My favorite part of the neighborhood potlucks was always the bonding of the community. When the call went out, no matter how busy any of us were, we'd gather to share a meal and reconnect with each other. In difficult times, maintaining those bonds with our friends and enjoying moments together strengthened our purpose and our bonds.
We, the Ladies of the Green Thumb gardening club prepared our traditional chicken dinner. Nora went to fetch the guest of honor, Richard, and prepare him for the evening. I was in charge of biscuits (mine were always the fluffiest) and beverages. Sue-Ellen made those crispy hasselback potatoes and everyone was sneaking spoonfuls of Racine's Jell-O salad. Sam's bowling league pitched in to set up the lanterns and torches while the librarians made good on their promises to bring extra chairs this time. Someone thought ahead to bring sparklers and mason jars for the little ones to play with after dessert. A radio and speaker were set up on the stage, broadcasting our local classic rock station.
We all ate our fill and went about mingling, laughing, and relishing our time together.
The night's festivities were especially cheerful, seeing as all of our men had returned from the Pit. Every four months, those that had left to mine the Pit would return, sometimes haunted, sometimes injured, and sometimes in a jar. Their work was grueling and terrible. Without courage and loyalty to each other, the odds of the men making it out alive were slim. There had been those who, taunted by the wraiths that fed on their fear, had fled. Twice, those deserters had cost the lives of every man they had left behind. Following those tragedies, the community decreed cowardice to be a crime. One that wasn't to be forgiven in the community.
Tonight, every man was accounted for and only Jasper, Richard's husband, was crying.
He sat broken, retching in the corner. Screaming over the taste of chicken on his tongue.