January 22, 2004

Days after the holidays, my sister called; she was sending her table leg elevators to the ranch so her wheelchair would fit under the dining room table. Point being that at Thanksgiving and Christmas, she ate sidesaddle at the end of the table, packing a handicap of one against 18 at one feast day and a full nine at Christmas. My first response was to remind her that at age 13 she started eating at my table in a series lasting on and off until she graduated from college.

For support, I turned to an etiquette guide at the ranch — a gift offer from the Book of the Month Club that Mother ordered after World War II. Mother's edition didn't address the conduct and hosting of long-term guests, so pertinent during the Great Depression times of in-laws and cousins dropping by for a couple of months or maybe a layover of 90 days. (In the 30s my stepdad and mother attracted non-paying boarders like a Harvey House on a busy passenger line.)

Mother's book was also too early to cover behavior at guest ranches. Try as I might, was unable to recall the exact wording of my invitation for Christmas and Thanksgiving. Remembered telling her dinner was at one p.m. for each occasion, but couldn't recall offering to board her during 2004.

I returned to the book and paged back through the guest etiquette. Then I researched the chapter on packing lunches the night before to speed departure of overnight guests. Browsed out of curiosity a chapter headed, "Sleeping Potions Suitable for the Late Hour Guest." Failed to find any reference on altering the dining room table to meet the guest's dimensions, or preferential seating arrangements.

On her next call, she reopened the discussion of elevating the table, ignoring my question about whether the other guests were going to be resting their chins on the table edge, leaving kids to stare underneath the table. Refused to even listen to my suggestion that she saw the arms off the wheelchair or deflate the tires to make it accessible to all tables.

"No, no," she replied, "we are only going to raise my end three inches. Is three inches too much to ask on a plateau 2560 feet above sea level in a ranch house settling on its foundation that many inches a year?" (Visualize temper here — hot, smoldering temper. Unreasonable temper.)

"While we are disputing who runs this ranch house you are deprecating, my dear little princess," I said, "I want to remind you that as pitiful as the ranch is, I run a sheep and cow outfit, not a guest ranch for dudes demanding special tables." (Score this as a fulfilling retort, a slam from my side of the net.)
            
On she came: "Nobody said you were running anything. I bought the elevators to go under the dining room table legs at my ranch from The Vermont Country Store for $18 plus shipping. You, big brother, are going to put two on my end of your table. If the table tilts, write The Big Anchor Gift Shop for a set of heavy-bottomed dishes suitable for sailing the high seas."

From there the conversation wound to an end. She knows I am too good-hearted to refuse her wishes. But give in on the table and the next thing will be reserved parking for her wheelchair in the living room.

Next time she's invited to the ranch, (and it may be awhile) a waiver is going to explain the conditions of the premises and services offered. Then if "little miss princess" is dissatisfied with the table height, she can use her Vermont Store elevators as shims under her wheelchair for a safe landing at Dairy Queen.

January 22, 2004

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