For whatever his inner qualifications,
Bennett’s packaging left something to be desired.
• His beard and hair were excessive.
• His angular "look" was not in vogue
(actually, with so much hair, front and back, his features were barely
detectable.).
• His clothes were very tired. Except for the
socks—he didn’t bother with those at all (or underwear, but my parents
didn’t know that at the time).
• His nails were clogged with dry clay [since
he was a potter].
• He wore cowboy boots.
And that was only what met the eye. What they
didn’t see was the "4-F" he framed from the Draft Board, supposedly for
having been comatose after falling off a 40-foot cliff when he was a
child, more likely because the Board psychiatrist wasn’t overly
confident that Bennett, the only guy in line without skivvies, had fully
recovered. His
friends in the nudist colony congratulated him,
his three-legged goat hobbled in joy, and his neighbors in the tree
house made a tequila run to Tijuana.
My parents sat shivah. His, however, were
ecstatic. Dr. William Bennett Bean [who grew up on "The Lawn" at U. VA]
wrote medical tomes as well as a 12-page limerick entitled
And now he could start Sunday dinner
conversations with questions like, "Cathy, what do you think is the
greatest challenge facing our students in higher education?" Mrs. Bean,
née Abigail Shepard of The National Society of the Colonial Dames of
America, [n.b. Unlike the Daughters of the American Revolution
who could obtain membership by virtue of being related to soldiers, the
Colonial Dames had to be descended from "leaders."] who had been
dreading the scenario of Bennett at the front door, introducing his
barefoot wife to a surprised family, was relieved beyond measure when I
appeared instead, shod.
If immediately planning an engagement party
didn’t make her cup overflow, her mother’s welcome did. Granny, née
Margaret Churchward March of Cincinnati, although not quite all there in
the living room, was sufficiently in her mind to ask that she and I be
left alone while we got acquainted. For fifteen minutes she interviewed
me, mostly about family. Sitting demurely on the edge of the couch,
ankles crossed to the side, hands lightly folded, I responded directly
to each question. With finality, she then instructed me "not to move"
while she went upstairs. Returning a few minutes
later, Bennett’s grandmother carefully
deposited an armload of antique silver spoons and jewelry into my lap,
saying, "I wasn’t sure you’d get these, but now I am." For some people,
marbles aren’t nearly as important as good manners.
We then proceeded to dinner which I ate without
any visible qualms. When I had been fervently Lutheran because my mother
had been too wise to forbid my dating and too smart to think Confucius
couldn’t use a little fire and brimstone to keep me physically strong,
mentally awake, and morally straight, i.e., collectively virginal, I got
to know all about Sunday Dinners and Potluck Suppers—tuna casserole,
Jello with fruit cocktail and baby marshmallows, Swedish meatballs, and
iceberg lettuce. By the time I met Granny, I could switch from a
Chopsticks mode into a Fork frame of mind with hardly a slip of
etiquette.
As I entered the dining room, I saw what I
expected: napkins in silver rings, forks, knives, iced water, salt
cellars, wine glasses, lots of plates and Father Bean standing before a
chunk of meat no pair of chopsticks could disseminate. What I didn’t
notice was any apparent preparation. Then and since then, we would all
be in the living room one minute, and ready to dine the next. At no time
did I ever hear or see Mother Bean cooking, even when we stayed for a
week. To someone who had been raised in the Vesuvius Culinary Institute,
it didn’t seem possible that dinner could appear without grumbling,
spewing, quaking, smoking and searing. Bao kitchens were full of sound
and furor with so much tasting, advising, and discussing that the many
cooks (i.e., guests) ate half the meal before it was served (another
reason for quantity). In contrast, Mother Bean’s Abracadabra School of
Cooking made dinner appear, gently. (Eventually, I opted for her "it was
nothing" approach over the "much ado about everything" style. I made a
lot of headway when I discovered the secret ingredient in her pantry—a
freezer.)
After dinner, I saw Father Bean clear and wash
the dishes. I suggested to Bennett that this was worthy of emulation.
(Eventually, I found out how very much he thought otherwise when, soon
after we married, I went to a weeklong conference. Upon returning, I saw
every dish we owned in the sink, dirty. On top of those, also dirty,
were new ones. No, he hadn’t bought more. He had made
more.)
Dishes done, the Beans initiated me into
another family tradition - the sing-along. With heartfelt thanks to
Florrie, music counselor at Camp Rotomac, this Chinese immigrant was
able to cheer everyone immensely by also knowing and loving Songs from
the African Veldt.
