My maternal great grandfather started going to this little gem of a Lake in the foothills of the Adirondacks before I was born. His son, my grandfater, owned his first cottage in a fairly well-populated bay but found a heavenly parcel with three lots and government property ringing most of it.
The house dated from the turn of the last century and was buried in trees with tall grass. Not much mowing and all natural.

My favorite view of the property - from the old flat-bottomed fishing boat.
Inside was plain, not winterized, with tongue and groove unpainted walls. The furniture was about the same date as the house; the kitchen dishes were depression-era glass and cheap reproduction willow ware and deep blue glasses. In short, these camps were filled with anything you didn’t want at your main house anymore.

Grandpa with an iron frying pan full of sunny side up fried eggs cooked in bacon grease.
I began my trips there my first year on the planet and they continued until the camp (cottage for non-Adirondack vacation homes) was sold following my grandfather’s death. In later years, my grandfather, a doctor, was the chief cook. He and my uncle cooked wonderful breakfasts. There was no dishwasher, a refrigerator only instituted in the place after 1970 and just the most basic iron cookware. Water piped in from a well and turned off and on using faucets replaced the pump on the counter next to the sink around the same time.
All dining table and cooking equipment was kept in tall metal cabinets that shut tight to protect them from the mice and bugs. Shelves were lined with oil cloth and, unlike today, seemed effortlessly spaced for successful storage.
I loved going fishing with Grandpa – often for the entire day. He made up some Grandma Brown’s Baked Bean sandwiches (canned beans made in Mexico, NY) and brought some pop and other unrefrigerated snacks for lunch. This was before ice packs and coolers. He was not good about minding my mother’s rules about candy. He would give me a few pieces and say “now I want you to take one of these once every ten minutes and see if you don’t feel better.” When she would complain, he would turn to her and say: “I don’t get cavities from eating candy. I keep my teeth in a glass nights and they are fine.” He was a tease and a character.

The Table: when Grandpa finally sat down, it was not long before the children served had moved on but we older ones sat and talked for hours over the dirty dishes . This was the one place milk cartons and jam jars were allowed on the table without using a pitcher and a dish. We were camping. At home it was otherwise. Those were the rules in my grandparents' and in my mother's time. [Pictred are the yellow Depression era plates and some early Corning cups and bowls. Plates of dougnuts and bowls of bacon were passed, refilled, passed and finally hit the sink! Orange juice was Donald Duck brand out of a can - very bitter I can tell you but one of my cousins still loves it. No matter who made it, the coffee always tasted good up there in the fresh air.

Grandma and Grandpa on their way to the camp next door that was owned by his roommate at medical school. That family still owns their camp. This is one of my all time favorite pictures albeit from an early Kodak Instamatic.
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Unhappy Holiday Dinners at “the Children’s Table”
Proof there were children's' tables at many homes in the 1950s and '60s. This is from the internet.
We used to have big old-fashioned family gatherings at Thanksgiving and/or Christmas at Grandma’s house. Helping Grandma and Grandpa, it was as if everyone were in a flotilla. Deep in conversation, we all floated in family formation from the kitchen to the dining room and back again to set the table and to help make sure everything was ready.
Ah but then something came out that ended the togetherness: a smaller table. We little cousins knew what THAT was: the children’s table – our table. Face it, we loved playing together but we did not want to eat together. We wanted to be with the adults. The adult’s table was only a matter of feet from us but it seemed as if we were on an island off the coast.
After dinner, the adults would sit around the table for hours talking in the residual glow of another good meal at Grandma’s. We children carried plates to the kitchen as they talked. I hurried through this so that I could stand by my parents at their table and listen to the stories. There was a living room filled with comfortable furniture but that table was the center of the universe at holiday time. To move to another room would have broken some kind of spell.
The sad fact about a table for children and another for adults is that it gets the children thinking about what it would take for them to get to the big table. If there were room enough for everyone, we would all have been together. So you think and you imagine a way and then it hits you: death. Someone at that table would have to die before you could have a place. Oh my God did you felt guilty for having such a thought as if the thought itself were a murder weapon. Kids are ripe for tragedy. They despair of a way out. It’s the drama of childhood!
When we all became adults with little people of our own, the reasonable solution finally arrived: dinner out. It was never as cozy or warm or as good as holiday dinner at Grandma’s house but then in this milieu, I usually got to sit next to Grandma herself. That was worth the wait. That’s one of the wonderful moments when you realize it isn’t about a place – it’s about the people in it. Grandma’s table can be anywhere as long as Grandma is sitting at it with us.
©SamHenry – atgrandmastable.wordpress.com. Registration Pending.
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Posted in Commentary, DINNER, HISTORY -SOCIAL, SamHenry, TABLE SETTING - HOLIDAY, TRADITIONS - FAMILY, UNITED STATES
Tagged Children's Table, Dining Room, Eating arrangements, Family Dinners - Holiday, holiday meals