I am not legend but I am lore

So after the wedding and reception on Saturday, despite the execrable weather and two- to three-hour journeys into the darkness in store for everyone, we moved our immediate family a few miles away to Atlanta Bread Company at Greenville's Cherrydale shopping complex.

It wasn't that we hadn't had enough socializing and rich food for one day.

See, my second and fourth children's birthdays are exactly one week apart.

As in, Audrey's is March 22nd and Andrew's is March 29th.

And since we could not all be together on either of their birthdays because they fell on Tuesdays and we all work during the week, not to mention we all live in different states, we decided to celebrate following the wedding.

I was too lazy busy to bake a cake, so on Friday night I sent TG to the store for a ready-made one.

OK so I'm not Debbie Domestic! Step off. Bigger fish to fry and all that rot.

Everybody ordered a beverage and a few ordered food and we pushed two tables together. I put all the presents at one end of the commodious space and the cake and birthday plates at the other end.

I had brought my own serving utensil for ease in divvying up the delectable cake (strawberry crunch), planning to deliver dizzyingly huge planks of the confection to each of my assembled brood.

Now, here's where the story gets interesting.

When we arrived at the wedding earlier that day, practically the first person I saw after divesting myself of my dripping umbrella was my Aunt Linda.

Aunt Linda is my mother's only sister and she lives in Atlanta.

I don't get to see her very often so of course I was overjoyed. We sat together during the ceremony.

The wedding didn't start on time, giving us ample opportunity to get caught up. Aunt Linda said she had a story to tell me and she hoped there was enough time.

I looked around. Everybody was milling and talking. The bridal party were nowhere in sight. "You've got time," I said.

Whereupon Aunt Linda launched into a tale involving a family we both knew from the early '70s when we were all members of Forrest Hills Baptist Church in Decatur, Georgia -- the church where TG and I were married.

This particular family, name of Johnson*, had a mom, a dad, two daughters, and one son. The girls were around my age; the boy was much younger.

My Aunt Linda proceeded to tell me that she happened to be a guest in the Johnson home not too long ago, and that inevitably the conversation turned to the old days at Forrest Hills.

No sooner had the topic switched to said subject than the Johnsons dared my Aunt Linda to take a wild guess as to whose name from our distant shared past at FHBC came up the most at their house.

Aunt Linda couldn't imagine, so she gave up almost before even trying. "I don't know. Mine?"

At least she made a stab at it.

"Nooooo!" The Johnsons chorused. "It's Jenny McManus!"

In other words, me.

I stared at my Aunt Linda, wondering (and frankly, a trifle worried) why in the sam hill my name -- a name, by the way, to which technically I have not answered in nearly thirty-two years -- would come up at the Johnsons' at all, much less with any sort of frequency.

I mean, the last time I recall clapping eyes on a Johnson, Jimmy Carter was midway through his single term as the worst president in anyone's memory.

"Whaaaa ..." I began.

Aunt Linda was eager to fill in the blanks. She told me that in the Johnson household, there is a story about me cutting and serving cake at weddings -- and for all I know, other events -- held at Forrest Hills Baptist Church when I was a teenager.

And as the Johnsons tell it, I was KNOWN for being stingy with the dimensions of the pieces of cake I carved out and plopped onto plates for people to eat.

So much so, that TO THIS DAY whenever ANYTHING is too small for the liking of anyone in the Johnson clan, they whip out their code taunt of "It's a Jenny McManus!"

Or something similarly ridiculous.

Lies! All lies!

I felt my hackles rise as Aunt Linda neared the end of her little revelation. She noticed and, wisely, sat back and waited.

She knows me all too well.

First of all, I began. I have absolutely NO MEMORY of EVER being asked to cut or serve a cake for any social occasion, nuptial or otherwise, at Forrest Hills Baptist Church.

I didn't even drive, for heaven's sake. I only showed up at church with my mother and maybe a few times when a friend gave me a ride. I certainly wasn't on the cake-serving committee.

Second, I continued, if by chance I HAD been asked to serve cake, I most certainly would have, BUT I would have done exactly as I was told with regard to the size of pieces to dole out.

Not only that, but come on, people. If you wanted another piece of cake, you could've just asked for it. Or better yet, served yourself.

Aunt Linda was amused at how het up I got over it.

Well, she said, don't worry about it. You'll never convince the Johnsons otherwise. As far as they're concerned it's, like, engraved in STONE that a stingy morsel of anything is a Jenny McManus.

Hmmmmph.

Talk about being unjustly accused. I serve lavish portions of simply everything. You can ask anyone.

So anyway, as we arranged ourselves at ABC in Greenville on Saturday and prepared to devour every last crumb of our cake, I told my family the story Aunt Linda had told me earlier in the day.

We were all laughing and commenting as I took up my cake-serving utensil from home and began cutting into our dessert. One by one, with a point to prove, I heaped thick slices of whipped-creamy strawberry-crunchy cake onto happy birthday plates and handed them to my left down the table.

Only, Allissa was seated directly to my right. Not only had she heard the terrible story of her Mamaw being parsimonious when cutting long-ago cake, but she was watching the cake of the moment dissolve piece by piece and go the opposite direction of her no-doubt watering mouth.

TG watched Allissa watch me. He saw it when concern began to furrow her brow, but she never said a word.

There was plenty for everyone ... even Allissa. And we ate it all.

Then we gave Audrey her presents and Andrew got a few presents and soon enough it was time to face the music: the cars weren't going to drive themselves to their respective homes.

All the way back eastbound on I-26 headed for Columbia in relentless rain, I thought about the things we hear and believe about people -- things of which seemingly nobody has the power to dissuade or disincline us -- that may not actually be true.

But what can you do?

My advice is to cut ever-larger pieces of cake. Everything else will come out in the wash.

*In the interest of protecting absolutely no one, the name has not been changed.

Comments

[Mari]

I can't believe your good name has been slandered for all these years! Thanks for sharing it though - it gave me a laugh this morning.

[Donna (Texas)]

Hahahaa.....parsimonious.....I haven't heard that since my Mother was alive....
hughugs

['Aunt Amelia']

Wow! What a thing to hear, about one's self! Eeeeek!

It would "frost" me no end.

And there's not much of anything you can do about it.

Is there?

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

:-)

[Debbie]

Lies, all Lies, ha. You have such a wonderful family and never a dull moment, or one without food either,

Debbie

[Sue the hobbit]

Well, Jenny, you get the last word, 'cause you have a blog! Ain't it wunnerful?

[Donna M.]

I think you need to get their address and send them a cake! What a hoot of a story!

[irene]

I CANNOT believe for one minute that you were so stingy. Leopards don't change their spots, and look how generous you are. Clearly there is a grave mistake. Silly people, I'd have to change religions if I were you. Ha Ha.

[dapoppins]

Best story and advise ever!

Bigger pieces of cake!