And broody too. He always seemed to be waking up, going to sleep, thinking, driving the Caddy, drinking, or getting over a hangover. In between all of those things he worked the swing shift at the mill or watched Road Runner cartoons.
It was Sunday. The spaghetti brimmed in the big yellow bowl in the middle of the Avocado Green dinner table. The table was the same 70’s green that matched the stove and refrigerator that lived in fifty percent of American homes back then. The yellow bowl on the table slightly matched the color of the walls. That day the table was pulled out into the middle of the tiny kitchen so that the entire family could eat together. Spaghetti Sunday! A family ritual whether Dad was there or not.
He finally sat in his seat and we all served up our plates. Just as Dad took his first bite of dinner, there came a creaking noise from the ceiling. We all looked up in unison, then at each other. Dad was self-absorbed, starving, and continued inhaling the long string of pasta. We followed suit and each started to get to our own business of eating. In the next moment we were suddenly and instantly enveloped in a cloud of white dust.
The entire kitchen ceiling fell on us.
Chunks of plaster. Dust. I looked at my Mom and sisters, their eyes peering out from the chunks of plaster in their hair and the dust on their faces. We looked around in sheer amazement that our house was falling in on us, then a second later burst out in hilarious girl laughter as Dad let out a really long string of curse words.