It began with my husband’s generous offer over breakfast. “Would you like to go out for dinner tonight?” I paused my caloric intake briefly, the fork that held my next bite of French toast suspended in mid-air. Dinner out tonight? My ears perked up. But on some subconscious level alarm bells and sirens went off in my wary brain. I’m not implying that eating out is a rare event, but John Dahl is notoriously frugal. He used to dumpster dive for pop cans when we lived in Vermont because each can fetched a nickel. Bottles a whopping dime. It’s how we funded date nights in those days. With four kids and a stretched budget, eating out meant finding alternate sources of funding. He could spot an empty can at 50 yards and stop on a dime to save it.
So when he slid his arm around me this morning and popped his question with a twinkle in his eye, I was immediately suspect. My brain began a mental search of possible reasons for this sudden insanity. My synapses, like Willy Wonka’s Oompa-Loompas frantically went through file folders and piles of mental papers looking for clues. I could feel the answer bubbling to the surface and threw a life raft to it. Yes! I grabbed it and pulled it to shore. With equal spit and spunk, I flung at him, “Isn’t tonight the telephone cooperative’s annual meeting?” He grinned that boyish smile of his at me and asked, “wanna’ go?” No, I really didn’t, thank you very much. The Dahl Taxi has been on the road so much I’m ready to install a meter on the dash. I really had looked forward to an evening at home. “Take one of the boys,” was my immediate response.
But as I thought about it a couple of minutes later, I reconsidered. After all, I hadn’t had the time or freedom to go for the last two years. My studies had taken precedence over everything else. But now I finally had some breathing room and more time on my hands, so I found him before he left for the day and announced, “OK, I’ll go.” He didn’t seem at all surprised by my change of heart. And he was clearly pleased. Our date was back on.
I worked in my classroom for half a day (why is it the more cleaning and organizing I do in there the worse it looks?), then made my way home to get ready for my “big night.” What does one wear to a telephone cooperative annual meeting? Ball gown? Probably not. Sunday casual? Too dressy. I ran down to the kitchen to take a quick look at the outdoor thermometer. Fifty-nine degrees at 4:30 in the afternoon? Looks like I’m going in jeans and a turtleneck. Yes really. Yes, I KNOW it’s the 9th of June. I really hate to be cold. No, I’m not sure what I’m doing living on the northern plains. Brrrr.
We arrived a half-hour into the feasting, registered our names for the prize drawings, received our ballot (just one ballot to share. I guess husbands and wives are expected to think and vote with one brain) and was handed our red bag of BEK goodies. This year’s offerings included two pens (for filling out the ballot, of course), and a set of jumper cables. Well, it’s a unique idea anyway. Kind of like giving away cookbooks at a Time Share presentation. One has nothing to do with the other, but it does grab your attention, Our buffet line found smiling cooperative employees serving home baked buns, beef barbeque, beans, coleslaw, coffee, and ice cream bars. Not finding any empty seats in the cafeteria, we headed outdoors to the picnic table (now that turtleneck was coming in real handy). Thankfully, the wind wasn’t screaming at 30 miles per hour, so at least it was bearable out there. The food was tasty and when we were through, we made our way to the gymnasium for the much anticipated meeting. The crowning moment of our special evening, if you will. I could hardly wait.
We made our way to the bleachers so we could sit up high enough to see the stage (I’m down to my last contact lens and forgot my glasses so there is a fine covering of fuzz on everything I look at). As we took our seats, I couldn’t help but notice all the white heads filling the seats around us. “What do you think the average age in this room is?” John whispered to me. “It looks like the demographic of that Elton John concert we just went to,” I laughingly replied. I could only hope that the there was at least one defibrillator on hand for the evening.
John went to say hello to our friend and one the cooperative board directors, Sanford, and as waited for his return I caught the conversation being held to my right. Most of the white hair around me sat atop the heads of second (or even first) generation Germans. Since moving to North Dakota I have been enthralled with the rich cultural heritage of this place. The stories of immigration and survival are legend in these parts. Someday I’ll devote a post to these amazing, heart wrenching and heart warming stories. Many of the old-timers sitting around me were born to parents who came to America with the promise of free land and a better life. German was the sole language spoken in their homes and the English language was often taught to the parents after the children began attending school and became fluent in it. Even now, the thick German brogue is heavy in the conversations floating around me. “Not so many here tonight,” one laments. “No,” another agrees. “The Olt-Timers are tying off, and the young vuns don’t dang care!” An astute observation, I felt. I had to admit to myself that I am one of those “young vuns.” The business of the cooperative really does not interest me in the least. I pay my bills and enjoy the services provided by the cooperative, but many of those around me remember the days of no phone service and when it did come, via the Rural Electrification Act, they often had to share a party line with neighbors. John and I have laughed at the stories of those who lived those days and claim that the neighbors would frequently listen in on private conversations. When the call would come to an end, they would hear the click of all the other lines hanging up as well.
So maybe I should care a little more about the privilege of phone service that I so take for granted. OK, point well taken.
Now it was time for the Color Guard to march the flags to the stage. Again, the collective experiences of those with whom I shared a stuffy gymnasium for the evening understood better than I ever would how precious a thing it is to stand at attention for Old Glory. They had lost brothers and fathers to wars and would never forget the immense sacrifice that our freedom demands. The Color Guard members were men-of-a-certain-age who looked smart in their uniforms and proudly represented the military for the evening. They had just a bit of trouble navigating the turn in the aisle and got jumbled up for a brief moment, but quickly went shoulder to shoulder again and accomplished their mission as required.
We next heard the National Anthem from a pair of Scandinavian blond high-schoolers who did a lovely job of harmonizing A cappella. Then the hilarity of the evening began.
I’m kidding.
It was reports and elections and questions from the floor. A pretty subdued bunch, overall. But the business that needed doing was accomplished and just like that, it was time for door prizes. Now the mood lightened and folks snapped to attention. This was why most had stayed (including the Dahls). John just had a feeling that tonight was our night. That flat screen television or laptop was OURS. The five-gallon bucket was carried to the podium by the cooperative’s version of Vanna White. She fished through all 400-and-some-odd names in that bucket, and pulled out………. someone else' name. The German woman up one row and over three seats declared, “She alfays whins.” Every dive into the bucket found every name but ours (remember, only one name from every couple got placed in the Magic Bucket. Spouses don’t count). Even when they had given away the big stuff, and then the knife sets, and the back pack, and finally, the leftovers from the evening meal (no, I’m not kidding. I actually would have been thrilled to take a whole roast home to the Ravenous Wolves living at my house for the summer). But no, Vanna never did find my elusive name. Oh well.
We took the final give-away as our cue to head for home. As we stepped into the brisk autumn (?) air I smiled to myself. It had been such a joy to be doing something luxurious like go to a local cooperative meeting. My life has been an unbroken string of classes, studying, and then starting a teaching job in a blur of busyness. To be able to decide that I had nothing going on that couldn’t wait another day felt downright delicious.
I had eaten a free meal, been given the jumper cables of my dreams (yeah, a little tongue-in-cheek there), and been reminded that my life is easy and full of comfort and convenience. We of the younger generation (I felt downright teenager-ish tonight in comparison), forget that our parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents got by with much less and worked way harder for the comforts of life. Everything comes so easy now. We flip switches, and push buttons, get in our cars, power up our computers, and really don’t give any of it a second thought. We just assume those things will always be there. Maybe they will and maybe they won’t. Either way, I think we can take a page from the book of the Greatest Generation. They understand how hard things used to be and appreciate how easy things are now.
I will try to follow their lead and not take life’s luxuries for granted. I know I still will here and there. I have lived an indulged life. But I have to start somewhere. Tonight brought me a step closer.
And maybe next year one of those roasts will come home with me…
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