MEMOIR Family Reunion Patti Capel Swartz IT WAS AN EARLY JUNE RITUAL. We piled into the green Dodgeseven of us, three in front, three in the rear—me standing between, holding the side strap. The picnic basket, carefully loaded in the trunk, was surrounded by boxes of food covered with sheets of newspaper to keep it hot or cold: pressed chicken and potato salad, cream for coffee, hot scalloped potatoes and ham, banana pudding crested with browned meringue, three apple pies and one blackberry pie, all warm from the oven. In the cool, dim pavilion, we spread white linen cloths across picnic tables and began the ceremony of placing our food on the table. The ritual passing began; food moved from the hands of one family to the next, down the long line of tables, across the gaps between rows, until the dishes were empty. Mountains of potatoes and corn topped by chicken and ham mounded on plates too full to hold another speck. When food slipped from Aunt 'Becca's plate to drop in 70 her napkin, her meals for the coming week tied into a hobo bundle after the dinner was through, relatives glanced slyly at each other, but no one saw. When plates were empty, even of the third piece of blueberry pie, grownups, sated, "passed the hat" to collect the expenses of the day. It was then that Mother lifted me onto the table, and I sang "Daddy's Little Girl" and "My Blue Heaven," piping and trilling in a four-year-old voice. Up and down the long tables, heads bobbed and waved, and a roar of approval rose around me, threatened to smother me. Reeling through a forest of arms, delayed by hugs of female aunts and cousins, I struggled to escape to the duck pond, the green grass outdoors, air soft with the breath of the trees, not the harsh hot breath of relatives. The hum of the pavilion followed me, the sound of a swarm of worker bees on holiday. Swinging high, then jumping from the swing, I ran back for candy scattered in the grass, posed for the family photo: rows and rows of aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters captured in black and white "to be mailed as soon as the prints are done." The youngest, like me, sat on the grass, families behind: older siblings in a second row, mothers and fathers in third or fourth rows, brothers and sisters still standing together. When afternoon shadows grew long, dark brown canvas bags opened, sizzling steam rising from dry ice within. A cousin pulled cups of vanilla ice cream, each with its own wooden spoon packed on top, like rabbits from a hat handed around for our pleasure: magic, the soft taste of vanilla melting at the edges of the cup, a miracle on a hot summer's day. Conversation ebbed. Then good-byes echoed from pavilion walls. The holiday was ended. Strong-muscled men and women packed baskets and boxes in cars, shrilled for children to hurry. Empty pie plates and dishes rattled in our trunk as we headed home. Sleepy, I curled on the ledge below the back window and listened to talk: Uncle Alvie arriving in a new car, could you believe it? a new car at his age, and they gave him twenty-five dollars for his Model A; cousin Alice coloring her hair, a scandal of vanity; how well Great-Aunt 'Becca looked even though she was eighty-nine and ate for weeks at a time treasures collected in her napkin at reunions and church suppers. Home now, cows lowed, waiting to be milked and fed, horses whinnied, chickens scratched for feed. Tired, chores complete, we ate cold meat, the leftovers of the day, and fell into dreams: I of Aunt Mary's devilishly delicious chocolate cake, Hershey's kisses and Mary Janes in the grass, dry ice so cold it burned, and vanilla ice cream, flavored by a wooden spoon. 71 ...
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Nov 30, 2005
Ichiko Fuyuno 
