Mom's secret

SHOO FLY PIE

 

The big jug of lemonade clunks with ice cubes as my daddy puts it and our wicker basket of lunch into our Olds roomy trunk. It's sound is musical and makes me thirsty even though I had a big glass of orange juice just ten minutes ago. The greasy smell of the still warm fried chicken fills the air.'Sit down, Gloria,' Dad says as he starts the motor and we are off on our Rock Creek Park picnic.

 

Mom is the direction giver even though Dad knows the way. 'Harvey, turn right after the next Big Boys' sign: Harvey, the traffic light is turning yellow, slow down; Harvey there's a gas station two blocks away. Maybe you should fill up. Start maneuvering left.' Dad comes back at her, 'And Selma,  maybe you should shut up for a while. I filled the tank yesterday.'

 

I start to sing 'One hundred bottles of beer on the wall' and Mom stops me. 'What do you know about beer, Gloria? Choose another song.' 'Mom, all I know is 'Row, row, row, your boat' and that's a baby song.' There is silence for a while. My nose itches, my belly shouts for a piece of chicken.  I ask, 'Mom, can I have just a chicken wing now?' Why did I ask? I knew what her answer would be. 'No, not now!'

 

The ride gets prettier and prettier as we enter the park grounds. Dad warns us, 'Be ready everybody, we're crossing the Creek in a minute.'
The car bumps over rocks. The water reaches almost to the car doors. Mom is the only nervous one. Six year old Sonny is trying to color in his new Superman book and gets angry because the bumps made him go out of the lines. Dad lowers the windows half way. 'Smell the green air, Everybody.' I am the only sniffer and the air truly does smell like pine trees, green Christmas pine trees.

 

From the moment we get through the picnic ground gates, Mom has her eyes on an empty table. Dad finds a parking space and Mom turns into Wendy flying to Never Never Land. Off she dashes to claim that table, her lucky # 10. Dad sends me over to hold the table so Mom can come back and carry the heavy basket. He'll bring the lemonade and Nathan. By the time I reach Mom, she is arguing with a lady who insists the table is hers because she and her husband get it every week.  Mom tells her we got here first and she had better move her rump someplace else fast.  I whisper to her that Dad needs her to carry the basket and I should watch the table. Rebuttal, 'You get Nathan. Dad can carry the lemonade and basket. I'm not moving. Go!' Abruply she climbs on the bench and plops herself down in the middle of the table, her arms over her chest like big Squaw Pocohantus. The angry woman has met has match and moves to another table.

 

I get Nathan. Dad brings our lunch basket and lemonade. Mom is ready for us. She spreads a red checked tablecloth, lays out plastic white plates, forks, knives and paper cups. Dad pours everyone a cup of lemonade. It is cold but won't be for long. The cubes are almost melted. A big platter of fried chicken goes in the middle of the table. Mom surrounds it with pickles, home made slaw, chips and tomatoes. Our mouths water. I grab a chicken leg first. It smells great but is no longer hot. The grease remains. We devour everything as if we had been on a desert island for a month. I note a look of pleasure on Mom's face.

 

Dad takes care of Nathan who has to go to the toilet. When they return, Mom and I are swatting at a horde of flies that are hovering over our garbage. We have black trash bags, dump in some of the bones and skin, plus some flies. Mom goes back to the car for our dessert, opens the box and displays a twelve inch apple pie. It's crust is sprinkled with sugar. Dad tells her it is the most wonderful looking pie she ever made. He cuts the first slice and the flies do the rest. They swarm, they alight and almost cover the crust. Where the one slice has been given to Dad, the flies get stuck in the sweet juice of the apples. It is an ugly sight. We all wave our arms at the pests while Nathan colors Superman. Dad goes wild. He pulls off his left shoe and aims at anything that stays still for a second. He shouts, 'I gotcha, Damned Bug.' His hand slips and his shoe, the pie, the flies, fall into the black plastic trash bag. 'Leave me alone, Selma. I can't put that shoe on now.' Dad insists he can drive home wearing only one shoe if Mom will shut up for a while.

 

We head home. Right after we cross Rock Creek again, Mom speaks up.
'Harvey, we passed an Arundel Bakery shop just a few blocks before turning into the park. Let's stop, relax and have some dessert. I'll go in and bring something nice out for all of us.' She doesn't say another word until she sees the shop ahead. 'Harvey, there is a parking area behind the store. Pull in there.'

 

We all wait for Mom to come out. She is carrying a large box and a bag of paper napkins, plastic forks and a wide plastic knife. Dad is too upset to say anything, doesn't notice the new pie looks identical to the first one and easily manages to eat two big slices. Mom wipes the sugar off his face and zips her mouth until we get home.