by Hannah Russell

Created on: May 17, 2010

My mother was always into those Ladies’ Aid things at the local Presbyterian Church. You know the things.  Where they all get together to gossip about whatever it strikes their fancy to gossip about.  For the most part, I looked it as something that she just did.  Who was I to argue?  But once a year, I did protest.  Because it was The Annual Ladies’ Aid Summer Potluck.  And, to celebrate school being out, they were supposed to bring their kids.  And I really didn’t want to go.

I would protest every year.  First, I would protest nicely, saying, “Oh, Mother, don’t worry about me.  I don’t need to go.  Just take the others so that you don’t have as many to keep track of.” 

Not surprisingly, this did little in terms of getting her off my tail.  “Jim, honey, don’t worry about it.  You’re the oldest and I don’t really have to watch you much anymore.  All the ladies would miss you if you weren’t there.  They’re so fond of you, you know.”

Lowering my eyes that my ploy had not brought any success to speak of, I would leave the room and plot some more.  The next time I protested, it was more open.  “I don’t really enjoy them much, Mother.  I could just stay here and clean up a bit.”

This time she turned from her flowerpot and looked at me resolutely.  “Jim, I would like you to go.”

Yes, this should have been enough for me.  No, it was not.  If I went to that potluck, it was going to be nothing but homemade ice cream and lemonade, ladies all around me, doting on how big I had grown and how much of a man I was becoming.  They would all sit there discussing the latest gossip as well as their internal complaints and act as if I was either too deaf or too unintelligent to hear it all.  But that wasn’t the worst.  When they got bored of that, it would be matchmaking time. This was the worst.  Before long, I would have a list of girls that I should pursue, listed from first choice to last acceptable choice, sometimes even written down.  So, I was not ready to give up on not going to the potluck.

I made one last desperate attempt. Whining out, “Mother, I really do not want to go to the potluck. Please don’t make me go,” I pushed my weight into my heels a little, as I clasped my hands in begging. 

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