An afternoon of running errands with Great Grandma often entailed some sort of trip to Baker’s Square. The meal was usually mediocre, but the pie that followed was always amazing. As the years went by, I started doing the driving instead of Great Grandma. What never changed is that Great Grandma ALWAYS paid.
Great Grandma said that she needed to pay for the meal because she was using my gas as I drove her about. Of course, she usually insisted on stopping at Costco on the way home so she could fill my gas tank as well. “You’re in college,” was her usual excuse.
I graduated from college and moved back in with my parents and Great Grandma after my efforts to find a full-time teaching job fizzled. There was still lunch and pie, but never at my expense.
I managed to land my first full-time teaching gig in 2005, few days before Christmas. The next day, I took Great Grandma on an excursion to finish her gift shopping and of course we needed lunch and pie. I figured today would be my treat, as I was excited about my new job and I wanted to celebrate.
In my attempt to pay, I was slapped by Great Grandma and informed that I was unable to afford to take people to lunch “on a schoolteacher’s salary.” The Saturday trips to Target and the hair salon continued and still I never paid for lunch and pie.
The school year wound to a close and I was informed that my services would no longer be needed in Becker, Minnesota. Clark County had impeccable timing, having their early offer of employment waiting for me in my mailbox the day I received the axe. Another new opportunity was upon me and there was another reason to celebrate. However, Great Grandma still insisted on paying for lunch and pie on those trips to Baker’s Square.
With my relocation to Nevada in 2006, the trips to Baker’s Square were relegated to three or four times a year. I would gladly give up a day of each of my visits to take Great Grandma shopping or to the hair salon. Still, the lunch and pie was on Great Grandma. “You need to live on that schoolteacher salary,” she often said. I often wondered if she thought that I was completely destitute and living in a cardboard box. In fact, she still insisted on slipping me grocery money each time I came to visit. I would always try to refuse, but she never had it. “It’s a pity what they pay you schoolteachers,” as she forced the money into my hand.
This past Christmas (2009) came along and I struggled for days trying to figure out what to get Great Grandma for Christmas. At the age of 93, she quite possibly owned everything. Finally, I decided that her gift would be a certificate declaring that we would go to lunch at a restaurant of her choice at my expense.
Unfortunately, the scheduling never quite worked out and the lunch did not happen during my Christmas visit. The night before I flew home, Great Grandma reminded me that in fact owed her lunch and that she would be “collecting” during my next visit to Minnesota. Great Grandma hellbent on receiving her lunch and pie, even if it meant a little chunk out of my “pitiful schoolteacher salary.”
Great Grandma never collected upon her gift. She passed away on March 22, 2010. In true form, she slipped me a little cash on the way out. This time in terms of the down payment for the house she knew I wanted to buy.
Today I decided it was time for that last lunch with Great Grandma. I walked into Baker’s Square. I imagined Great Grandma next to me, with the tops of her white curls barely grazing my shoulder. Inside I found a restaurant far worse for wear than I remembered. The carpet was fraying, the woodwork warped, and the booth cushion was being preserved through duct tape.
I made my selections from the tattered menu and found enjoyment in my over-grilled sandwich and salty-bland canned soup. There wasn’t a story that I had heard hundreds of time over coming from the other side of the booths. Yet I still performed the exact pattern of convincing “I am kind of listening, even though I have heard this story more times than I can count” head nods.
After the mediocre meal came the pie. Even though it was served on a chipped and knife-scratched plate, it was still every bit as good as I remembered.
I left a ridiculously large tip for my server, settled my bill with the cashier, and walked out of Baker’s Square. I had proved my point. I could in fact afford lunch and pie on my pitiful schoolteacher’s salary. Somehow, I suspect that Great Grandma is still going to find a way to pay me back. It was just her nature.
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