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Page 49
My father was up before everyone. He would have returned from a local bakery with Danish pastries by 7 am. Coffee, tea, juice, Danish and the sweet, ripe fruit that was a constant at Milford stilled hunger pangs, until everyone was assembled for brunch. We had a big brunch with grits, scrambled eggs, bacon, ham and toast. Frequently for dinner we would have my mother's specialty, fried chicken with macaroni and cheese casserole, salad, corn and iced tea. A favorite desert was peeled, sliced, ripe, sweetened peaches.
It would be one big, gregarious mass of black humanity, talking, laughing, eating, moving inside and outside the house. The Fourth of July and the bookend weekends, celebrating my mother's birthday and my parents' wedding anniversary in late August, were overflowing with people. I look back on it now, in 1999, when it's rare for most folks to have more than four people over for dinner, one night a week, and I wonder, "Week after week, summer after summer, how did they do it?"
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