I watched my mother as she utilized the community center’s gym space to help organize the supplies for the Founder’s Day Picnic. She’d asked me to help her do inventory on what was on hand for the picnic and whether or not there were any last-minute items we would need to get.

“Grace, did you count the table clothes?” she asked.

“One hundred and three. Is that going to be enough?” I asked. Most of Lone Star would turn out for the event. The town council provided lunch for a small fee and every year, it was decorated to the max. Lone Star had even been featured in Country Times magazine a few years back when Mrs. Reynold’s pie entry garnered four-hundred and ninety-five dollars—the most anyone had ever bid for a pie—and she donated it to the magazine in the hopes it would help “bring the periodical back to the good old days.” After that, Lone Star changed the rules to say the proceeds from the pie auction had to go to a registered not-for-profit organization designated by the person who had bid the highest.

Mrs. Reynolds was eighty-six and still believed the world lived in the fifties. Along with her beehive hair-style that she’d worn since the late sixties, her car—which everyone around town knew—bless her heart, was a 1954 Hudson Hornet that took up most of the road when she drove around.

“We had eighty-three tables last year. I’m hoping so,” my mom replied.

“What else do you want me to count?”

“There needs to be two-hundred and six flags—two for every table. Plus, Sally Mae is supposed to be stopping by to drop off some pleated-fan flags. That way, they can be attached to the fronts of the food tables.”

“Here she comes now,” I said as Sally Mae walked across the gym carrying two large trash bags.

“They’re plum full of flags. All I could find in the storage shed behind Town Hall,” she said, slightly out of breath.

My mother and I each grabbed a bag from her and began pulling the banners out.

“How long have they been in storage? Some of them aren’t in the best shape,” I said, as I pulled a few half-rotted ones off the top.

“We used ’em last year. Hopefully, they ain’t all bad. Grace, congratulations on your pie entry. Your mom told me. Think you can beat the reigning champ?”

An odd amount of pride filled me as I considered the idea of my mother bragging about me to her friends. I glanced at my mother, who was waiting for my answer.

“I’m going to do my damnedest to try,” I said fiercely.

“That a girl. Good luck! I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sally Mae pointed to my mom as she turned on her heel and walked out of the gym.

“Don’t act so shocked that I would be proud of you for winning a ticket for the auction.” My mother picked up her trash bag and flipped it over and all the banner flags dropped into a pile at our feet.

“It’s a big deal,” I said. It was a big deal and I was proud, but I wasn’t fully trusting that she wasn’t looking for what she might garner from this.

“There you go again. You think for one second I can’t manage to be happy for my own daughter?”

“No. I believe you.” I didn’t want to start an argument so I saw no point in opening my mouth about what my real thoughts were.

“Just forget it, Grace. Why do I even try with you?” She reached for my bag, still two-thirds full and yanked if from my grasp.

“Why do you even try with me? I’m sorry, but almost all the time you have some sort of agenda. Excuse me for thinking that you’re simply proud of me without seeing what you could get from the ordeal.” When her eyes darted to the left, not returning my gaze, I knew I wasn’t wrong about my assumption.

“The Cattlemen’s Ball is constantly trying to raise money throughout the year. Every little bit helps. All I’m saying is it would be nice recognition if you won, to bake pies for the silent auction. Much to your dismay, it’s not for me as you’re so inclined to believe.”

That was fair. But it still had to do with her. When she wasn’t drinking, she wouldn’t press the issue as much as she would if she was drinking. Then, she’d be all in my face about how selfish I was to not agree to help with the ball.

“Well, it’s a moot point right now because I haven’t won anything.”

“Keep it in mind,” she said. “If you won, people would be thrilled to be able to purchase one of your pies at a later date.”

I shrugged non-committedly. She was proud of me for winning a ticket to the pie auction because there was a chance she could raise more money and awareness to the Cattlemen’s Ball – if I helped her by baking pies.

Was I wrong to want to feel that maybe just once she could be proud of me or happy for me without trying to further her agenda? The rest of the time went smoothly and I did my best to put my hurt feelings aside – I was used to it.

It wasn’t until she began arguing with a group of middle-aged men who came into the center—wanting to use the gym for basketball—that I’d realized she’d been drinking.

“It’s off-limits. Find somewhere else to play,” she pointed toward the door.

“Mind your own business. We’re here to shoot a few hoops,” one of the men told her.

“Mom, it’s fine. They can play on the far side-”

“No, it’s not fine. We have everything out. They need to leave.”

“The center is open to the public. You can’t tell us what to do,” said another guy. He was the one holding the basketball. “Come on, guys. Fuck her.”

“Excuse me? Don’t talk to me like that.” My mom stepped forward into the guy’s face, the basketball between them. My heart beat like crazy and I was scared. Scared of what she might do – of what they might do.

“Mom! It’s fine. Sorry, she’s over-protective about all of her hard work in here.” I pulled my mom’s arm. “Come on. It’s not a big deal if they play over there.”

“I know where you come from,” she said to the guy who still held the ball. “I know you never amounted to anything worth a damn. You need to-”

“Fuck you, lady. You don’t know shit about me.”

“Mom! Stop!” I yelled.

Horrified, I used every ounce of energy I had to pull her away from the basketball players, when Jackson, the sheriff of Lone Star, walked into the gym. This had to be the worst day of my life.

“What’s going on here?” Jackson asked.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “My mom was under the impression that the gym was closed to the public while we got everything organized for the picnic on Saturday. It was all a misunderstanding. Right, mom?”

“They need to leave,” she said. Her response wasn’t as heated as before and I was hoping that was because she recognized the danger she could be in with the sheriff involved – public intoxication wasn’t something she needed.

“Technically, the gym has to remain open unless it’s been rented out for a private event. I’m guessing that isn’t the case here.” The group of guys were already shooting hoops, fully aware of how wrong my mother was.

“We’re using it for the picnic,” my mom said. As if she were exempt from following the rules.

“It was a misunderstanding. It’s not a problem. We’re sorry we caused any trouble. She hasn’t been feeling well and it’s gotten the best of her. I better take her home. This won’t happen again. Come on, Mom. I will drive you home.”