Harvest Supper
Jane McLean, August 2018
Mid-October--that most beautiful time of year--promises two occasions in 1956: my eighth birthday and harvest supper at the Grange Hall. The sunny fall Saturday has turned into a cool evening. At the Grange our family joins my great-aunt Barbara Carll and cousins Polly and Sue. My sister Nancy, brother Chuck and I adore our teenage cousins, fun-loving and always ready for an adventure.
A dog howls in the spooky darkness, and Polly says, “I think that’s the Hound of the Baskervilles.” Sue adds, “Or the Headless Horseman.” We rush shrieking toward the building, looking forward to the supper, followed by entertainment and an auction. We troop upstairs to the low-ceilinged dining room, greeting friends and finding seats together at a long table.
We sit with our Nana and Grampa, Vera and Byron Butterfield. I’m puzzled: How can youthful and lively Auntie Barb be the youngest sister of our serious, elderly grandfather? I don’t understand the twenty-three-year gap. Chuck is barely a year older than I am, and we’re always getting into trouble together.
Auntie Barb leans across the table. “Byron, isn’t this part of the hall the original meeting house?” “Yes, they took it apart, brought it down the hill, and put it back together.”
Herb Curtis asks, “Vera, which pie is yours?” “Why, Herb, I made the squash.” He winks and says “I’ll be sure to look for it.” Her eyes sparkle.
Our mother wonders, “How do those Grange ladies put on this supper in that little kitchen with no running water?” We know the Grangers have been to Butterfield Farm that day for ten-gallon milk cans filled with water. Grampa calculates the weight: “Let’s see, ‘a pint’s a pound the world around,’ so each can weighs about eighty pounds. But how do they carry them up those narrow stairs?”
In aprons and with faces flushed, Edna Humphrey and Arlene White bring out steaming plates of New England boiled dinner. We pass the dishes along the table, Nancy gagging slightly at the cabbage and me at the beets.
The old folks enjoy the meal. “They got the cawn beef over to the meat locker in Hillsboro.” “Real tender, and not as salty as last year’s.” We think this is great! If the grown-ups keep talking, maybe our parents won’t notice our untouched turnips.
We wait impatiently for the best part of the meal--pie. Flossie Putnam moves briskly from table to table, clearing plates and taking pie orders: “Apple, squash, or mince?” She reminds us, “Save yaw fawks.” We cousins amuse each other by sticking our tongues way out as we lick our silverware. Flossie amazes us by remembering each pie order and getting every one right.
After supper, we go back downstairs into the big meeting room. We walk around the tables displaying blue hubbard squashes and crocheted doilies. A boy holds horse chestnuts in his eyes, saying, “Look at me, look at me.” We laugh, but his sister flounces away. “I don’t think you’re a bit funny. In fact, I think you’re verry rrude.” We laugh even harder. Across the room, Grampa gives us a “You kids behave” look, and we quiet down, briefly.
There’s entertainment before the harvest auction. Nana, with her lovely alto voice, and Lester Hill, a tenor, sing “In the Garden” and “Whispering Hope.” The old folks listen with eyes closed and sweet smiles. I’m so proud I want to burst out, “That’s MY Nana up there!” But I remember Grampa’s stern look, and besides, everybody already knows how we’re related.
Mr. Hill is also the auctioneer, and I’m fascinated by his fast talk. How does he do it? Sue and Chuck jabber in imitation, and we can’t hold in our giggles. On a whim, and because I have a quarter in my pocket, I bid on a bunch of Guy Hulett’s celery, and win! Our dad buys a bushel of MacIntosh apples from Andy Lane’s orchard. People comment to him, “They’ll make good eatin’ this winter.” “Put ’em down cellar--they’ll keep.”
All too soon, the festivities are over. We head out into the clear, cold, starry night filled with “Good-bye!” “Goodnight!” We have one last joke with our cousins before going home. Polly starts it: “I don’t think you’re a bit funny.” Sue adds: “In fact, I think you’re…” And in hilarious chorus, loud enough to wake our ancestors over in the Center Cemetery, the five cousins shout: “VERRRY RRRRUDE!”
Jane McLean, August 2018
Mid-October--that most beautiful time of year--promises two occasions in 1956: my eighth birthday and harvest supper at the Grange Hall. The sunny fall Saturday has turned into a cool evening. At the Grange our family joins my great-aunt Barbara Carll and cousins Polly and Sue. My sister Nancy, brother Chuck and I adore our teenage cousins, fun-loving and always ready for an adventure.
A dog howls in the spooky darkness, and Polly says, “I think that’s the Hound of the Baskervilles.” Sue adds, “Or the Headless Horseman.” We rush shrieking toward the building, looking forward to the supper, followed by entertainment and an auction. We troop upstairs to the low-ceilinged dining room, greeting friends and finding seats together at a long table.
We sit with our Nana and Grampa, Vera and Byron Butterfield. I’m puzzled: How can youthful and lively Auntie Barb be the youngest sister of our serious, elderly grandfather? I don’t understand the twenty-three-year gap. Chuck is barely a year older than I am, and we’re always getting into trouble together.
Auntie Barb leans across the table. “Byron, isn’t this part of the hall the original meeting house?” “Yes, they took it apart, brought it down the hill, and put it back together.”
Herb Curtis asks, “Vera, which pie is yours?” “Why, Herb, I made the squash.” He winks and says “I’ll be sure to look for it.” Her eyes sparkle.
Our mother wonders, “How do those Grange ladies put on this supper in that little kitchen with no running water?” We know the Grangers have been to Butterfield Farm that day for ten-gallon milk cans filled with water. Grampa calculates the weight: “Let’s see, ‘a pint’s a pound the world around,’ so each can weighs about eighty pounds. But how do they carry them up those narrow stairs?”
In aprons and with faces flushed, Edna Humphrey and Arlene White bring out steaming plates of New England boiled dinner. We pass the dishes along the table, Nancy gagging slightly at the cabbage and me at the beets.
The old folks enjoy the meal. “They got the cawn beef over to the meat locker in Hillsboro.” “Real tender, and not as salty as last year’s.” We think this is great! If the grown-ups keep talking, maybe our parents won’t notice our untouched turnips.
We wait impatiently for the best part of the meal--pie. Flossie Putnam moves briskly from table to table, clearing plates and taking pie orders: “Apple, squash, or mince?” She reminds us, “Save yaw fawks.” We cousins amuse each other by sticking our tongues way out as we lick our silverware. Flossie amazes us by remembering each pie order and getting every one right.
After supper, we go back downstairs into the big meeting room. We walk around the tables displaying blue hubbard squashes and crocheted doilies. A boy holds horse chestnuts in his eyes, saying, “Look at me, look at me.” We laugh, but his sister flounces away. “I don’t think you’re a bit funny. In fact, I think you’re verry rrude.” We laugh even harder. Across the room, Grampa gives us a “You kids behave” look, and we quiet down, briefly.
There’s entertainment before the harvest auction. Nana, with her lovely alto voice, and Lester Hill, a tenor, sing “In the Garden” and “Whispering Hope.” The old folks listen with eyes closed and sweet smiles. I’m so proud I want to burst out, “That’s MY Nana up there!” But I remember Grampa’s stern look, and besides, everybody already knows how we’re related.
Mr. Hill is also the auctioneer, and I’m fascinated by his fast talk. How does he do it? Sue and Chuck jabber in imitation, and we can’t hold in our giggles. On a whim, and because I have a quarter in my pocket, I bid on a bunch of Guy Hulett’s celery, and win! Our dad buys a bushel of MacIntosh apples from Andy Lane’s orchard. People comment to him, “They’ll make good eatin’ this winter.” “Put ’em down cellar--they’ll keep.”
All too soon, the festivities are over. We head out into the clear, cold, starry night filled with “Good-bye!” “Goodnight!” We have one last joke with our cousins before going home. Polly starts it: “I don’t think you’re a bit funny.” Sue adds: “In fact, I think you’re…” And in hilarious chorus, loud enough to wake our ancestors over in the Center Cemetery, the five cousins shout: “VERRRY RRRRUDE!”