Dennis Sommers

Growing up in Kansas during the 1950s was quite ordinary. Dad and his father built the 840 sq. ft. house my sister and I grew up in during 1948 with lumber from our great-grandparents’ barn torn down three counties away.

It was a comfortable house, except in the summer if no cool breezes came through screened windows at night. When I walked home from school, Mother often had a lunch of Campbell’s tomato soup ready for me. Sometimes it was popcorn in a bowl of milk, a special sort of soup we had learned to enjoy at our grandparents’ house.

Our neighbors across the alley were the Birches. Their house was larger, nicer, air-conditioned and had carpeted floors, including the basement. Our basement was concrete. Their son David was two years older than me and had much cooler toys. An electric organ equipped with Leslie speakers was one of them. He knew how to play it, and it was fun to watch his feet play bass notes. One Christmas David’s parents got him a go-cart. By spring we were taking turns circling the Birch’s small back yard, eventually destroying every blade of grass. Times couldn’t have been better.

One day, David invited me to dinner along with him and his parents at the Wichita Petroleum Club, where his dad was a member. When I asked Mom about it, she said I could go. She then schooled me on what I could and couldn’t do. Her emphasis was on manners.

“Be sure to say please and thank you, keep a napkin in your lap (it would be my first time to see a cloth one) and be sure to thank Mr. and Mrs. Birch when they bring you home.”

Seated downtown for dinner, there was a tablecloth, a napkin with a ring on it, a burning candle, two forks, two spoons and an assortment of glasses at each place. I understood why I had to wear Sunday School clothes. A waiter in a suit handed me a menu. I recognized one option —- a hamburger. It arrived with a baked potato instead of the fries I’d requested. I knew better than to say anything about it.

Right away, someone else approached holding a tray with four bowls containing butter, cheese, sour cream and bacon bits. I didn’t know what to do as he bent over to show what he held. He then explained I could help myself to whichever items I wanted with my potato. Remembering Mother’s admonishment to mind my manners, I took only butter until he uttered, “Anything else?” I added one scoop of bacon bits and returned the spoon. Then he said, “Take more if you’d like.” I took another. When he nodded his head as I looked his way, I took one more. It was the night I learned baked potatoes can be better than fries. Mr. Birch handed me a dollar bill with instructions to place it in the bowl atop the piano and ask the pianist to play “The Tennessee Waltz.” I’d never heard of it.

Weeks later Mother told me I should invite David to our house for lunch, adding it was a way to say thank you for dinner at the Petroleum Club. After I asked David and reported back, Mother wanted to know what she should prepare for lunch. I requested popcorn and milk. Seated with paper napkins and a spoon on our uncovered dining room table, David asked, “What’s this?” pointing at the bowl of milk. I showed him how to put a fist full of popcorn in the milk, adding salt as needed. He never touched it.

Sometimes we don’t realize what the finer things in life are. Watching our 15-month-old granddaughter drag her blanket across the floor, offer it to me, then stretch her arms out to be rocked ranks at the top, even above popcorn with milk, bacon bits on potatoes or dinner at the fanciest of restaurants.

Sommers is a retired Minot orthodontist, violinist with the Minot Symphony and author of the book, “Retirement? You Can’t HANDLE the Truth!”