Setting the table was one of the little things we did each night. One night you would be setting the table, the next night drying or putting dishes away.
Cathy sat quiet, after setting the table, not mentioning her pitching abilities to Mom, who was standing at the kitchen counter chopping onions. Cathy set the table, took her seat and waited for Mom to announce dinner was ready. It was liver and onion night, Dad’s favorite night, but no one else’s. Tiny red potatoes with skins on were first passed around, followed by cooked baby carrots - all from our garden. Loading one's plate with potatoes and carrots in hopes of no room for the liver was the idea. Dad was handy with his reach, and fork, though, giving everyone a share. Mom always had more on the stove if anyone dodged a piece and the liver plate got empty.
Liver on his plate, dad interlaced his fingers, bowed his head, and led us in prayer. Who had picked the potatoes began the after-prayer conversation. He knew Francis was sent to the garden that afternoon. Dad just liked acknowledging Francis's part in the meal each night. Cathy and I worked on our liver hiding skills, as Francis told us about his day. Placing bits of liver under our plates was our best effort. Bits in pockets were good too. Major, our dog would be getting those bits when we turned our pockets inside out.
Pat told Dad about her job at the dry cleaners and her walk home over the High Street bridge with its missing sidewalk planks. Michael talked about books he needed from the library. Playing with her carrots, Cathy suddenly blurted out how she struck out both Donny and I and hit a ball out of the infield. Dad stabbed a piece of Cathy's liver from under her plate - her reward for striking us out. “How's the mitt,” Dad asked me. Just then arriving at the table, Mom said Carol Lenardi drove Michael to his Polio treatment, as she took her seat.
There was a call from Mr. Brown, the park grounds keeper, Mom injected while asking for the carrots. Something about an overturned dugout. Cathy instantly began telling the story how she pitched to this older kid and how I grabbed the ball barehanded on the fly. “How did the dugout end up overturned?, Dad asked.” I remained speechless as Cathy went on. Dad held back a grin, Mom was horrified that Cathy tried to bean a boy with a hardball. Cathy had a reputation, she once took a hammer to a bully’s front teeth. Mom couldn't believe that one, till the kid showed up with his Mom, showing his half a front tooth.
I got out of my dish drying duty, despite offering, because it was a paper route collecting night. Dad handed me the collection book and the change bag and said the dishes would be here when I was done with the collection. Last house on Mountain Street was the Hearst house. Luck was with me - Bobby's sister answered the door and paid for three weeks of paper delivery. My Saturday luck ran out at Mike Spencier's Barber Shop though, where I received a hard, friendly punch from a smiling Bobby. Just his way of saying he had more for me…
