Mennonite in a Little Black Dress (Memoir) (2010) by Rhoda Janzen Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rhoda Janzen
one dollar, is preferable to the Wendy's chicken sandwich I had yesterday, which cost $2.34," said my father. "You want to try it?"
"I'm not really a chicken-patty kinda gal," I said.
"When we get back to the car, we can have the last of that cranberry bread," said my mother. "And there's still some coffee in the thermos from yesterday."
This remark was problematic on a variety of levels.
"Mom," I said, pointing to the cup of decaf that was at that moment steaming in her hand, "why wouldn't you drink this coffee with the cranberry bread?"
"This coffee might be gone by then, because I'm drinking it with my McSandwich."
"Then why don't you just get a refill on your way out?"
"They charge for refills!" interrupted my father, sensing an opening. "Even on the senior discount!"
"But . . . since you made the coffee in the thermos yesterday morning, won't it be completely cold by now?"
"Oh, well, room temperature. And it's wet! We could drink it if we were desperate. We could drink it if we had car trouble and had to wait by the side of the road."
"How true," I said helplessly.
We can all agree that a snort of day-old coffee will go a long way toward improving our mood in the case of automotive duress.
"See there?" my father said, nodding at the McDonald's menu. "Says there that you could have had a Ranch Snack Wrap for $1.29!"
How different road trips were with my father than with my mother! Both were refreshing in their way, but the trip with my father as driver unfolded in mile after mile of soothing silence. Dad didn't converse, didn't listen to the radio, didn't enjoy the music that my mother urged him to play every so often. Mom always fortified the Camry with a spiritually edifying variety of CDs, including one by my parents' neighbor Chet Wiens and his Mustard Seed Praise Quartet. There was also a new release by my cousin's daughter Starla, who had carved out for herself a career in opera, but who had recently begun rendering perfervid coloratura show tunes à la Ethel Merman. And there were some instrumental CDs too, particularly one that featured some worshipful stylings upon the pan flute.
But it was one thing at a time for Si Janzen. He wasn't what you'd call a multitasker. He liked to concentrate on driving. Sustained conversation, the kind that involved the exchange of abstract ideas, occurred only during brief rest stops and visits to fast-food establishments, and even then it was sort of frowned on. During the actual drive he might utter relevant, specific commentary on the passing landscape. These comments emerged as part of a topically appropriate metanarrative. "I see some sheep," he'd announce. Or, "There's a big jobber of a Winnebago." Personally, I have always found these remarks rather challenging to respond to, as they seem both to invite dialogue yet simultaneously forbid elaboration. However, over the course of a forty-five-year marriage, my mother had mastered the art of replying to my father's cryptic overtures. She always gave him her full attention, even if he had interrupted her crossword puzzle or Sudoku. To "I see some sheep," she might look up and answer brightly, "Sheep dip!" To "There's a big jobber of a Winnebago," she might reply, "Big gas guzzler!"
Dad always declined our offers to pitch in with the driving. Other drivers made him nervous, especially my mother.
He had a point there. When it was just my mother and I in the car alone together, I preferred to drive, and god knows I'm not a great driver. But I'm better than she is. Fortunately she never asserts an intention to take the wheel. A couple of weeks prior to our trip up to Bend, the two of us had made a three-day trip to Arizona, to visit some of her Bible-college friends who were going to be in Flagstaff to spend time with their daughter Frieda. Because these were Mennonite friends, I knew them too, of course. In fact I had known Frieda long ago, when I had dated her older brother, back when I was in Bible school.
"I'm not really a chicken-patty kinda gal," I said.
"When we get back to the car, we can have the last of that cranberry bread," said my mother. "And there's still some coffee in the thermos from yesterday."
This remark was problematic on a variety of levels.
"Mom," I said, pointing to the cup of decaf that was at that moment steaming in her hand, "why wouldn't you drink this coffee with the cranberry bread?"
"This coffee might be gone by then, because I'm drinking it with my McSandwich."
"Then why don't you just get a refill on your way out?"
"They charge for refills!" interrupted my father, sensing an opening. "Even on the senior discount!"
"But . . . since you made the coffee in the thermos yesterday morning, won't it be completely cold by now?"
"Oh, well, room temperature. And it's wet! We could drink it if we were desperate. We could drink it if we had car trouble and had to wait by the side of the road."
"How true," I said helplessly.
We can all agree that a snort of day-old coffee will go a long way toward improving our mood in the case of automotive duress.
"See there?" my father said, nodding at the McDonald's menu. "Says there that you could have had a Ranch Snack Wrap for $1.29!"
How different road trips were with my father than with my mother! Both were refreshing in their way, but the trip with my father as driver unfolded in mile after mile of soothing silence. Dad didn't converse, didn't listen to the radio, didn't enjoy the music that my mother urged him to play every so often. Mom always fortified the Camry with a spiritually edifying variety of CDs, including one by my parents' neighbor Chet Wiens and his Mustard Seed Praise Quartet. There was also a new release by my cousin's daughter Starla, who had carved out for herself a career in opera, but who had recently begun rendering perfervid coloratura show tunes à la Ethel Merman. And there were some instrumental CDs too, particularly one that featured some worshipful stylings upon the pan flute.
But it was one thing at a time for Si Janzen. He wasn't what you'd call a multitasker. He liked to concentrate on driving. Sustained conversation, the kind that involved the exchange of abstract ideas, occurred only during brief rest stops and visits to fast-food establishments, and even then it was sort of frowned on. During the actual drive he might utter relevant, specific commentary on the passing landscape. These comments emerged as part of a topically appropriate metanarrative. "I see some sheep," he'd announce. Or, "There's a big jobber of a Winnebago." Personally, I have always found these remarks rather challenging to respond to, as they seem both to invite dialogue yet simultaneously forbid elaboration. However, over the course of a forty-five-year marriage, my mother had mastered the art of replying to my father's cryptic overtures. She always gave him her full attention, even if he had interrupted her crossword puzzle or Sudoku. To "I see some sheep," she might look up and answer brightly, "Sheep dip!" To "There's a big jobber of a Winnebago," she might reply, "Big gas guzzler!"
Dad always declined our offers to pitch in with the driving. Other drivers made him nervous, especially my mother.
He had a point there. When it was just my mother and I in the car alone together, I preferred to drive, and god knows I'm not a great driver. But I'm better than she is. Fortunately she never asserts an intention to take the wheel. A couple of weeks prior to our trip up to Bend, the two of us had made a three-day trip to Arizona, to visit some of her Bible-college friends who were going to be in Flagstaff to spend time with their daughter Frieda. Because these were Mennonite friends, I knew them too, of course. In fact I had known Frieda long ago, when I had dated her older brother, back when I was in Bible school.
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