Like sand through the hour glass

I'd wanted to write about holiday movies and bets between spouses. Instead, I turned reflective on a simple moment with Grandma and Grandpa.

Author’s note: This started as a story about just-okay holiday movies, bets between spouses, Something from Tiffany’s, and National Treasure. That story will come in January. Today you get one about Grandma, Grandpa, ham salad, and the days of our lives.

I was having lunch with my Grandma and Grandpa Lytle on a fall Friday in 1992. I’d turned 10 a month earlier, and they were watching me since I didn’t have school. Grandpa Bill sat at the kitchen table, a pour of Strohs from the tap in his basement in his hand. Grandma Ruthie was nearby, slapping some ham salad from a repurposed tub of Country Crock butter, the classic tan one with the dark brown letters and farm sketched on it. 

If you’ve never had ham salad then you didn’t grow up in Fremont, Ohio. In a way, ham salad is the ‘oops’ younger sibling to the more hyped chicken, egg, and tuna salads. It’s the one who doesn’t get invited to parties and everyone knows only arrived because Mom and Dad got in a fight, made up, and then this thing nobody knows quite what to make of appeared. 

I don’t rank ham salad ahead of chicken salad, but it certainly got play time in our house growing up.

Grandpa Bill said, “Load it up Ruth. Don’t go easy on the spread.” He winced and braced for impact. 

“Shush it, Bill. You’ll get what you get, and you’ll like it,” Grandma said while taking a long pull from her cigarette. She placed it back in the tray, and I watched the long ash drop small flakes waiting for Grandma’s next turn. Grandpa took a short sip from his Strohs. Grandma walked over to the fridge.

“Bill!”

“Yes.”

“Are we out of mayonnaise?”

“Are Episcopalians out of luck on judgment day?”

“Don’t hide your catholic envy. We can’t all be perfect. Are we out of mayo?”

“I’ll get more tomorrow when I go to Great Scott. And I’ll pray for you.”

“Thank you,” Grandma said.

Grandma scooped some peas onto our plates and then set them at the small table in their kitchen where they’d had lunch together every day for nearly fifty years. I squeezed in on the side. Grandpa undid the top of a tub of plain potato chips and dropped handfuls onto each of our plates.

Grandma turned on the television, sat back in her chair, and put her cigarette to her mouth. Grandpa took a little more Stroths. I hid a scoop of peas in my pocket.

The clock read 1:00 pm. Our program started: Like sands through the hourglass, so our the days of our lives….

“It’s the best,” Grandpa said. 

“Absolutely,” Grandma said. 

“Love it,” I said, and the three of us watched in silence until the first commercial break. 

My sandwich and chips were nearly all gone, but my peas had only had the small bit removed. Grandma looked at me. “Eat your peas,” she said. 

“I can’t,” I said.

“Why?” She asked. “And don’t say…..”

“Because I’m allergic to them…”

She sighed. “Bill,” she said, “he’s not allergic to them….”

“Look,” Grandpa started, “if Kelly says he’s allergic, then he’s allergic. My namesake wouldn’t tell a story to get out of something he didn’t want to do.” (note- Grandpa Bill and I share the name William Kelly). 

Grandma rolled her eyes. The moment passed when the television returned to Salem. Grandpa reached into the bin and grabbed more potato chips. 

“Bill…. Please stop crunching. I’m trying to watch the program,” Grandma said. I scooped the last of my peas into my pocket. Somewhere during Days of our Lives Grandma pushed her plate aside and started a game of solitaire at the table. 

I walked the three blocks home a few hours later, waiting till I was out of sight to empty the peas from my pocket. That night, Mom, E, and I ordered Marco’s Pizza and watched Adventures in Babysitting. I fell asleep wrapped in a New Kids on the Block sleeping bag on the floor of my parent’s room and woke to a Saturday morning in an Ohio fall.

It’s funny, sometimes, the moments we remember. Ordinary and unassuming, a small conversation while watching bad drama on TV, half-eaten ham salad sandwiches nearby. I think about these moments and try to remember their laughter and their familiar silences, all their shared jokes and bad TV. I think about how fifty years of memories can happen at just a small kitchen table. 

I think, maybe, these moments are a lot more special than we realize. These small ones that make up our days and make up our lives. 

Friends- we love you, and we’ll see you when we see you.