I'm ashamed to admit I hadn't been to a church social in years. A friend invited me to one on Labor Day. I confounded myself by accepting. I'm not a big mixer.

For a pageant with no script, box socials (and the characters that populate them) have not changed much since I first experienced one in about 1956. Apart from the elevation at which I view things these days, the only discernible difference between that one and this was my promotion from one of the auxilliary card tables set up for "us kids" in the rumpus room to a place of relative honor at the head table near the preacher and his wife. But much is to come before that.

The first faction through the door is the phalanx of food preparers. It is primarily comprised of wonderfully plump ladies of indeterminate age dressed in a delightful array of cotton print dresses and pant suits made of orlon. In they file with their offerings, burnt and otherwise. Each item is paraded through the vestibule encased in one of a dizzying array of casserole dishes, cake pans and tupperware bowls that have had the air dutifully burped from them the night before.

These delicacies are not immediately surrendered to the serving line. First comes the requisite recipe exchange held in the kitchen. It isn't just an exchange of recipes of course, it begins with a round of friendly accusations about the contents of the container each holds.

"Did you make your pineapple upside down cake again Lily?"
"Yes. But I'm afraid it will be awful. I sent Sherm to the store and he got crushed instead of cubed. I specifically asked for cubed...but you know Sherm."

The ladies all nod their understanding and with sympathetic eyerolls let Lily know they all have Sherms at home who, by word, thought or deed have done their best to sabotage the sacred, family recipe.

Of course the truth is that each delicacy was pre-planned, prepared, pre-tested and generally worried over for for the best part of the previous week. The only thing Sherm had to do with any of them was to get his fingers smacked with a wire whisk if he tried an unauthorized taste test.

Meanwhile, out in the dining room, small clumps of "Sherms" arrange themselves. Each wears bad bermuda shorts with a mismatched banlon shirt and dark socks. most complete their ensembles with an unfortunate choice of baseball cap sporting the logo of the manufacturer of their favorite farm implement. They talk by turns assuring each other how old they feel and what kind of mileage their trucks get while voicing doubts that their air conditiioning compressors will last much beyond next summer.

The very elderly are there too. Each insists, and rightfully so, that his or her wheelchair be locked in place at the busiest crossroads of activity.

Next come the young ones invariably led by a redheaded boy of 8. He carries a squirt gun and runs everywhere with a no-nonsense look on his face. He always seems up to something even if he never actually does anything wrong. He is a natural suspect in any unexplained catastrophes that may befall the event.

Next come the teenagers. The girls wear shorts and rock group tee shirts with sandals. Each is embarrassed to be there. The boys wear jeans, teeshirts with slogans assuring us that something rules and running shoes. Each is embarrassed to be there. Both spend the balance of the event circling one another cautiously while firing off hormones at an alarming, if long distance, rate.

At a silent cue the preacher will rise and make some announcements. They will involve next week's baptismal schedule and the flagging fund to pave the parking lot. He will then announce the ground rules for the serving line.

First served are pregnant women and those with tots or infirm for which plates must be prepared. They are to be followed by visitors and, finally, everybody else. There will often be a cautionary reference about next week's sermon topic being on gluttony followed by gentle laughter and a wafted prayer.

Everyone rises and bows and the preacher thanks God for things like beautiful days, fellowship and good food while asking it be blessed for for the nourishment of our bodies. After amens, the assault on Lily's upside down cake and a host of other delicacies, begins.

After the carnage and the meal is cleared the clack of dominoes hits the tabletops and two hours of "Moon" and "42" ensue broken only by occasional sorties flown over the leftovers.

The day may have held few surprises but I think that is what we have ceremonies for. It gives us all a warm feeling to return to a place that is friendly and familiar. Religious aspects aside, I found it refreshing to be among people who were dedicating themselves to just being pleasant to one another. Some of us need to spend more time immersed in those gentle waters.

I can't think of a nicer way to mark the end of another summer.