If I had included these little incidents in my scintillating memoirs, it might have been a better book. My niece Debbie reminded me of it Saturday night; six years too late. That’s okay. Magic never sleeps.
When I was growing up at 1122-7th Street, our family, six of us, gathered around our evening dinner table according to Dad’s work schedule. Three or four times a month? Those were grand meals.
Dad occasionally said something like, “Here you go, Ruthie (or Neal or Noel or Paul).” Then he held his fork off to one side of his plate, plucked two of its tines and said, “Catch!” We all held our breath. Ruthie held her hands out and Dad tossed the sound across the table to her.
A second later when Ruthie caught it: “Ping-ing-ing.” It was a pretty sound. A magical sound. And always fun, even when we knew it’s secret.
“Better a meal with vegetables where there is love,
than a fattened calf where there is hatred.”
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