About the time the first leaf turned from green to gold in Fostertown, Retta started to worry. She was in charge of the Charity Cakewalk for the upcoming Fostertown Fall Festival, and she wanted everything to be just right. This year the proceeds were going to support the Fostertown Volunteer Firefighters, and Retta was determined to have the best desserts ever because her grandfather, God rest his soul, had been one of the first trained firemen in the county.
Now Mildred was calling to say she might not be able to come through after all. Her first grandchild was due to be born over in Richmond around the time of the Fostertown Fall Festival, and she was bound and determined to be there for the blessed event. She had thought that daughter of hers never would get married.
When Retta suggested that maybe Mildred could just make her famous coconut chiffon cake ahead of time and freeze it, Mildred sighed and hung up the phone. Retta could organize anything, that’s why she was always head of the Charity Cakewalk Committee, but she couldn’t find her way around a kitchen if you left her a trail of spatulas.
As for Mildred, you sure didn’t want her volunteering for anything that required people skills. She could clear a room with that mouth of hers in less than ten seconds. But she could bake desserts that would break your heart they were so good. People always bought more Charity Cakewalk tickets if Mildred was donating one of her coconut chiffon cakes. More tickets meant more money for the firemen. (Please don’t tell Retta you’re concerned about the “gambling-like nature” of the cakewalk. She’s been round and round about this with the pastors, and after careful discernment and lots of prayer, they all agree that because the money goes to a good cause, and the worst that can happen is someone gains a few pounds, it’s not considered sinful.
Not in the literal sense, anyway. If your conscience won’t let you participate, fine. Just send Retta a check made out to Fostertown Volunteer Firefighters and she’ll make sure you get a receipt for your taxes.)
Across town, Micah Jones thought he might expire right there at the kitchen counter. This was his wife’s first time to have an entry in the Charity Cakewalk, and for three weeks now she had been making desserts of all stripes and requiring him to sample her handiwork. So far he had consumed generous servings of such sugary concoctions as Strawberry Serenade, Raisin Rah-Rah, Luscious Low-Fat Lemon, and Fig Fiesta.
Now Micah loves his wife just as much as any other God-fearing, red-blooded American husband in Fostertown can be expected to. But he simply could not swallow one more bite. So he did something he hated to do, something he didn’t even consider unless he was really tested. Micah Jones told a little white lie, yes he did.
“Mildred’s coconut chiffon cake will be a mere memory once the fine people of Fostertown get a taste of your sweetness,” said Micah. Now Micah knew this wasn’t true, for his wife could not cook to save her life. Don’t misunderstand Micah; his wife has many fine qualities. She can knit an afghan in the shape of your family crest in one weekend if you bring her the yarn before five on Friday afternoon. Every spring she volunteers to stay at the church all night for the Easter prayer vigil, when the deacon asks only that you sign up for a one-hour shift. Micah knows he’s a lucky man. But if he had relied on his wife’s cooking to keep him alive all these years, Micah would have long ago found himself six feet under with the rest of his people over on the hill at Faithful Pilgrim’s Final Rest Cemetery.
Mrs. Jones notwithstanding—she was a wild card as far as Retta was concerned—Retta had to get busy calling the other Charity Cakewalk Committee members to take up the slack caused by Mildred’s unfortunate scheduling snafu. She could probably count on her sister-in-law for another pecan pie, and quite possibly Eloise from the quilting group would bake an extra batch of her thumbprint cookies. Retta might have to promise Eloise she’d buy more Girl Scout cookies than usual from Eloise’s granddaughter, but that was a small price to pay.
As it is every fall, nothing brings Fostertown together like the festival. There are other events that get the residents excited, like the holiday musical at the middle school, and the library’s semiannual book sale. But the fall festival is special. The annual gathering on the square is more than an opportunity to eat kettle corn and buy handmade brooms from the Lion’s Club. It’s a time for the citizens of Fostertown to share their little slice of heaven with folks from neighboring areas, and to honor a way of life that celebrates such fundamentals as family, tradition, and birdhouses made out of gourds. For some of us, there’s no other way to live.