Mother believed in enjoying herself. Aunt Mimi believed in enjoying herself, then feeling guilty about it. If a celebration wasn’t connected to Our Dear Lord or some obscure saint. Aunt Mimi harbored grave suspicions about the frolic.
Those punctuation points of pleasure like the Memorial Day barbecue, the Fourth of July parade, the butchers’ picnic in August and the York Fair were eagerly anticipated by Mom and me. Hanover even had a nice horse show, which was exciting.
Softening up her sister started two weeks before the nonholy event. Mother would make a cup of coffee, light a cigarette, then pick up the phone, which was a party line. Every person who wasn’t disgustingly rich had a party line. When you lifted the receiver you might hear another conversation. Courtesy decreed you hang up and wait for the line to be free.
Mother perfected the trick of picking up, putting the receiver in the cradle with a click, then carefully lifting it so she could eavesdrop. Since most people on our party line were farmers, she grew bored with weather stories and crop reports. She’d hang up for real.
When she used the phone the reverse was true. Her conversations sparkled. The neighborhood listened in. That infuriated both Mom and Aunt Mimi, who loudly decried the practice even though they did it themselves. The issue had less to do with privacy than with the fact that both sisters wanted to be first to spread their own news.
Mother would say, “Sis, I’ve been thinking about the butchers’ picnic. Butch is in charge of—”
Aunt Mimi would interrupt, “Now, Julia, I told you I don’t have time for that this year. I’ve got to put up my baby corn and …”
Women made jams, pickled cucumbers and beets, and boiled peaches in heavy syrup at the hottest, stickiest time of the year. Bad enough that your shirt stuck to your body outside, it was a good fifteen degrees hotter in the kitchen. The vegetables or fruit, once prepared, would be put in Ball jars, which were in three parts. The top would be sealed with wax. A small square of cloth was put over that and tied with twine. The food could last years if the process was properly done.
Mother would listen to the litany of excuses and then beg her sister to come along. “It just won’t be the same without you.”
“I can’t, I’ve got too much to do.”
The next morning this performance would be repeated. The first week of calls and encounters, Mother would always tell Aunt Mimi that everyone would be miserable without her, and Aunt Mimi would use any excuse she had except for declaring she had to go to St. Rose of Lima and do the Stations of the Cross.
The second week Mother would imagine the games that she’d win: bingo, horseshoes and poker on the side. She’d enumerate the dishes she would pick out for her prize, the glasses, maybe even something new and really expensive like a mixer. And she wouldn’t mention that we’d miss Aunt Mimi.
The protests weakened on the other end of the line.
Meanwhile, Dad and Uncle Mearl would have worked out the details of who would carry the kids, the blankets and the extra clothes we always took in case someone fell (or was pushed) into the pond. The men worked well together. They had survived many a Buckingham battle, which drew them close together.
The next time Mother saw Aunt Mimi she’d solemnly inform her that she’d figured out how to get all of us kids to the picnic without Aunt Mimi’s car.
The day after that she’d casually remark that the picnic fell on the Feast of the Immaculate Heart of Mary and that she, herself, had devised a morning prayer to honor the BVM.
The Thursday before the picnic she’d take the bus down the hill to her sister’s, walk in the door and plop the big wicker basket she carried down on the kitchen table. Aunt Mimi, with her good eye for space and design, had a wonderful, airy kitchen.
I tagged along, since vacation Bible school lasted only six weeks and by this time I was free and glad of it.
“Sis, I brought you some jars, wax and twine. I’ve got stuff left over.”
Aunt Mimi would open the basket and thank Mother. Then they’d have coffee while I had lemonade or Coca-Cola.
Pretty soon I’d be hearing, “It’s supposed to be dreadfully hot this weekend.”
“A real stinker,” Mother nonchalantly replied.
“I wonder if I should put off canning for a couple of days.”
“Too much heat can soften the brain,” Mother solemnly informed her sister.
“Yes, I’ve heard that, too.”
Of course, Aunt Mimi would go to the butchers’ picnic.
This picnic stands out for me because Eugene had graduated from high school, class of 1951, and was working in the store. Girls trailed him to the picnic, although he had invited only one. Out of high school for almost a year, he decided to enlist in the army and serve his tour of duty. This was his fling before all that.
The dreadful gloom from the deaths of Big Mimi and Virginia had finally lifted.
A large turn-of-the-century bandstand stood down by a pond. You walked over a curving bridge to reach it. Colored lanterns hung overhead, casting liquid light on the lily pads. It was romantic.
For us kids there were swings, baseball and horseshoes, and dodgeball for the teeny-weenies.
The men pitched horseshoes and played baseball too.
There were also mixed teams so the ladies could play, but this was after the men’s game. Mom said the men played for blood. No quarter asked, none given, but after the dust settled the men clapped one another on the back, repairing to the open-air square wooden bar. Injuries heal faster with ice-cold tap beer.
I would accompany Dad to the bar. He’d sit on a stool or stand with his foot on the rail. I’d sit on his broad shoulders or on the bar. I must have been marginally amusing because the men laughed at my chatter. No one looked cross or told Dad to get me out of there.
I also stood on the bar and sang a song about a perfumed Persian cat, the words of which I remember to this day. That must have been a huge hit because the bartender gave me a small glass with real beer as a reward.
Dad told me I could drink it. People didn’t fret then as they do now about cigarettes and alcohol. If my dad thought I could drink a small glass of beer, then I could. I did and no ill effects were suffered, nor did I transform into a raging alcoholic.
I rushed back to Mom, Aunt Mimi, Julia Ellen and the group surrounding them to announce that I had drunk beer.
Mother laughed.
Aunt Mimi surprised us by saying, “On a hot day it tastes better than anything.” Then she really surprised us by going over to the men’s bar, where Dad bought her a big mug.
By early evening we’d eaten ourselves into a stupor.
Before the dancing began, eagerly awaited by everyone but us kids, the band played a cakewalk. Mother and I were a team, team eleven. We won a devil’s food cake with creamy vanilla icing. You would have thought we’d won the Irish Sweepstakes because we jumped up and down, hugged and carried our prize back to our gang, where we ate some more.
Mom said the trick to a cakewalk wasn’t just being lucky enough to hit the right number, it was in the glide. You didn’t walk, you glided. I practiced gliding.
The band played “Red Sails in the Sunset,” “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” and other songs from the thirties and forties. Kenny, Wadie and I took turns dancing with one another until we got bored and sat on the bridge to listen to the bullfrogs.
We could see the men lining up to dance with Mom. She was a terrific ballroom dancer. Her perfectly shaped legs didn’t hurt, either. Aunt Mimi wasn’t quite as good as Mom, or at least that’s what I thought, but the men crowded around her too.
They enjoyed more admirers than women half their age, but then they always did, even up to the end.
Dad, who couldn’t dance, sat on the sidelines and watched Mother be the belle of the ball. He loved seeing her happy. After a time, he came down and sat with us on the bridge.
I remarked that the pond was full of stars. The different-hued lantern lights washing over the water looked like colored comets streaking across the surface.
Everything was perfect.