Mennonite in a Little Black Dress (Memoir) (2010) by Rhoda Janzen Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rhoda Janzen
a divorce is supposed to be one of the biggest stressors, and it's probably worse when you find out that your husband has been cheating on you with a guy. I like your hair color, though. Are those highlights?"
"And while all four kinds of soup are tasty," continued my father, as if no one else had been speaking, "the best part is this Zwiebach. Mary, send the Zwiebach around again."
For one golden moment no one spoke. We were all too busy helping ourselves to Zwiebach, breaking bread together.
THREE
Fear of Mosquitoes
M y parents and I had been on the road since 7:40 a.m., having spent the night in a two-bed, one-room Travelodge accommodation. The room had been distinctly inferior. Thirteen years prior my husband had been hospitalized in a crisis unit on a 5150-"Detention of Mentally Disordered Persons for Danger to Self and Others"-while I suffered the helplessness that comes from loving a man who takes a fistful of pills. Even if his doctors managed to turn him around with medication, who would make him take antidepressants one at a time once he was out of the hospital? And how was I going to manage the medical bills on my tiny grad student's stipend? "That's terrible," my mother had said on the phone. There was an infinitesimal pause while I waited for the bounce-back. It came right on cue: "You are hurting. But at least with Nick in the hospital you'll have some peace and quiet to work on your dissertation!" I therefore recognized her signature style when she observed, on entering the shabby motel room, "It's not elegant. But at least there are towels!"
Whenever my parents used a coupon to procure something, they felt 100 percent committed to liking it.
We three were en route to Bend, Oregon, to visit my sister. The car trip was a little over a thousand miles, half of which we drove on Christmas Day. I had spent the morning drifting in and out of uncomfortable sleep. The night before, my father's snoring had kept me up-that and the fact that I had packed my prescription sleeping pills in a suitcase that was wedged in the trunk of the car. Because the backseat of the Camry was overflowing with beribboned presents for my niece, I didn't have much room to negotiate my legs. I lay with my head on my father's shaving kit, legs crossed Indian-style, but with the crossed legs up in the air against the window.
Around noon my father asked us if we would prefer Burger King or McDonald's. It had been at least a decade since I had visited either of these establishments, so I was unable to offer much input. Mom elected McDonald's, on the grounds of better coffee. "You could use your senior discount to order Rhoda a cup of decaf," she suggested.
My father liked this idea. He did not drink coffee himself, but he had no objection to my drinking it, especially if he could save forty cents.
"See there, Mary," said my father, pointing to a sign in the McDonald's window. "It says here that you can get a McChicken Sandwich for a dollar."
"Okay!" My mother accepted this hint.
Fast food is always a hurdle for cooks, and I admit I blanched at the thought of a sucrotic chicken patty injected with flavorlike chemicals and breaded into the dimensions of a crunchy McSand-dollar. I therefore announced that I would have a burger instead. The burger was a full three dollars, so I offered to get the lunch tab, which for the three of us, after the senior discount, came to $6.20.
"No, no!" My father waved my wallet away. "I've got it, I've got it."
Then, as we sat down, he added, "You could have had three chicken sandwiches for the price of that one burger."
"Yes, but I like this better."
"You like that burger?"
"I wouldn't exactly say that I like it," I said. "But I like it better than the chicken sandwich."
My mother set down her sandwich and busily applied ketchup from a squeeze pouch. "It's a little bland," she admitted, "but some ketchup will perk this right up!" She tested a bite. "Much better!"
"This chicken sandwich, which cost
"And while all four kinds of soup are tasty," continued my father, as if no one else had been speaking, "the best part is this Zwiebach. Mary, send the Zwiebach around again."
For one golden moment no one spoke. We were all too busy helping ourselves to Zwiebach, breaking bread together.
THREE
Fear of Mosquitoes
M y parents and I had been on the road since 7:40 a.m., having spent the night in a two-bed, one-room Travelodge accommodation. The room had been distinctly inferior. Thirteen years prior my husband had been hospitalized in a crisis unit on a 5150-"Detention of Mentally Disordered Persons for Danger to Self and Others"-while I suffered the helplessness that comes from loving a man who takes a fistful of pills. Even if his doctors managed to turn him around with medication, who would make him take antidepressants one at a time once he was out of the hospital? And how was I going to manage the medical bills on my tiny grad student's stipend? "That's terrible," my mother had said on the phone. There was an infinitesimal pause while I waited for the bounce-back. It came right on cue: "You are hurting. But at least with Nick in the hospital you'll have some peace and quiet to work on your dissertation!" I therefore recognized her signature style when she observed, on entering the shabby motel room, "It's not elegant. But at least there are towels!"
Whenever my parents used a coupon to procure something, they felt 100 percent committed to liking it.
We three were en route to Bend, Oregon, to visit my sister. The car trip was a little over a thousand miles, half of which we drove on Christmas Day. I had spent the morning drifting in and out of uncomfortable sleep. The night before, my father's snoring had kept me up-that and the fact that I had packed my prescription sleeping pills in a suitcase that was wedged in the trunk of the car. Because the backseat of the Camry was overflowing with beribboned presents for my niece, I didn't have much room to negotiate my legs. I lay with my head on my father's shaving kit, legs crossed Indian-style, but with the crossed legs up in the air against the window.
Around noon my father asked us if we would prefer Burger King or McDonald's. It had been at least a decade since I had visited either of these establishments, so I was unable to offer much input. Mom elected McDonald's, on the grounds of better coffee. "You could use your senior discount to order Rhoda a cup of decaf," she suggested.
My father liked this idea. He did not drink coffee himself, but he had no objection to my drinking it, especially if he could save forty cents.
"See there, Mary," said my father, pointing to a sign in the McDonald's window. "It says here that you can get a McChicken Sandwich for a dollar."
"Okay!" My mother accepted this hint.
Fast food is always a hurdle for cooks, and I admit I blanched at the thought of a sucrotic chicken patty injected with flavorlike chemicals and breaded into the dimensions of a crunchy McSand-dollar. I therefore announced that I would have a burger instead. The burger was a full three dollars, so I offered to get the lunch tab, which for the three of us, after the senior discount, came to $6.20.
"No, no!" My father waved my wallet away. "I've got it, I've got it."
Then, as we sat down, he added, "You could have had three chicken sandwiches for the price of that one burger."
"Yes, but I like this better."
"You like that burger?"
"I wouldn't exactly say that I like it," I said. "But I like it better than the chicken sandwich."
My mother set down her sandwich and busily applied ketchup from a squeeze pouch. "It's a little bland," she admitted, "but some ketchup will perk this right up!" She tested a bite. "Much better!"
"This chicken sandwich, which cost
Similar Books
Nobody's Hero
Liz Lee
Mate of the Alpha
Marie Mason
Styxx (DH #33)
Sherrilyn Kenyon
Worth the Weight
Mara Jacobs
Serious Men
Manu Joseph
Mate of Her Heart
R. E. Butler
WalkingSin
Lynn LaFleur
Whatever the Cost
Lynn Kelling
