The little girl second from right in the front row would eventually become the best pie crust-maker in the world. She told me once that she wouldn't smile in this picture because she didn't like the boy to her right and didn't want to be sitting next to him.
In my late thirties, I stayed with her in Indiana from late October through Christmas and she made me a pie every single day; she'd have one piece, I the rest. I returned to Provincetown with about fifteen additional pounds. Someone, noticing the tight fit of my jeans, said, "I see your mother must have cooked you a lot of good food while you were home." "Pies ... just pies," I said.