On Wednesday’s

I was standing on our deck when he first told us about it. I’m not sure how old I was, but I think it was somewhere around late elementary school. I remember that it was warm. My brother, sister and I were there while my Mom and Dad explained Wednesday Nights. Of course I don’t remember his exact words–at the time it didn’t seem that important–but I do know that it was the first time I heard the word “mandatory”. My Dad explained that we would begin going out to eat every Wednesday night. He explained that since life is getting busier with our sports–Wednesday evenings would be a time when we could slow down, my Mom wouldn’t have to cook, and of course, no clean up. I remember that he said that Wednesday nights were “not mandatory”.

What does mandatory mean? I had asked.

You are always welcome, he explained, but if you have other things to do, you don’t have to go.

It was rare that I missed a Wednesday night.

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Every Wednesday night, after the Rockford Files (of course), the five of us piled into our tiny Accord and drove to a restaurant. The restaurant was different all the time, but we had our favorites. There was Antonio’s with the creaky floor and questionable health code issues but with the best baked stuffed clams that, to this day, make my mouth water when I think about them. There was the Holiday Inn where our favorite waitress, Miriam, (I think?) knew our orders before we placed them and always enticed me with the cheesecake after the meal. I remember one year when she brought a homemade cheesecake to my Dad’s office to give to me for my birthday. Or maybe it was for no reason at all? There was the Tilton Hilton with the slanted floor (Tilton) and the best burgers around. And the restaurant with the most amazing cinnamon butter served alongside hot breadsticks. I can’t remember the name, but those breadsticks left a lasting impression.

What I didn’t know then, I know now. . . Wednesday nights weren’t about the food.

My brother, sister, and I were getting older. We were participating in sports. Life was moving fast. Wednesday nights were about sitting down, slowing down, and connecting with one another. At our Table for Five, lit by flickering candlelight and weighted by warm rolls, we shared stories from our week, from our days. Week after week and year after year, we told stories. We heard each others stories. Sometimes, we learned stories about our waitresses and waiters. We laughed and laughed and laughed. I learned about respect as my Dad always referred to our waiters and waitresses by their first name. I learned about tipping when my Dad quietly motioned us to his side as he showed us the bill and helped us calculate the correct amount for the tip. I learned about “please” and “thank you”.

Wednesday nights anchored us as a family. And while our little worlds were changing so much through junior high and high school, Wednesday nights laid a foundation that helped us to understand that family was important. Sitting around a table for hours and hours interrupted only by a refill of our Kiddie Cocktail or a tempting invitation, Dessert?, my parents taught us that our voices mattered, that we were heard, that we were loved, that family mattered.

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Last night over a tear-streak calendar, I marked dates of upcoming soccer practices, camps, open fields, and all that changes that will come as we venture in the world of junior high. Like sand through an hourglass, I saw time slipping away. I considered banning my kids from sports, but I’m pretty sure the astronomical therapy bills they will incur later would come back to bite me–not to mention their certain inability to forgive me for my selfishness.

And then I remembered Wednesday’s.

I know that time will slip away from me unless I make a point to make the moments I do have matter. I look back and realize that my parents created a time and a space where they were available and we were welcome. Nothing was forced, it just was. Wednesday’s were dependable, consistent, and as sacred as a Sunday morning in a pew.

I don’t have answers yet. For our family, it may not be Wednesday’s. Maybe it will be Thursday’s in a restaurant? Or maybe it will be Tuesday’s around our kitchen table? The details aren’t there yet, but I’m mulling it over. Working on it now, because I realize that very soon life will look so different. Seventh grade will turn to senior year will turn to cap and gown and the treadmill will keep moving us forward unless we make time to jump off–for a time.

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Recently, I asked my Dad this question via email: What was the best meal you’ve ever had?

His answer says it all. . .

I don’t remember the year. I don’t remember the month, and I do not remember the particular date, but I do not think it was a holiday. It was not a particular waiter or waitress. It was not particular background music nor entertainment. It was not a particular menu nor was it a particular dessert. I do remember the dress was casual and not formal. I do remember the atmosphere was relaxed and the conversation interesting. I do remember the smiles and joyful banter. I can remember that it was a school night, and I can remember that it was a Wednesday. Pick one. . . They all apply.

*******

It was never about the food.