could be facing some tough economic times.”
“Oh, that’s not good. No money for even dog food?”
“If things get really bad, we may have to eat table scraps from the floor. And when those are gone, we might even have to eat the family dog.”
“What?! Even if she’s a talking dog and a valuable member of the family?”
“Dogs get eaten before the children do.”
“Oh, I get it. That’s supposed to be black humor. Not funny!”
“It got you to stop thinking about table scraps while I finished cooking the sausages.”
“We’ll see who gets what. I can still give the Princess the beg-eye and make her pity me enough to give me some.”
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Filed under autobiography, commentary, family dog, humor, Paffooney, politics, self pity