The Church Basement Where It All Began

The church ladies

Word travels fast in a Lutheran church, but the St. Paul’s ladies know how to keep a secret when it counts. By Sunday afternoon there were six of them around my kitchen table with coffee and a plate of bars.

Shirley Olson brought the old church directory from 1976, the one with the stapled spine and the photos of every family in their Sunday best. She had a pen behind her ear and a legal pad, and she meant business.

“Who’s on the steakhouse list?” she asked.

Shirley went down the names with her pen. A lot of them were Todd’s friends from the dealership, and Mom and Dad’s friends from the couples’ bowling league, and cousins from out of state.

“Where’s Arlene Brekke?” Shirley said. “Where’s the Haugens? Where’s Clarence?”

“I don’t think Todd knew to ask them,” I said.

“Clarence was an usher at that wedding,” Shirley said. “He’s ninety-one. He hasn’t driven to Des Moines since the Carter administration.”

That was the other thing. Des Moines is an hour and ten minutes from us on two-lane and interstate. Half of Mom and Dad’s oldest friends do not drive after dark anymore, and a six o’clock supper in October means coming home in the black.

Shirley and I made the list right there. Everybody in the old directory who was still living. Everybody from the funeral lunch committee. The neighbors on both sides of the farm. The kids Mom had given their first haircuts to in her front room, who were grown now with kids of their own.

When we were done, we had eighty-two names. Shirley said two of them would not come, mark her words, and she was right. Clarence’s nephew had to bring him, but he came.

Bev Lindquist had been quiet through all of it. She is sixty-eight now, and she was there in 1976, a girl of eighteen in a yellow dress, carrying the mints around on a plate because her mother made the punch.

“I have my mother’s punch recipe,” she said. “It’s on an index card in the church kitchen drawer. It’s been in that drawer since Nixon.”

Lime sherbet. Ginger ale. Pineapple juice. A can of frozen lemonade. That was it. Four things.

“My mother always said the trick is you don’t stir it,” Bev said. “You let the sherbet float. That’s what makes the foam.”

Calling Todd

That night I made myself call my brother. Not a text. A call.

I sat out on the back step so Pete would not hear me if it went badly. The yard light was on, and I could hear the Nelsons’ dog barking two places down.

Todd picked up on the fourth ring. I could hear voices behind him, and a car door, and somebody laughing. He was still at the lot at eight o’clock at night.

“Hey, Lis. Did you see the menu? They’re doing the bone-in ribeye. Mom’s going to flip.”

“I saw it,” I said. “Todd, I’m doing something for them too. A little thing. The Saturday before your dinner, at St. Paul’s, in the basement. Where they had their reception.”

There was a pause on the line.

“The church basement,” he said.

“Ham buns and punch. Like the pictures. I want you there.”

“Saturday’s my biggest day on the lot,” he said when he came back. “End of the month, I’ve got numbers to hit.”

“I know.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “I’ll try, Lisa. Why are you doing this? We already have the dinner.”

“Because they’d like it,” I said. “That’s all. Two o’clock. Come if you can.”

“Okay,” he said. “Don’t tell Mom about the ribeye, it’s a surprise.”