“He just turned us loose,” I said. She gave Dewayne and me two chocolate cookies. I ate
mine in two bites.
Finally, the Baptists started arriving, amid a chorus of “Hello” and “Where you been?”
and “What took so long?” Cars and trucks were pulled close, and soon were parked
bumper to bumper along the fences around the field. At least one and maybe two would
get hit with foul balls. Two years earlier, Mr. Wilber Shifflett’s brand-new Chrysler
sedan lost a windshield when Ricky hit a home run over the left-field fence. The
explosion had been terrific-a loud thud, then the racket of glass bursting. But Mr. Shifflett
had money, so no one got too worried. He knew the risks when he parked there. The
Methodists beat us that year, too, seven to five, and Ricky was of the opinion that the
manager, Pappy, should’ve changed pitchers in the third inning.
They didn’t speak to each other for some time.
The tables were soon covered with large bowls of vegetables, platters heaped with fried
chicken, and baskets filled with corn bread, rolls, and other breads. Under the direction of
the Methodist minister’s wife, Mrs. Orr, dishes were moved here and there until a certain
order took shape. One table had nothing but raw vegetables-tomatoes of a dozen varieties,
cucumbers, white and yellow onions in vinegar. Next to it were the beans-black-eyed
peas, crowder peas, green beans cooked with ham, and butter beans. Every picnic had
potato salad, and every chef had a different recipe. Dewayne and I counted eleven large
bowls of the dish, and no two looked the same. Deviled eggs were almost as popular, and
there were plates of them that covered half a table. Last, and most important, was the
fried chicken. There was enough to feed the town for a month.
The ladies scurried about, fussing over the food while the men talked and laughed and
greeted each other, but always with one eye on the chicken. Kids were everywhere, and
Dewayne and I drifted to one tree in particular, where some ladies were arranging the
desserts. I counted sixteen coolers of homemade ice cream, all covered tightly with
towels and packed with ice.
Once the preparations had met the approval of Mrs. Orr, her husband, the Reverend
Vernon Orr, stood in the center of the tables with Brother Akers, and the crowd grew still
and quiet. The year before, Brother Akers had thanked God for His blessings; this year
the honor went to the Methodists. The picnic had an unspoken pattern to it. We bowed
our heads and listened as the Reverend Orr thanked God for His goodness, for all the
wonderful food, for the weather, the cotton, and on and on. He left out nothing; Black
Oak was indeed grateful for everything.
I could smell the chicken. I could taste the brownies and ice cream. Dewayne kicked me,
and I wanted to lay him out. I didn’t, though, because I’d get whipped for fighting during
a prayer.
When the Reverend Orr finally finished, the men corralled the Mexicans and lined them
up to be served. This was a tradition; Mexicans first, hill people second, children third,