Because some memories just don't fade 1.

For most families the dinner table is place where they gather, feast, and enjoy. But for my late Grandfather, the dinner table was a place to do all of these things and more. It was a space where nobody could walk way and everyone could hear him.

One Thanksgiving, I distinctly remember watching my mother and the other adults in the dining room from the “kids” table. Although my cousins and I were in middle school, the table was inevitably set with the same plastic, red and white checkered table-cloth it had been every holiday. The paper plates and napkins had cartoons that were supposed to coordinate with the festivity. But while we all had turkey plates and matching pilgrim napkins, a few of us were still forced to drink from santa cups. We were silent and watched as the adults dined with my Great Grandmother’s china and placed elegantly embroidered cloth napkins on their laps. My Aunt D sat beside my Grandfather and described the renovations she and my uncle were busy with.

“Just last week we were able to paint the living room and the dining room. By next year we should be completely finished. And then we’ll be able to have family gatherings at our house!” she squeaked.

“Ginger, you’re taking three slices of turkey and a leg. Leave some for the rest of us would you?” Grandfather snapped from the end of the table. My mom stuck a fork in her biggest slice and slid it back onto the serving platter. She passed the platter to my Uncle pretending to ignore everyone quietly watching her.

“But it’s not just the inside we’re re-doing.” my Aunt said as she spooned a lump of mashed potatoes onto her plate. She sat perfectly straight, wiggled in her chair as if to make sure she was perfectly settled and proclaimed, “We're putting a pond in the backyard as well."

“Now what in the hell do you need two dinner rolls for Ginger?” Grandfather interjected leaning over the table in his chair, eyeing mother’s plate. This time my mother kept the two rolls on her plate and sank back into her chair while my Aunt D continued to explain the construction of a "man-made pond."

Grandfather continued to narrate, “ Five servings of Green beans.” A few seconds later, “Three, yes, three spoons of mashed potatoes” and “Good God four helpings of- I don’t know what in the hell that is!” My Step-Aunt frowned and insisted it was sea-food cassaroll. While everyone began eating Grandfather glared at my mother. She was humiliated and tried to hide her red face by looking down the other end of the table. She looked at me watching her as she quickly began spooning lumps of food into her mouth. I could hear her spoon scraping against her plate and noticed that Aunt D had stopped talking. My Uncle’s eyes bounced from Grandfather at one side of the table to my mother as he bit into a turkey leg. My Step-Aunt was still frowning and slowly ate her cassaroll. Nobody told him he was being rude, needed to stop, or addressed it at all. They simply finished their food and waited until dessert to speak.

Once my parents divorced, my Mother moved to Louisiana and rarely made it to family gatherings. I suppose that was why my Grandfather had to find another victim and decided it would be me. Unfortunatley for him, I wasn’t my mother, and I refused to sit quietly.

Just last Easter while we sat at the dinner table waiting for my Aunt D to finish the ham, he had a classic episode relatives only addressed by telling me, “Just be nice to him, he isn’t going to be here that long,” or “It’s the medication. It just makes him grouchy. Be more understanding!”