Praise the Lord and Pass the Vittles!

Those born unto a family large will know whereof I speak. When you sat at table, to get your fill there was a technique! During Pa's interminable grace, bellies would begin to growl, Anticipating the meat and taters or noodles with the fowl. There was a paucity of babble as the cutlery began to clatter. (I always had my eye on that chicken leg reposing on the platter!) But I usually had a choice of the lowly gizzard or the liver, Or maybe the rooster's scrawny neck, that ghastly bony sliver! On the Hoosier farm there were bushels of Russet pertaters, And from Ma's bountiful garden, juicy beefsteak termaters, But you must be very deft when such was set upon the table. When the grub was passed, you snatched whatever you were able! Being one of the littlest kids in the tribe was my bane! That invariably placed me nigh the end of the food chain. Little was said 'cept and occasional, "Please pass the salt." As elbows flew during that aggressive culinary assault! When company came, tradition was that women and kids ate last, While we young'uns agonized, the men enjoyed their repast! I mumbled 'neath my breath (and it wasn't always "praise" the Lord!), As I impatiently awaited my vittles from Ma's sumptuous board! Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)