Dinner for… Fifteen?
I love reading John Rankine’s Dinner for Six. And given that I no longer frequent Eureka’s living room—or any other Carroll County site—I’m not likely to be the target of his inquiry. So, I’m left wondering: Does he spring questions on his interviewees spur of the moment? Or do they have time to ponder the answers beforehand? Do they even know they’re going to be interviewed—or are they suddenly faced with listing 5 dinner guests off the top of their head?
I don’t do well with spontaneity. So I’ve been pondering my dinner guests (for my own amusement). Which is probably a mistake—because I can’t seem to narrow the list down to five. Doubtless, the longer I take, the longer the list will be.
I definitely want Jimmy Carter, who moved mountains for social justice. A Christian who, as far as I could tell, followed the teachings of Jesus rather than tweaking the Holy Bible to suit his political agenda. I went to Jimmy Carter’s church to hear him preach, and have a photo of me, my husband, and our daughter with Jimmy and Rosalynn. But we didn’t exchange more than a few words. Dinner would have been better. Oh my, maybe I’m inviting Rosalynn too! This list is tricky.
In fact, I don’t know that I’d want all my invitees at the same dinner. I’m hearing impaired. I miss stuff. Especially in a group, when exchanges are often short back and forth volleys. I wouldn’t want to miss anything. Of course, I suppose at this fictional feast I could have a sound field system (I mean, if I can have dead people to dinner, surely I could also be granted the use of an expensive piece of audio equipment for one evening), a lovely device that makes it sound like the speaker is sitting on your shoulder talking right into your ear.
I’d like to invite Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger who used their songwriting and music performance skills to fight for social justice. Right up my alley. And I play a long-neck banjo—a Pete Seeger invention. I’d like to thank him.
Willa Cather. Maybe proximity to this incredible writer would help me produce something more enduring than a weekly column.
Oh, crap. That’s five already. And I’m not done. See? Answering spontaneously could muck me up good.
Buddy Guy. The man’s voice and guitar virtuosity are the sexiest thing ever. His music has lit my fire since I was a teen.
Nelson Mandela—same basic camp as Jimmy Carter. And Woody and Pete.
Hey—maybe Jesus Christ. I’m not religious myself, but I’d like to hear, from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, exactly what he meant by the parts of his prescription that most often get twisted or misquoted. (Oh, if only he’d make a YouTube video to quell the righteous red rage masquerading as Christianity.)
Kirk Ashworth—I want to say I’m sorry for time I wasted with impatience or contrariness, even though I know he loved me regardless. And I want him to see how strong I’ve grown since he died. I think he’d approve.
Bram Lewis, a recent Rankine interviewee—because I like the way his eyes smile when his lips do likewise, I’m short on reading nerds in my new life, and I want to crash his dinner for six. I could definitely extend my guest list to include all his invitees. And I’m going to the library to find a copy of Stardust, by Neil Gaiman, on Bram’s recommendation. I’m always looking for a good book.