Memorial Day: How my distant cousin became a cat

© 2017 Christy K Robinson

 

Looking at the photos of friends' cemetery visits this weekend, remembering their immediate families, reminds me that it was a ritual of my godparents to do the same. (They weren't godparents, really, but they were designated as our caregivers if our parents died while we were kids. The man was my grandmother's cousin, fairly close to her age.) Dale and Adrienne Hall would take flowers to Adrienne's parents' graves and have a picnic there, and remember them in stories with the other cemetery mourners. 

The circa-1924 photo is of my great-great grandfather,
Martin Friend Hall, an attractive dog, and Martin's grandson,
Dale Hall.

 

My immediate family didn't have that custom, as we were 2500 miles from our living grandparents, and the great-grandparents' graves were also far away. Because of our Christian faith, we believed we should honor one another in life, and anticipate seeing them one day in heaven. 

 

So today, I'd like to introduce you to my godfather, Dale Hall, 1923-2008. He was born on the Fourth of July, so his birthday cakes were often adorned with blueberries and strawberries on white frosting, in the form of a flag.

 

He was a veteran of World War II, went to my college (La Sierra, in Riverside, Calif.) on the GI Bill, kept my mother as a ward in sunny California during her teenage years when the Minnesota winters threatened to kill her, was a high school business teacher, and very opinionated on church matters. The church forbade coffee, tea, and other caffeinated drinks, but Dale was half-Swedish and from Minnesota, so coffee ran in his veins.
 

 He was an elder in his church, devoted to his two successive wives, was a total sucker for little dogs, a gracious host whenever I wanted a weekend away from university, and he envied the lifestyle of my cats, saying that when he died, he wanted to come back as my cat. So now, when my cat Smetana, born the year Dale died, bites me, I have to wonder about reincarnation... 

 

Dale was a grumpy old man, but most of that was from being a drill sergeant to those high school students. He loved the Bible and he loved the Lord, and I have no doubts of his eternal destiny.

 

Dale didn't have a biological child, though he and Adrienne adopted a son who is lost to the family. Unless a distant cousin laid flowers on Dale's Minnesota grave, I'm the one remembering him today. Adrienne rests in San Diego with her parents and brother, but she was the last of her line.  

 

There. That's Dale Hall, Army veteran, remembered with a grin. I'll see him again, even if he is a cat. 

 

1969: Among other family members, Dale is the one in the
green shirt, and his wife Adrienne is in the purple top. Their
son may have been away fighting in Vietnam.

God with us at the table has sat down

©  2017 Christy K Robinson

When I was a couple of years out of university and recovering from a life-changing injury, my mother and I went walking as good exercise in a controlled, safe environment: the shopping mall. In the housewares department, I found white porcelain plates, cups, and serving dishes with ink drawings and watercolors of wildflowers. I started buying them, a few pieces at a time. Later, I discovered some crystal goblets that were heavy and felt smooth to the touch, and I collected those, too.

Church friends having lunch on my patio.

I was single, and shared a house with my brother. We had separate social lives, but an understanding about entertaining company either separately or together. We had pool parties and barbecues, and hosted my Christian singles group many times. I had friends over after church, having made special foods and laid the table with my wildflower dishes, crystal goblets,  candles and music.

My thought was, Why save my beautiful things in a china cabinet or hope chest, toward a wedding, husband, and children that might never come? (And they didn't!) I should use and enjoy my pretty things instead of hide them away for "special" times.

My dad and his wife, having
chimichangas on my patio.

Time moved on. After I moved from Arizona to California for my job, I had a different set of friends over, and they loved the Friday night dinner for two, or the after-church lunch on the patio under the wisteria, always with the china. They loved my dinners, but they rarely returned the invitations, and after a while, I stopped going to the trouble and expense.

I found a new set to collect, though: blue and white English castles. Some were souvenirs I'd bought in England, and others were from California antique shops. Nothing matched, but everything coordinated, if you know what I mean.

Twelve years later, I moved back to Arizona. I donated my silver-plate serving pieces and candlesticks. I decided to sell my wildflower set, but could find no buyers. It seems that everyone uses plastic or paper plates for meals, even at Thanksgiving or Christmas. I must be the last person with lovely dishes.

But it's not just "everyone else." I've been using the same inexpensive, plain blue plates and cobalt glasses for 20 years. I don't use plastic or paper, but I've settled for routine and indestructible. In the 2000s, no one entertains at home--we meet for Starbucks coffee, or go out for Mexican food. In fact, people tell me they don't want a fuss made, that it's easier to eat out. My wildflower plates stay packed, and my blue and white castles get dusty in the china hutch. If I offer a cold drink, people think it's formal for me to pour their bottled water into a glass. And when I eat meals, I don't lay the table. I eat by the computer while I'm writing. Because who's going to care or notice?

Oh, no. I've fallen into the trap that I escaped in my twenties! I think it's time to hide my serviceable, thrifty plates, and bring out the china, the tea lights, and crystal. When it's pretty, I'll be mindful of the blessing of good food, and I'll remember to give thanks. And I'll remember that I've asked the Lord to be present, and he deserves the best.