Dedications Series - The Salt Cellar

 

This copy of my “Collected Poems” is dedicated to my sister Bonnie. Sometimes she and I will spontaneously say exactly the same words at exactly the same time. I took care of her when our mother was sick, and we understand each other in a way that neither of us can explain. She is the reason I know what loyalty and honor are, and what integrity looks like.

 

The Salt Cellar

I’m not sure how old we were when we went on vacation to Williamsburg, but I was in my teens, and my sister Bonnie is five years younger. We stayed in a hotel that was more like a little house of our own in the middle of Colonial Williamsburg: Our parents, our mother’s parents, and we, spent three or four days wandering around town at will watching blacksmiths, chandlers, millers, and carpenters ply their trades as it was done before the Revolution.

There were several restaurants, some more authentic than others, and of course we all wanted to go to the most authentic.

The tables and chairs were plain wood, the tableware pewter, and the food was supposed to be cooked and served with historical accuracy. The waiter wore knee britches and an interesting sort of flowing shirt, and a vest, and an apron. He brought a great variety of food to the table on a huge tray, and held the tray at an angle so that the person he was serving could see it, and then, simply stood there with an enquiring expression. He was not helpful.

I remember being terribly embarrassed because I didn’t know whether we were supposed to serve ourselves off of the tray, or whether we were supposed to point at what we wanted, or whether we were supposed to know the Colonial name for whatever dish caught our eye and ask for it.

I don’t think anyone else had much more luck figuring out proper Colonial table manners either.

My sister had ordered tea, and spotting a little dish on the tray with what looked like sugar in it, spooned some into her tea.

The less than helpful waiter said nothing at all, and went away. Bonnie stirred her tea and took a sip and made an awful face. She had put salt in her tea, and the little dish had been a salt cellar.

Bonnie said to Mama, “It’s salt!” and Mama said, “Oh, Honey!” in a tone that was half laugh, half groan, and Bonnie got her hackles up. I could see she was mortified, and mad at her predicament.

But when Mom said, “Just ask the waiter for another cup of tea, honey, you don’t have to tell him why,”

Bonnie said, “No, a Sanford always admits a mistake.”

When the unhelpful waiter came back, Bonnie simply told him she had mistaken the salt for sugar, and asked him for another cup of tea. He brought it, and he brought her sugar, and he became more helpful in general from then on.

I remember feeling so proud of my sister, and that pride was all mixed in with the ribbing she got from the whole family for the rest of the meal, not to mention the rest of her life.

I’m not sure if  she knew that being a Sanford who always admits a mistake was a fine thing to be,  but when she said it, everyone at the table knew it was the truth, and felt the thrill of watching a little girl overcome embarrassment in order to uphold the family honor.

Sure, it was only a little thing, but it cost her.

From that day on, everyone at that table knew that Bonnie could be counted on to do us proud.

 

 

Bonnie, there are poems missing from this book that should be in here, but I haven’t written them yet. You’re the only one who probably already knows what’s in them.

Love, Leah.

Christmas 2000