Straight-line 12-cylinder 1938 Lincoln Saloon

By KR Slade

Sunday was, as usual, the day for Father and me to go to Lithuanian Catholic mass; and, as usual, thereafter, to return to my familiar English-speaking world. Our Sunday masses were always at our Lithuanian church -- the only one between Massachusetts and Connecticut. I never had any idea what anyone at church was saying, because I did not understand any Lithuanian. In 1958, the mass was in Latin; however, the sermon, readings, singing, and announcements were in Lithuanian. I understood some Latin, although I was only ten years old. It was the ‘everything else’ -- before, during, and after church -- that I did not understand . . .

After mass, there was our weekly tradition: a couple of ‘dogs’ at the ‘New York System’ wiener-joint, just around the corner from the church, in the old inner-city Lithuanian neighbourhood; then a drive across town to the Italian bakery for a box of pastries to take to Mother’s parents’ house for an hour or two of ‘Sunday visit’.

It was not until we were at home that Father announced the news: next Saturday was to be the first-of-the-summer-season Lithuanian picnic. Mother’s reaction was that this was going to be a lot of work for her: to prepare all of the food, for the three of us and more to share. I thought that it would be great: lot’s of other kids, to meet and play with, none of whom spoke anything but English. We all would ‘goof’ on all of the adults trying to speak Lithuanian, which the adults did not know very well, had forgotten, would be corrected, and would argue about. They would be so language pre-occupied as to leave us kids alone, for us to have our fun . . .

Next Saturday, Father’s old -- but still impressive, straight-line 12-cylinder 1938 Lincoln Saloon’s huge trunk compartment was picnic-packed. We rolled out of our driveway.

“Tom. There will be swimming, of course. Did you bring your swimming trunks?”

“Yes.”

(Mother): “Well, I hope that it’s going to be at the big lake, the water is good there. That other picnic place -- with the big pond is okay; but that other picnic place, with the little pond -- I don’t want Tom swimming there. I think that there are leeches there. So, which picnic ground is it ?”

That’s when Father stepped on the brakes, more notable an event because we were going up a hill.

“Ohh . . . ”

“Which picnic ground is it ?”

“Ohh . . . ”

“Which picnic ground is it ?”

“Well, . . . ”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“Which picnic ground is it ?”

“We’ve been there.”

“Which picnic ground is it ?”

“It’s not a problem. We will see. Everything will be okay. We will just go to the church.”

“It is eleven o’clock. The picnic is at noon. It is an hour’s drive to any of the three picnic grounds. The church is a half-hour away; the other way.”

“It’s OK; we will go to the church; and we will see.”

“What we will see is nothing; because everyone will have already left.”

“Well, we will go to the church, and we will see.”

We went to the church . . . ‘to see’ . . . and we saw nothing. Any idea of posting a notice as to where/what/when or anything about the event, was an unknown concept [both then and thereafter, and probably in the hereafter and forever]. No need to tell: ‘Everyone knows’.

We drove around the neighbourhood of the church. Father reasoned that there would be someone knowledgeable of the precise details of the event, although unable/unwilling to attend. Of course, since we were passing the New York System Wieners, we were obliged to stop for ‘a couple of dogs’, on the pretence of getting information. Mother waited in the Lincoln, with the doors locked and windows rolled-up. Somehow, she noticed the tiniest touch of mustard, and made me take-off my T-shirt.

We drove around the neighbourhood, looking for addresses. After knocking on six doors, he did find one person who knew the correct location. Now we knew which picnic ground: the one with the big lake.

From my spacious backseat of the Lincoln, a limousine-distance away from the front seat, I could see my father chain-smoking, and it seemed like smoke was coming from my Mother’s ears. However, the Lincoln leather seat soon became uncomfortably hot on my bare back, so I took to sitting on the thick-wool rugged spacious floor. Father kept a very clean car. The long drive encouraged me to change positions frequently. Positioning my feet on the back of Father’s seat was not such a good idea, because at a traffic light stop, his huge bear paw of a hand reached over and behind and caught me on my right calf, which encouraged me to find other positions. That was when I understood what was going to be the mood of this family outing.

We arrived at two o’clock: two hours late. However, there was no one there. Father praised the solitude of the lakeside forest; Mother was silent -- still-more smoke from ears, still makes no sound, but makes for a more profound stillness. We ate our picnic, in Silence.

We had too-much food. Mother was not particularly hungry. Father had a seemingly larger than his large-normal appetite. I was a tall, but skinny, kid; I never ate much; and Father kept urging me to eat more. However, after the over-eating, there was still too-much food.

A couple of other picnicking families arrived, around the lake. Father gathered up the excess food, and he and I carried it off on a give-away mission. The first family was Polish; Father spoke with them for a long time in their language; they had plenty of food and did not want any more; they gave us some great homemade pickles; Mother was not pleased that we returned with more food. The second family was Jewish, and kosher; so, it was not opportune to offer our pork-laden gifts; but Father had a long talk with them in Yiddish and Russian, and they gave us some nice sweet bread. Mother was more displeased with the more food. Father and I set-off on a walk around the lake, where we ‘lost’ our gift-food. For the resident squirrels and other creatures, it must have been a day of bonanza.

I mentioned swimming. Mother said that I could not swim alone. Father said he would swim with me. Then he remembered that he had forgotten his swimming trunks. My parents had a short discussion.

“It’s okay. I will swim in my underwear.”

“No; you will not.”

It was time to leave. We packed our residue picnic paraphernalia into the trunk of the Lincoln.

Three busses of Lithuanians arrived, from our church. Evidently, the picnic was to be at 3:30 pm.

Everyone was very cordial, but there were the inevitable questions, totally understandable, directed to my mother.

“Why did you not wait to eat with us ?”

“Why did you not bring food to share with others ?”

“You did not cook ?”

In very-good Lithuanian, Mother responded to the Lithuanian-language questions, saying, “I do not speak Lithuanian-language”.

Unfortunately, the bus ride had been long, and this early-summer day was very hot. The Lithuanian taste for milk-products was not suitable to this especially hot summer day. Personally, I do not like beets, especially in soup, more-especially with cream. Mother continued her day’s fasting; I did not want to eat more; even Father had over-eaten.

And it came to pass, that the three busloads of Lithuanians became ill; violently ill -- with some sort of great stomach distress. Father drove to find a telephone to call a hospital. Three ambulances arrived. The one doctor examined people.

One of the ambulance drivers was German, and was somewhat naturally attracted to the ‘borscht’ soup -- with the cream, on the sunny picnic-buffet. His workday ended, and his ambulance was soon to become abandoned. It was strange to see the doctor driving one of the three buses -- all to the hospital.

We drove home in the Lincoln. Mother said nothing. Actually, she said nothing for about a week, which was the same amount of time that Father slept in the guest room. Maybe it would not have been so bad if on our way home Father had not said, “As I told you, everything will be okay; we will see.”

I had a great time at the picnic; well, at least before everyone else ate, and before I experienced ‘sympathetic vomiting’. There were lots of other kids to play with; and there was good swimming. I met a cute Lithuanian girl, although she was two years older. I told all of the kids the story of how we came to our Lithuanian picnic; they all laughed. She told me, “You tell good stories.” I became more interested in going to Sunday mass. Five years later, she was my date at my Freshman Prom.

“Everything will be okay; we will see.”

The foregoing article is ‘fiction’, an excerpt from “T.F.”. Then again, maybe it is a ‘fiction’ to say that it was ‘fiction’; you can never know with ‘fiction’ . . .
All Rights Reserved: 2006

Note: A version of the foregoing story was published in the October--November 2006 issue of the Canadian subscriber's journal, 'Dialogue' magazine (www.dialogue.ca)