I have long enjoyed pie suppers. From my youth bidding on a pretty girl’s pie. Later, emceeing and auctioneering at them. They were wonderful ways to raise funds for a good cause. Years back, they bought hymnals for churches; books for schools. Store bought necessities for some family in need because of accident or illness.
They were also a way for a community to come together. To meet needs; to socialize. And among that socialization, supervised interaction between the two genders. Whether a young lady serving and dining with the gentleman successful in the bidding for her pastry, or a couple holding hands while they jigged around a circle to music.
As a rule, the man would ask a lady if she would do him the honor of “walking.” If there was consent, he would pay the fifty-cents, the price back in the day, and they would then circle to the music hand in hand ‘til the music stopped. A number would be drawn and the couple standing nearest the corresponding number on the floor would win a cake.
I and some friends were recreating this tradition this past weekend. A friend for many years, LB was demonstrating how to jig. He was joined in this endeavor by his fifteen-year-old grandson while his twenty-some year-old played the fiddle. The fiddler was joined by young Molly Clair. (Look that name up on Facebook@ Molly Clair Music).
Now, already the event was somewhat challenged as the numbers on the ground did not match the numbers in my hat. We had overcome that obstacle by the harmless charade of feigning to draw while “inventing” numbers. MC and TB actually became quite good at this.
Meanwhile, my long-time but still young-at-heart friend won a cake and decided to sit the next walk out. I gestured him towards a chair. A chair I positioned for him. LB, my friend.
As he sat, one leg of the chair sank into the edge of a groundhog hole. A hole I was aware of and had placed a potted-flower before. It was like watching a slow-motion trainwreck. As fiddle and mandolin continued a bit more of The Orange Blossom Special, a man that half-a-century earlier had saved me from a more than mad Brahma bull, was falling to the ground.
Now, as one grandson saw this from the corner of his eye and the other was rounding the end of the oval; I, the mandolin player, and a fine fiddler in her own right (look up Mary Parker Music on Facebook) saw it head on. We were laughing as he became supine.
Continued to laugh even as we negotiated the tight space to come to his aid. Between the crowded shed, the numerous people and the tears beginning to well in our eyes, we missed the real trauma. Seems the groundhog was still in his hole. A hole that now had a human appendage clawing around for a grip so as to assist LB lifting himself from the dirt floor.
Now, the music finally stopped. LB was upright. Being as adept at acting as his number-drawing grandson, he placed the now-gnarled hand in a pocket and kept smiling. The walk continued for one last round and people left. I offered to assist my good friend, but he declined. Still not totally unsure I had not placed that chair deliberately for a laugh. Muttered something about “not getting in a wheelchair and letting that guy drive!”
I will probably never look at Cake-Walks the same. Maybe not even pie-suppers. Thanks for joining us!
