The spaghetti brimmed in the big yellow bowl in the middle of the Avocado Green dinner table with the six matching chairs. The table was that same shade of green that matched our stove and refrigerator and many others that lived in fifty percent of American homes circa 1974. (The other fifty percent were Harvest Gold). The big yellow bowl on the table slightly matched the yellow of the kitchen walls. On that day the table was pulled out into the middle of the tiny kitchen so that the entire family could eat together. Spaghetti Sunday! A family ritual whether Dad was there or not.
This Sunday Dad woke up (after working at the steel mill all night) about the time dinner was ready. He groggily sat in his seat as we all served up our plates. Just as Dad was taking his first bite, there came a creaking noise from the ceiling. We all looked up in unison, then at each other. Except for Dad. Dad was starving, and continued inhaling his long string of pasta, without noticing anything other than his food. The rest of us shrugged our shoulders and followed suit, each of us getting started into our own business of eating. In just the next moment, mid bite, we were suddenly, and instantly, enveloped in a cloud of white dust.
Chunks of plaster. Plaster dust was swirling around the kitchen. I looked at my Mom, her fork suspended in mid-air, and my sisters, their eyes peering out from the chunks of plaster and dust in their hair and the fine white dust on their faces. Stunned, we all looked around in sheer amazement. We all looked up at the hole in the ceiling, to the floor of my bedroom. Our house was falling in on us!
A second later Dad let rip a line of obscenities while we all burst out in hilarious four girl laughter.
Dad blamed it on my dancing.