She Set the Table: A Little Commotion about Mom

My mom was inclined to categorize things by how much commotion was generated: “A lot of”… or “such a”… or “so much.” Generally speaking, she was anti-commotion.

So she may not be in favor of the following. But a lot of this was already shared at her memorial service on February 6th, 2023 (she passed away on December 14, 2022) and this is my blog, so…

Part of the earliest soundtrack of my life is my mom calling “Come and eat!” (I believe I’ve pinpointed the pitch — while she wasn’t exactly singing, she seemed to hit the A above middle C, or thereabouts). From our various points around the house on Hampshire Drive, we would pour into the kitchen and sit at our designated place around the table to enjoy whatever Mom had prepared. It wasn’t fancy, but it was always tasty. Sometimes we got take-out burgers in black-and-white checked waxed paper, with chocolate malts from Porky’s Drive-in at 57th and Lyndale or chow mein from Cathay’s at 54th and Nicollet, but usually it was Mom’s home cooking. I fondly remember having roast beef sandwiches often after church on Sundays, especially after my sisters were married. Mom set the stage for family memories like that to happen, just by setting the table.

When I reflect on my mom’s influence on my life, that is what it comes down to: she set the table. As eloquently stated by my niece, Eva Bjork Cone, on Facebook, “She seemed to live her life behind the scenes, yet her quiet service there was the foundation of our family and provided the many warm memories I have of our extended family all together.” That really is how I think of my Mom: She set the stage for our gatherings.

She appreciated beauty in all its forms and created beautiful spaces at home, at the cabin, and at their place in Palm Springs. With her careful attention to the details — in our everyday gatherings and special occasions — she set the table for our appreciation of beauty. Of traditions. Of family.

Like all who are counted in “The Greatest Generation,” Valerie Shoberg Eastlund’s life spanned a century of remarkable change, as well as notable moments in history in her nearly 95 years of life. The doctor came by sleigh to deliver her to Melvin and Violet Shoberg on December 26, 1927. The earliest memories she could recall, in her late 80s, included a time that she was set on top of the family’s dining table and was surrounded by aunts, uncles, etc., teaching her to say words like “underpants” in Swedish. Another memory was of being sent out to the field as a very young girl with her grandpa’s lunch, which included a small, mysterious container that she Just. Had. To. Open. Grandpa’s snuff blew away in the wind.

Not given to a lot of talk about herself, these memories were few and far between. I once asked her younger sister, Marlys, what she remembered about my mom as a big sister, and she said something like, “Well, she could sure snap a dish towel at you.” The youngest sibling, Mylo, didn’t realize Valerie was his sister, but he sure thought his brother Warren — who played football with him in the back yard — had a nice girlfriend.

Mom took things in stride without much fanfare, and she did so with dignity, elegance and grace. For all that, she could also show a playful, spontaneous side from time-to-time. I remember one wintry afternoon — I was 14 or so and she probably thought I had watched enough episodes of Gilligan’s Island after school — when she suggested we build a snowman. Years later, she crawled into a refrigerator box in my living room to play house with Erik, and pitched to him when he first started swinging a bat. She could giggle like a school girl when her sister-in-law and former gal pal Joann Gustafson was around, and we loved getting her to wheeze with laughter at the family dinner table.

While organizing our thoughts for Mom’s memorial service, and then as we emptied out her assisted living apartment, I enjoyed the surfacing of long-forgotten memories of experiences and moments with Mom. Our dad passed away in his 70s so we didn’t observe the same gradual decline of his life that we did with Mom. She nearly made it to her 95th birthday, and her strength and energy had noticeably ebbed over the past five years. It has been lovely remembering her in her prime once again.

Case in point: while there was no question of my mom’s love for my dad, I fondly remember when she had what I would call a “housewife crush” on Phil Donahue. I believe she, along with some friends, went to be in his live audience when he taped his show in the Twin Cities in the 70s.

In our reflections of our mom during her memorial service, Kris shared her memory of how Mom would serve us imaginary beverages — complete with sound effects — from the “fountain” in the window crank on long car rides, and of how impressed she was with Mom’s bowling shirt, ball, and stylish bag when Mom was part of a league. She spoke of how Mom loved her grandkids and grieved when her grandson, Jeff, died of cancer. Kathy recalled the way Mom made our home at the holidays seem magical — complete with holiday stencils applied with floor wax on the windows in their first house in Richfield. She remembered summer days at Lake Nokomis, followed by root beer popsicles at the TomTom drive-in, and how Mom had a few ways of letting boyfriends know when it was time to go home. Without saying a word.

A girl’s relationship with her mother is complicated. It can be fraught with tension, conflict, and friction. We all experienced that in varying degrees with our mom, and if you multiply that by four you get some idea of what she faced. And with the oldest two, who are twins, it was moody angst — plus Clearasil — doubled. Yikes and wow. Someone gave her a sign she hung up at the cabin: There’s a Special Place in Heaven for the Mother of Four Girls. But even as we knew she was the Meanest Mom Ever, we also knew she loved us and had our best interests at heart. And as we grew to adulthood, becoming mothers ourselves, we perhaps cut her some slack.

Nothing cements a relationship like hours spent in a VW van, laughing over passport pictures (Fine. It was mine, only, that prompted guffaws).

Time after time, she set the table for us. And she did so with very little commotion.

The next thought saddened me as I realized we will not be able to take the four-generations photo of Kirsten with her baby and me with my mom. Unlike my sisters’ grandkids, my children’s children will not meet my mother. Such is the lot, sometimes, for the youngest in the family. But there are ways we can help them to know her.

It starts with setting a table.

As Kathy said, our family customs are due to our mom “and the traditions she shared with us.” As Karin said, though Mom never considered herself a leader, “she led in more ways than she knew.” As Kris noted, mealtime was epic, because it was “served with a side of great family banter.” Whether it was roast beef and twice-baked potatoes or fried chicken and Rice-a-Roni, the table Mom set was the backdrop for meaningful connection.

As she approached the end of her life, Mom set the table for us once again as she showed us what trust looks like. She believed that Jesus loved her and had prepared a place for her. We’re thankful to know that she is now seated at the table he has set for her.

We’re thankful that she listened when she heard, “Come and eat!”

Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good!
Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him!

Psalm 34:8