I Thought My Father Was
God edited & introduced by Paul Auster is a collection
of 180 personal, true-life accounts from people of all ages,
backgrounds, and walks of life. Some are funny, some are
mysterious, and some are highly emotional, etc.
One particular story caught my attention, mainly because its title
is quite similar to a poem Ive written a few months ago. But most
importantly, I have always against the idea of paying your children
to help out in the house chores. In my opinion, you are not
teaching them the right values.
A Plate of
Peas
My grandmother died when I was a small boy, and my grandmother
started staying wih us for about six months every year. She lived
in a room that doubled as my fathers office, which we referred to
as the back room. She carried with her a powerful aroma. I dont
know what kind of perfume she used, but it was the double-barrel,
ninety-proof, knockdown, render-the-victim-unconscious,
moose-killing variety. She kept it in a huge atomizer and applied
it frequently and liberally. It was almost impossible to go into
her room and remain breathing for any length of time. When she
would leave the house to go spend six months with my Aunt Lillian,
my mother and sisters would throw open all the windows, strip the
bed, and take out the curtain and rugs. Then they would spend
several days washing and airing things out, trying frantically to
make the pungent odor go away.
This, then, was my grandmother at that time of the infamous pea
incident.
It took place at the Biltmore Hotel, which, to my eight-year-old
mind, was just about the fanciest place to eat in all of
Providence. My grandmother, my mother and I were having lunch after
a morning spent shopping. I grandly ordered a Salisbury steak,
confident in the knowledge that beneath that fancy name was a good
old hamburger with gravy. When brought to the table, it was
accompanied by a plate of peas.
I do not like peas now. I did not like peas then. I have always
hated peas. It is a complete mystery to me why anyone would
voluntarily eat peas. I did not eat them at home. I did not eat
them at restaurants. And I certainly was not about to eat them
now.
Eat your peas, my grandmother said.
Mother, said my mother in her warning voice. He doesnt like
peas. Leave him alone.
My grandmother did not reply, but there was a glint in her eyes and
a grim set to her jaw that signaled she was not going to be
thwarted. She leaned in my direction, looked me in the eyes, and
uttered the fateful words that changed my life:
Ill pay you five dollars if you eat those peas.
I had absolutely no idea of the impending doom that was heading my
way like a giant wrecking ball. I only knew that five dollars was
an enormous, nearly unimaginable amount of money, and as awful as
peas were, only one plate of them stood between me and the
possession of that five dollars. I began to force the wretched
things down my throat.
My mother was lived. My grandmother had that self-satisfied look of
someone who had been thrown down an unbeatable trump card. I can
do what I want, Ellen, and you cant stop me. My mother glared at
her mother. She glared at me. No one can glare like my mother. If
there were a glaring Olympics, she would undoubtedly win the gold
medal.
I of course, kept shoving peas down my throat. The glares made me
nervous, and every single pea made me want to throw up, but the
magical image of that five dollars floated before me, and I finally
gagged down every last one of them. My grandmother handed me the
five dollars with a flourish. My mother continued to glare in
silence. And the episode ended. Or so I thought.
My grandmother left for Aunt Lillians a few weeks later. That
night, at dinner, my mother served two of my all-time favorite
foods, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Along with them came a big,
steaming bowl of peas. She offered me some peas, and I, in the very
last moments of my innocent youth, declined. My mother fixed me
with a cold eye as she heaped a huge pile of peas onto my plate.
Then came the words that were to haunt me for years.
You ate them for money. You can eat them for love.
What possible argument could I muster against that? There was none.
Did I eat the peas? You bet I did. I ate them that day and every
other time they were served thereafter. The five dollars were
quickly spent. My grandmother passed away a few years later. But
the legacy of the peas lived on, as it lives on to this day. If I
so much as curl my lip when they are served (because, after all, I
still hate the horrid little things), my mother repeats the dreaded
words one more time:
You ate them for money, she says. You can eat them for
love."
By Rick Beyer
Well ...
I like peas, cute chubby little fellows sitting perfectly still on
the plate ready to be eaten. Whats wrong with peas?
Simply irresistible!
I love playing with them when I was a kid, pretending they were
little green Martians coming to invade Earth, and I would squash
them with a fork. Yummy. But nowadays I seldom have the
opportunities to do that. My wife doesnt like it. She says she is
from Venues and gently reminds me I am from Mars. Sigh.
Posted in Rest In Peace on
Thursday, 25 August 2005
