Pass the towel, please.

At the Whitaker household, we conserve. We are conscientious of turning lights out when we leave rooms. We don't leave water running. We recycle our cans, but before we recycle them, we crush them so that more will fit in the bin. When we built our house, we picked up rocks around the farm and used them to build our fireplace. We mini-vanned, bunk-bedded, and still use the sniff test on our shirts. And at the dinner table, there are never napkins to be found; rather, we use towels.

Now, I don't want to give you the impression that we each have our very own towel. No. That would go against every law of conservation. I also don't want to mislead you into thinking that we at least use a clean towel at every meal. No, no. If finger foods are not involved, then that towel has a lifespan of at least 3 uses, maybe more depending on the number of mouths and fingers present per meal. No. All of the Whitakers sit around the table and "pass" the same towel:

Sticky jelly fingers? "Pass the towel, please."
Honey coated biscuit lips? "Pass the towel, please."
Laughing so hard that milk flies out of the nose? "Pass the towel, please!"
(Manners are very important.)

I did not realize that towel passing is abnormal until last year. I am a 25 year old woman who has been to dinner at many other homes, yet never realized that 5 humans sharing the same towel at a meal is odd. I just thought everybody broke out paper towels when they had guests. I mean, family is one thing, but who wants to wipe their mouth in the same exact spot as a stranger?

The Keeper of the Towel is always my mother. Somehow, at every meal, the towel ends up beside her. We have given her a hard time about this for most of my existence. It's gotten to the point that we see it down there beside her and, whether we need it or not, we'll say, "Who has the towel?" and look around as if it's a mystery. Then, the four of us laugh and laugh while Mom rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed.

If my mischievious dad spots the towel down there, he employs his stealth nod to get our attention until we're all thinking the same thing, my poor mother completely oblivious. On his cue, in a magnificent chorus, we'll say, "Pass the towel, please" in perfect unison. (I think I can justifiably compare her irritation with us to that of a small dog with 10,000 fleas.)

She usually ends up just launching it in Dad's direction, (which is such a double standard, if you ask me. We can't sing at or put our elbows on the table, but she can heave a bright pink beach towel at my father?!)

Having to dodge flying fabric at the dinner table usually leaves him wrecked. He starts laughing so hard that he has to push his chair away from the table. He usually has to take off his glasses with one hand while he's slapping his leg with the other - my mother's face set in stone. Watching my father riddled with the giggles could cripple even the toughest stone-face, and my brother, sister, and I are slapping the table and trying not to snort out our food. My mother will try to continue her meal, but eventually, she'll break down with a chuckle. She usually looks at each of us, shakes her head, and says, "Y'all are ignert."

I'm honestly not sure how the towel always makes it's way back to her. It's like a magnetic force - like a kinship - like she and the towel are one. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

The Sprint

It is your average autumn Kentucky day. A crisp October morning, but not too cold for the new mid-thigh plaid jumper my mom recently bought me at the mall. I have slept in pink sponge rollers and with rolled down white socks and my new brown penny loafers, I am truly a sixth grader on her way to the in-crowd. Due to the fact that I have purposefully "forgotten" my huge saxophone, which is at least half my weight, I am on the verge of appearing "cool".

What makes this day even more special is that I have "accidentally" missed the bus (again) without getting in trouble for it. It just so happens that my dad was heading into town any way, so I have manipulated the system without getting caught. Avoiding the bus ride to school (a ride wherein I and whoever chooses to sit with me have to bump along the country roads on top of my beat-up sax case) is a beautiful way to start my day. And today, as I spritz one last bang into place, I head to the garage expecting to finally look as cool as Katie Jacobs and Rob Ogden (whose parents are teachers and therefore never ride the bus).

The perfect day's first hiccough came when dad didn't join me in the garage. It suddenly became all too clear that, rather than ride to town in our light blue Previa mini-van or our deep green Corolla, Dad was motioning me toward the Sprint. In society's social standards, the "Chevrolet ultra-compact Sprint" is one step - and only one, very small step - above the bus. It's only advantage is that, being a car, the ride is only 20 minutes long vs. the hour long bus tour of the county's finest farms and trailers. The Sprint is gray (lacking all personality) and it's a two-door (a tight, tight squeeze). The steering wheel is covered in mesh, the interior plastic is dirty brown, and I am sitting on a tan beaded seat cushion. The seatbelt reaches across me, lax over my shoulder and too tight across my lap - a sticky torture strap. The Sprint is a stick-shift and, once again, my dad reminds me of its excellent gas mileage... like a sixth grader with boys and middle school popularity on her mind really cares about gas mileage.

Dad is in heaven. He drives super, super slow. He gives his usual friendly wave to passersby and I keep my head down, making eye contact with no one. I wanted desperately to look cool today. Today could be the day that Chris Cummins asks me to sit beside him at the church hayride and my father has no idea of the social damage he is causing.

Harrison County Middle School is set up like so: the sixth grade wing on the far right, the seventh graders in the middle, and the eighth graders on the far left.

As we approach the hilltop, I suggest that Dad drop me off at the local Dairy Queen. "I don't want you to get stuck in all that a.m. bus and commuter traffic."

Nothin' doin'.

"It's not every day I get to take my favorite daughter to school," I'm sure he said.

He hangs the left into the school driveway and the car audibly creaks. (I really feel that cars are not unlike bread or milk - one should really respect the shelf life and then toss them.) The busses are all edging for spaces in front of the school and I realize that if I can time it just right, I could run from the car once we're hidden amongst all the yellow. Dad begins to slow down while I'm gathering my bags and then tries to pull to the curb at the sixth grade wing. That's when I see Chris. He's helping Paul Roberts send the flag up about one bus length away. If I got out now, he'd see me for sure. So, a quick thinker, I blurt out, "Oh, uh, Dad! Uh, I forgot that I need to, um, be dropped off at the eighth grade side today. Um, you know. School stuff."

My dad grins, forces the stick shift into one of the slots, and putters away. I exhale. I can't believe he didn't give me any grief, but I thank my lucky stars and apply some kind of watermelon lip gloss. One last look into the mud covered side view mirror and I unbuckle, my nerves a wreck. The last part of Operation Get-In-That-School-Before-Somebody-Sees-You-In-This-Piece-Of-Aluminum was drawing near.

Dad is approaching the eighth grade wing when I throw him a curve. "Stop! Here's fine." He slams on the brakes and is squashed between two busses and an angry looking pick-up. I lean over for a quick peck on the cheek and slide outta that seat cushion before he could finish his "have a good day".

Five quick steps to the sidewalk and I'm a free woman! Hurrah! My hair is bouncing! My short skirt is swishing! My. . .

Dad????. . .

is HONKING?!?!!

I glance over my shoulder to see my dad - wearing a full beard, glasses, flannel, and the biggest smile you've ever seen - waving like a maniac and honking the Sprint's horn, which basically sounds like a cow giving birth.

Ironically, no girl has ever run so fast.