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The Pershing Pastry of Thunder Bay
I have a connection to Art Bennett that goes back to my childhood. My mother would claim that her neighbor growing up, Mrs. Bennett, was the same Bennett that owned the famous Bennett’s Bakery. It was her husband, or maybe her brother? that invented the famous Persian. In later years the Nucci and Mauro families took over, and Mrs. Bennett was just another retiree living next door to my grandmother.
So far, any research I’ve done into the subject hasn’t yielded much information. There aren’t any records of Arthur’s siblings or children, which doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t have any, but the fact that he sold the bakery instead of passing it on to his kids is also telling.
My mother always told me to stay out of Mrs. Bennett’s backyard. There was no fence between her place and grandma’s, so it was easy for me to wander a few steps east and into her back garden. It was hard to stay away from the old birdbath, heavy lilac bushes, and that old mysterious shed.
One time, she saw me playing close to the dirt mounds in the garden, rows of turned earth where she put actual plants. And she decided to give me a hard time, but she picked the wrong kid to mess with.
“That’s where I buried my husband,” she smiled sweetly, as if it was the most innocent thing in the world.
“No, you didn’t,” I countered, smirking at her.
“I most certainly did,” she countered, and the game was afoot.
“No, you didn’t.” All four years of me was dead serious. I wasn’t backing down,
“How do you know I didn’t?” She leaned forward, calling my bluff, daring me to explain myself.
I answered with a moment’s hesitation.
“Because when we buried my Uncle Tommy a few months ago, they put him in a coffin and buried him in a cemetery.”
So I know you couldn’t have buried your husband in the backyard.”
Mrs. Bennett’s face changed at that moment. As if she wasn’t dealing with a child anymore. And that’s how Mrs. Bennett became one of my first and best friends.
When I think of the Persians of Thunder Bay, that’s what I remember. My first best friend.
Cristina in Oaxaca 