A Short Story on the Website of
Aunt Vi's 4th of July
When I was young, we always spent the 4th of July at my Aunt Vi’s. She
lined up tables in her front yard, and all the relatives brought salads, jellos,
potatoes, meat dishes, and desserts galore.
Every year after dinner, my Uncle Lewis would pronounce loudly, “Sis,
bring on the rhubarb pie!” Everyone would laugh but me. I didn’t even like
the sound of the word rhubarb pie. Obviously, he was playing to the
crowd, but I was happy he left the real desserts for me.
One 4th of July when I was about 14, my mother stood behind me and
whispered, “You’re going to eat some of Aunt Vi’s rhubarb pie, or you’re
watching fireworks with the family instead of your friends.” When my mother
whispered instructions, you’d best follow them. She handed me a small piece on
a paper plate.
I sat by myself, openly distraught, as if anybody cared. I cut a small
piece and lifted my fork. I thought, “Down it quickly and don’t gag.” With
squinted eyes, I thrust the fork into my mouth. To my surprise, the pie was not
bitter, but sweet, with a tang of strawberries. “Hey, this was good!”
Every 4th of July thereafter, I always sang out loudly - before Uncle
Lewis, “Aunt Vi, bring on the rhubarb pie!”
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