When Larry and I were first married, we were active with the
Salvation Army in Binghamton, New York. Church services were held morning and
evening every Sunday, and often, a number of older couples would end up at one
of their houses following the evening worship for a late Sunday supper. As
newlyweds, we were invited to tag along, which we sometimes did. One memorable
Sunday night, the group told us, “Guess what? We’re coming to your house
tonight.” Hindsight tells me I should have locked the door to our apartment and
hid under the bed, but instead, we agreed to welcome a dozen people to our very
narrow, very humble home, hoping against hope we had made the bed that morning.
As we raced to get to Clinton Street before the hungry hoard
descended on us, I considered a possible menu. We had a loaf of bread, one can
of tuna, a couple of slices of lunch meat (already earmarked for the week’s
lunches), some eggs, and a package of Oreos. Oh, and our go-to staple, peanut
butter and jelly. Given our bleak bank balance, we definitely weren’t ordering
pizza for twelve that night. Despite my misgivings, we had a wonderful time
that evening, and I learned an early yet valuable lesson about hospitality on
the fly.
Fast forward forty years, and I’m saddened to realize how
little of my life happens on the spur-of-the-moment. Even in semi-retirement,
I’m still scheduling phone calls a week out. Yes, you read that right – phone
calls, not visits or lunch.
It’s even happening with the little ones. Saxie Dowell’s
song from 1940 doesn’t quite work in 2016: “Playmate, come out and play with me
and bring your dollies three . . . And we’ll be jolly friends forever more.” We
don’t want our kids climbing apple trees, rain barrels don’t exist anymore, and
few homes have cellar doors to slide down. Instead of knocking on the
neighbor’s door to ask if Johnny can come out to play, we’re planning play
dates two weeks out for our children, even the toddlers.
An anonymous twenty-year old Singapore resident blogs about
his structured life: “Plans are now drawn up like the blueprints of a
skyscraper; get those plans messed up, and the skyscraper may just come
crashing down. The scaffold that holds my life together will buckle and crush
me under it.”
Whatever happened to spontaneity? It does depend on your
personality, for by nature, some people divide their calendars into fifteen
minute increments from the womb. While others may live with more flexibility,
we still are hesitant to intrude on another’s space without prior arrangements.
But what about making spur-of-the-moment decisions? Actor Alan
Arkin has some good advice for us in his memoir, “The Improvised Life:” “That’s
what we’re all doing, all the time, whether we know it or not. Whether we like
it or not. Creating something on the spur of the moment with the materials at
hand. We might just as well let the rest of it go, join the party, and dance
our hearts out.”
Larry was recently reminiscing about the molasses cookies my
mother and Aunt Annamae used to make. As we talked, my mouth was watering for
those plump, raisin-filled treats, so I decided, spur-of-the-moment, to make
some, surprised I even had molasses in the pantry cupboard. Yet instead of
walking next door with a plate covered in waxed paper, I posted the following
comment on Facebook: “Warm molasses cookies. What more can I say?”
The post got fifty-nine ‘likes’ and nearly twenty comments,
including the following from friends in Apple Creek: “Come on over. With some
cookies, of course . . .” Did they really mean it? Could we really just “stop
over?” A few text messages later, we were in the car, and the subsequent
evening with Ron and Doris was both delicious and delightful.
I may have stumbled on a solution. Keep an eye on my
Facebook page. Sugar cookies, chocolate chip cookies, and frosted chocolate
walnut cookies could be in our hands, on their spur-of-the-moment way from my
oven to your table. Larry likes sugar in his coffee, I like ice in my milk!
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