Tables and Grandparents: Part II

This is the second article in a series I'm sharing about my grandparents and great-aunt, particularly their wisdom shared around tables and meals.

"I can still smell my head burning." 

My grandmother (Ammie) often had a hilarious way of poking fun at herself, particularly when she did something absent-minded or when she couldn't find the exact word she was thinking of while speaking, something which happened perhaps a little more often in her senior years than when she was a younger woman. She'd wrinkle up her forehead in a frown, tone a bit sarcastic or disgruntled. "Now of course this word is just simply absent from my mind right now," for example, said with her Southern frankness adding that just-right seasoning to make the moment humorous for those around her. "I'm just bereft of that person's name," she'd say in a slightly disgusted tone. 

In March of 2004, my parents and I traveled to England during Spring Break to visit Ammie during the year that she served in ministry there, where she fell in love with the Yorkshire countryside and its people and pastored what Methodists call a "circuit" of small churches. During our trip, the four of us spent several nights in various bed and breakfasts in Yorkshire and Devonshire, including in the small Devonshire town of Tavistock. 

When we inquired about nearby restaurants in Tavistock, our gracious bed and breakfast hosts recommended dining in the small village of Peter Tavey, at the pub at Peter Tavey Inn. After driving through the narrow streets, we parked the rental car my grandmother booked for our trip, cloaked in the evening darkness of the rural farm village. After parking, we stumbled around on the dirt road, trying to locate where this Inn might be. "What's that smell?" someone in my family asked. "It's barn animals," my father replied, as we detected the presence of horses and sheep near us. After a few minutes of walking in the dark together, a candlelit building appeared and we sighed with relief. 

We walked into Peter Tavey Inn, and I immediately noticed a plate piled high with feathers on it. 

It was a quirky place, but we enjoyed a hearty and warm meal together nonetheless. 

When it came time to leave, Ammie paused near the entrance and leaned down to look at a historical photo, hung above a table where a candle burned. As she leaned over, she didn't notice that a small piece of her hair fell into its flame. "Oh my word!" she said to herself. The singed hair smell immediately filled the room, prompting our quick exit. "You ok, Mom?" my mom said. "Careful!" my dad said matter-of-factly. I just laughed, chuckling all the way back to the car. Once she was seated in the driver's seat, Ammie wrestled with the gear shift (our rental car had manual transmission), cursing at it as she adjusted it. More laughter filled the car. She finally got herself situated, and as we reached the main road back to the B&B, all was quiet in the car until said, in that subtly sarcastic, Southern woman, self-deprecating tone that always made me crack up, "I can still smell my head burning." We erupted, my parents and I guffawing hard until Ammie finally loosened up enough to join us. It was a simple moment, probably only truly funny to my family, but I treasure it. 

Ammie would probably be embarrassed that I'm now sharing this story of her singed hair and swearing at the gear shift with the world, but I do so not to make fun or to be mean-spirited. 

I share it because she modeled what it means to not take yourself too seriously; to point out how humorous it is to be human sometimes, in our bumbling and stumbling selves. 

On another day during our trip, Ammie and I stopped to get ice cream at a shop in Thirsk, home of Alf White (birth name of James Herriot, the British veterinarian). She couldn't contain her laughter as the salesman muttered, "Can't do that" when she requested two different scoops of ice cream on a cone. "You mean you can't put one scoop on top of the other?" she asked incredulously and suppressing her giggles. He was not amused. It took all she had to compose herself so we could pay and exit, only for more laughter to erupt outside the door. 

Thanks be for finding laughter in the mundane.