Easter Escapades at the Family Homestead

Partners in Crime

Some of my family’s most memorable occasions are celebrated around my mother’s long dining room table.  I say long because we set a card table up at the end of it because the table has failed to grow with the family.  So on Easter Sunday, my sixteen-year-old nephew, our dear friend Don (the oldest gentleman at the table) and myself have been placed around the card table in what I affectionately call, “the cheap seats.”

“Ed almost fell asleep in church today,” I giggle to Don.
“Pardon?”
“Ed was falling asleep in church and almost fell on Mrs. Swindell.”
“Ed fell out the church window?” chimes my older sister.
“The church window?” my mother gasps.
“No. On Mrs. Swindell.”
“What was Mrs Swindell doing at the window with Ed,” pipes up my Dad.
“He wasn’t at the window.”  God give me strength.  “Mrs. Swindall sits beside Ed in the pew at church and he almost fell asleep on her.”
“I wasn’t sleeping today,” Ed snorts indignantly.
“There’s more lasagne,” my mother adds hastily.

The meal is delicious.  We almost make it to dessert without incident.
“Mom, can I have more garlic bread?”  Mackenzie reaches for the basket.
“Do you want my piece?  I don’t want it.”
I delicately pick up the crispy garlic bread to put on Mackenzie’s plate and promptly knock over his wine glass of peach juice onto the carpet.
“Oh Mom I’m so sorry!”
“Mackenzie get a cloth!” my sister says quickly.
“From where?”
“The kitchen!  Where else?”  hisses my sister.
I’m under the table cleaning up the juice when Mackenzie whispers in my ear, “Check out the lampshade.”
Scrambling from under the table and almost giving myself a concussion I whisper, “Where?”
“Is it on my new couch?” my mother says with alarm. (Remember, my mother’s couch is over ten years old!)
“No, Granny.”
“It is isn’t it?  What are you whispering?”
“Can’t somebody keep those dogs quiet?” grunts my Uncle.
The three dark spots of incriminating evidence are leaping off the lampshade.
“Just turn it to the wall,” I quietly hiss at my nephew.
“What?” he hisses back.
“TURN IT TOWARDS THE WALL!”
“You got juice on the wall?” my Dad shouts from across the table.
“Not on the good wallpaper.”  My Aunt’s hand flies to her throat.
“No.  On the lampshade, Granny,” snickers my nephew.  I shoot him a look that could turn him to vapour.
“The lampshade?” echoes my mother.
“It’s old anyway.  Don’t worry about it,” says my Dad.  “Why can’t somebody pass me the salt?”

And so another festive holiday is survived by all at the family homestead.