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I Still Hear You, Emily Post
| Article
# : |
10056 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
4 / 1986 |
1,289 Words |
| Author
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Ralph Schoenstein
Ralph Schoenstein is the author of fifteen books, including
Every Day Is Sunday, recently published by Little and Brown.
As a television essayist, he has done humorous commentary for
the ABC Evening News and The Today Show. Mr. Schoenstein, a
resident of Princeton, New Jersey, has done extensive magazine
writing for national publications. |
Last night at the dinner table, I happened to notice that my eldest daughter's elbows straddled her plate like an A-frame under construction, while my youngest daughter's arm was extended in a lunge for the salt that looked like the highlight of an Olympic fencing match. The sight of these postures affected me so deeply that I suddenly burst into song:
Children, children, if you're able,
Keep your elbows off the table;
And a reach for salt that way
Is clearly dining déclassé.
"Mom," said my daughter Kim through a mouth filtered by bread, "I think that something has slipped in Dad."
"The only thing that's slipped," I said, "is our manners. Look, I know it's fun to eat like Vikings, but my grandmother taught me manners and I'm afraid I can't forget them. Why, I can hear her right now telling me that even my little song was bad manners. I should have scolded you in speech because it's rude to sing at the table, just as it's rude to put your elbows on it."
"But that's where they fit," said Kim, preparing to swallow a spoonful of peas.
"Well, one of your hands is always supposed to be in your lap," I said.
"You mean to catch when I spill?"
Just then, my youngest daughter rose and launched herself toward the living room.
"Yes, Lori," I called, "you may be excused."
For a long time, I have been aware that table manners in America often make no sense, than eating peas with a fork, for example, is a way to recycle them to your plate; but I am driven to such elegant dumbness by something planted deep in my brain; and the planter of this knee-jerk etiquette was my grandmother, who would have eaten pizza only with the proper knife. And so, no matter how hard I try to fall into step with the pig-out generation, I am forever forced to march to the orders of Emily Post.
Such indoctrination lingers like a smallpox shot. I can still see
...
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