DINNER TO GO

Every time I feed the dogs, I think of Bingo Mary.




I've written about her before, but for those of you unfamiliar with her, she was my grandmother.


We called her “Nana”, but my father nicknamed her Bingo Mary, after her obsession with bingo. My poor mother drove her to all the games in churches when I was a kid, and it used to annoy the hell out of him. She moved in with us when her husband moved back to Ireland, she stating she wouldn't move back to the old country unless she was dead.


My father would have gladly arranged the trip.


There was no love lost between my dad and Bingo Mary. She was always slipping us a dollar or two from her winnings, while he was intent on us earning our keep.


They tolerated each other, but barely. It made for some pretty good memories, not withstanding some great stories as well. She stood barely 5 feet tall but was a force to be reckoned with.   She also used to say she wanted my mother to have all her jewerly she won, if the day came when she died in her bed.


Bingo Mary always used to say she was going to die in her bed, and it gave my father a reason for getting up every day.


Every morning he would get out of bed, look around the kitchen and ask us, eyes wide with hope:  "Did she get up?  Is she up?"


We always had to dash his hopes with the monotone response "Yeah dad, she's up.  Sorry."


Bingo Mary, when she wasn't out playing for keeps, was an avid dog lover. It would seem natural this adoration for the canine would have been in my blood, but I didn't realize it until years later.


She doted on a full size poodle named Pepe - French, but manly. She said he came from royalty, his full title being Pepe LeMoco of the Casaba, or something like that.

He slowly became my little brother's dog, but the feeding of Pepe remained Bingo Mary's job until the day the dog died. It was a ritual that we would miss once he was gone.


Even before we were finished with our dinner, the plates were given the once over by her. Chicken was out because of the bones, but anything else was fair game. Potatoes, spaghetti, corn, salad, you name it.


It was all going into Pepe's bowl.


It drove my father nuts.


She would plop his shiny clean dogdish on top of her plate, after having scraped the remains into it.


“You gonna eat that?” she'd ask, Irish brogue intact, as you had the last forkful of rice steadily aimed at your mouth.


“You want that? She would continue as you were sliding the last of the peas on your fork. We always gave up the last bits for Pepe.

Nowadays, when I sit and eat dinner I am always mindful of the three mouths that are at either side of my elbows.


“You gonna eat that?” one says to me with an eyebrow raised.


“You want that?” another says as they inch closer to my plate.


All I can do is look at them and smile.


I finally know where Bingo Mary was coming from.


I just hope my father didn't find her on the other side.