Free Funeral Hotdish by Jana Bommersbach Page A

celery for dicing. Norma Stine started opening, by hand, the twenty-four tall cans of tomato juice because Wanda Bach was already using the electric opener on eighty-four cans of soup. That left the onions for Mary Entangle, who complained she always got this job, and nobody bothered to tell her that if she wasn’t always late, she’d get a better task.
    The rest of the circle took over the dining room, setting out paper placemats with napkins, forks, knives, and glasses. Salt and pepper shakers were scattered on the tables, and nobody was too happy to see most of them needed refilling—another item to raise at the combined circle meeting next month. The silk flowers K.C.’s dad had donated years ago went out, each sitting on a paper doily. So did the mismatched collection of toothpick holders—one a tiny beer barrel, another a wee lantern, one a shot glass with the words “Las Vegas.” Gertie, for one, hated them. They looked tawdry on a funeral lunch table, but nobody dared leave them off and nobody had bothered finding the pretty collectible ones that were classier.
    General Motors could learn a thing or two about assembly-line precision from watching the Judith Circle get ready for a five hundred-plate funeral dinner.
    As busy as they were—as solemn the occasion—any notion that these women did their assigned tasks in silence is nonsense. Except when she’s actually measuring an ingredient or double-checking the recipe, silence isn’t a normal part of a woman’s cooking routine. If she’s alone, she’s likely to be talking to herself, reciting the steps she’s taking or counting out the measure and scolding herself when she spills the flour—“Oh, you sloppigoose.” But when she’s with a group, this is the time to “visit,” to be polite about it, or gossip if not.
    Their first choice was not to talk about why they were here or how awful the next few hours were going to be or how could poor Nettie ever pull through this, so they talked about the things that gave them a reason to keep going.
    “Did you know I’m going to be a grandmother again?” Mary offered the news that always brought joyful congratulations. “My third!”
    Angie said that was nothing, she already had seven, which set everyone to counting. By the time they were done, they figured the grandmothers in the crowd—excluding Gertie and her sister, Wanda, of course—could claim a total of sixteen. The younger women, who had a total of twenty-one children yet to raise, were silently praying for the relief of grandmotherhood.
    Maggie reported she expected Joya home for Christmas. Norma said they weren’t going to Arizona this winter because Bernard’s dad wasn’t doing well. Angie said her family planned a winter reunion and she expected seventy-five. One of the town girls reminded everyone there was a wedding dance this weekend at the Legion Hall and knowing it was the Schultz clan, everyone expected a good time and a plentiful bar.
    A farm wife said her husband was beside himself because corn prices had fallen again. “He says what good is it to spend four dollars a bushel growing corn when it’s selling for three dollars?” Everyone voiced their agreement.
    Gertie used to have her own contributions to these brag-fests, even though she’d never had children of her own. But she could tell about “my Amber,” the girl who fulfilled all her mothering fantasies. She’d cared for Amber since she was born, as Nettie fought off the depression of her husband’s death and then searched for jobs to support them. Gertie had been there through the knee scrapes and the first bike ride; she read her books and then collected books for the voracious reader Amber became. She’d taught the girl to sew and crochet, stood up for Johnny when no one else would, supervised Amber’s homework, and never missed a basketball game. “You should see the dress my Amber is making,” she bragged while making one funeral dinner. “My Amber is