Mombo

San Antonio, Texas 1969

I opened the silverware drawer and counted out twelve forks and knives. Some of the forks were for salad or desert, and one of the knives was snapped off at the tip from someone using it as a screwdriver, but all were real silver; not recently polished but with the soft patina of common usage.


No one told me to set the table, but I knew if I didn’t, everyone would be crowding around the stove, serving themselves, and I thought the dinner deserved better. The heavy oak table with the cannonball legs was stretched out, and covered with a white linen tablecloth. It was common enough for us to have roast chicken, or fall-apart chicken as we liked to call it, but Mom had outdone herself tonight – Cornish Game Hens for 12 people. Rounding out the menu was Uncle Ben’s long grain and wild rice, canned asparagus spears with butter, and tomato aspic with mayonnaise. That was about as gourmet as we got. I poured the hot tea into a glass pitcher, and stirred a good amount of sugar into the deep amber liquid, then squeezed lemons through the bent strainer, and filled the pitcher with ice cubes from the plastic trays until it had just the right bright orange color. It was less complicated to just fix the tea than putting out all the sugar and lemons and all. No one offered to help me set the table, but that was O.K. It was my thing. I straightened out the plates with the blue cobalt “kissing dove” pattern. They were something we were collecting from the grocery store; now that we nearly had enough the first ones were already showing chips and hairline cracks.


The fragrant hens were roasting in the largest pan we had; a navy blue enameled tub we called “the turkey pan”, for obvious reasons. Our sister, Mary Ellen was home from college, adding to the sense of celebration. My brother Joe, and I had each invited friends, and a relative was new in town, having just moved to San Antonio from Kentucky. Joe was already warming up the upright piano with some bluesy New Orleans as we finished with the preparations. There was an art to opening windows and closing certain doors to get a good cross breeze across the dining room. The scent of summer jasmine pulled through the window screens and mixed with the aroma of the roast hens.


Mom served my friend Eugene first. Without a thought to the extravagance, she plopped down two entire hens on his plate. Just prior to that moment, Eugene was in love with me. He wrote me a poem. He wrote me a song. But now he was in love with my mom. Eugene was not just big, he was obese. He sat down at the right hand of my mother, with me next to him. He looked back and forth through his crooked plastic glasses between the two Mercedes, and the two hens, pleased beyond compare at his good fortune. It was funny the way she didn’t ask him what he wanted, but just gave him what seemed like the right amount of food.


As the happy din of silverware and dishes commenced, our second cousin Julian began to feel at home, and soon had us laughing with stories about our grandparents and relatives known and unknown. Once warmed up, he proceeded to command the table, consisting mainly of young girls. He put his tweed jacket on the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves. A college professor, his reddish hair grazed his shoulders in what would soon become a grizzly ponytail. He was erudite and witty. He was opposed to the war in VietNam, and made veiled hints at smoking marijuana. Mary Ellen was in college in Washington D.C., and she began to talk about the demonstrations and sit-ins she was witnessing there. A spark was lit. There was a world out there of young people and ideas and motion, and they seemed to know all about it. It was thrilling. Around the table eyes were shining with approval and acceptance. As was typical, my mom made not the mildest comment about the politics and current events. Her simple question cut like a knife through the conversation. She asked Julian why he hadn’t brought his wife and children over. He shrugged it off, but still it was odd. Why hadn’t he?