The Humble Stragglers Dinner

It's 3:41am. I can't sleep. I hear the cicadas, crickets, and tree frogs, and the occasional barred owl or coyote outside. Summer sounds. The sounds of the oppressive heat. Longing for cooler weather and life outside of climate controlled confinement have me thinking of all the things I love in the Fall and Winter months. One of my favorites is the humble Stragglers Dinner. My grandmother used to refer to this sort of event as "scruffy hospitality."

Though I am an introvert, I enjoy being around good people. I enjoy observing and listening. Occasionally, I enjoy interacting when I feel I have something meaningful to contribute. As an empath, I can sometimes wear other people's energy like a cloak. It can be dark and heavy, or it can be light as gossamer. Selfishly, hosting a Stragglers Dinner gives me a chance to surround myself with people who are bright, humble, compassionate, mindful, happy, generous, open, and loving. It also brings me back to my childhood in rural Illinois. People visited. It was okay just to pop in somewhere, or for others to pop in at our house. It didn't matter if there was laundry being sorted and dishes in the sink, and when a mealtime came around, we'd scrounge something together to feed everyone. It could be buttered rice, sausage patties, and cornbread. It could be chili or soup, spaghetti, or whatever we could cobble together out of the pantry and fridge. It was never ever fancy. The adults would sit about and chat, or sometimes work in the garden or at some other project, helping each other out. The children would run free in the fields or small-town streets and alleys, only coming back when the moon was all the light left, or when the streetlights shone in town.

Longing for those simple feelings of friendship and community, wanting my children to have some of that experience, I began hosting what I call Stragglers Dinners. It's slightly more formal. I do invite people. I don't even know anyone who just drops by anymore. I cook up a big batch of soup or something, maybe make a salad or dessert. Everyone brings something to share, and I encourage them not to be fancy. We make a fire in our fire bowl in the backyard and put out the s'more makings and Skeetyjuice (my homemade mosquito repellent). Everyone is invited to bring their hula hoops, glow sticks, camp chairs, musical instruments, singing voices, and leave their worries at home. The children run free in the backyard. The adults gather in the living room, in the kitchen, or outside around the fire. Sometimes people will sing and play their instruments, sometimes not. Sometimes someone will be inside playing the piano, which mostly becomes background noise.

This is a social scene I cherish. It's good energy by design. I can sit quietly and mind the fire, enjoying the interactions around me. I can sing or hum along. I can strum a ukulele or clap out a beat. I don't worry people will judge my week's worth of laundry sorted and unwashed in the laundry room, or a freshly utilized litter box. They look over our bookcases, overlooking the dust, and we have a good conversation about literature. I marvel at how their babies are growing. We hate to call it a night, but slowly people straggle away to put their little ones to bed, or to snuggle up in a warm bed themselves. Me, I tidy up whatever is left to tidy, pray with my family, tuck my babes in bed, and cuddle into bed smelling of woodsmoke and a crisp evening outdoors. All is well.