It’s Wednesday. This morning, on Wordsmith.org, I read potlatch.
That’s right:
potlatch. noun. 1. A party or get-together. 2. A ceremonial festival among American Indians of the Pacific Northwest involving feasts, lavish gift giving, dances, etc.
The word itself looked intimidating. I took a deep breath and popped my knuckles. Think positive, I told myself.
I researched the word elsewhere (aka. avoided the issue of writing about it). I scratched out one draft of a story that oozed dramatics. I went back to the original word, scrambled the letters, and created a list of potlatch proxies.
patch, latch, lap, hop, halt, hot
Then, I thought of Millie, a character in my WIP, and wrote a scenario that might suit her story.
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The last time I posted about Millie, she was choking down a Mega-Mix vitamin. Today, she fell victim to a birthday party gone awry….
Millie suspected trouble when she couldn’t park near her mother’s house. The giant “Look Who’s Forty!” birthday banner, stretched over the front door, proved that her mother went overboard.
A voice rang out behind her. “Lordy, look who’s forty! It’s the birthday girl!”
Aunt Harriet held a large crock pot. Quinn and Brenda walked up behind her. Aunt Harriet kissed Millie on the cheek. Quinn, Aunt Harriet’s son, nodded. Brenda, his wife, carried a gift that was overshadowed by the scowl on her face.
“Happy Birthday, Millie,” Brenda growled.
Millie followed them inside and to the kitchen. She said hello to her mother then turned to see a host of nondescript faces standing in clumps in the back yard.
“Mother.”
“What is it Millie?” Her mother mixed potato salad with a wooden spoon and a wild hand.
“Those people.”
“What people?”
“In the back yard, mother.”
Still mixing, her mother looked over at Millie and rolled her eyes. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Millie. Those people are your relatives.”
Brenda leaned over to Millie. “She’s turned this thing into a family reunion.”
“And, a few friends,” her mother continued.
“What friends? What relatives?” Millie felt light-headed.
“Brenda, go peel some carrots,” Millie’s mother snapped. “And, Millie, did you bring the cake?”
She held up a round two-layer cake under a hard plastic cover.
“That’s it? Oh my word.”
“You just said bring a Red Velvet cake. You didn’t say how big.” Millie sat down.
Aunt Harriet stared at her sister in disbelief. “You asked her to bring her own cake? Really, Katherine.”
“Well, I was in charge of the invitations, the lunch, and the party games. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
At “party games,” Millie excused herself and went to the bathroom. She sat on the toilet and tried not to throw up.
After ten minutes, her mother pounded on the door and insisted Millie get out back and mingle. She went outside, but stuck to the porch and hid behind a pillar as best she could. At first, she only recognized a few of the younger cousins. Then, standing along the fence, she saw her two neighbors, Mr. Lewis from across the street and Mr. Millstead from next door.
Mr. Lewis saluted. Mr. Millstead grinned. Millie lifted her hand in a half-hearted wave.
After lunch, Millie’s mother blew a coach’s whistle. She thanked everyone for coming, hoped they were enjoying the food and refreshments, and invited all the men to participate in a strong-man’s competition called the 50 yard Millie dash.
“And the winner of the 50 Yard Millie Dash will win this brand new Weber grill!”
Some ooo-ed, some ahhh-ed, others stood and stared. Still, a handful of men gathered around her mother to hear the rules of the game.
“Carry Millie for 50 yards as fast as you can. Whoever crosses the finish line in the least amount of time wins the grill!” Her mother clapped to get the crowd going.
There were too many people to measure 50 yards from the porch to the fence. So, someone pulled out 50 yards of rope and figured three wide laps around the picnic table would suffice. Her mother pulled Millie to the front and center.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Millie whispered.
