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said as we turned fromBeatties Ford Road onto NC 73.

    “I’l have the AC fixed.”

    “I’l give you the money.”

    “I’l take it.”

    “What exactly is this picnic?”

    “The McCranies hold it every year for friends and regulars at the pipe shop.”

    “Why arewegoing?”

    Katy rol ed her eyes, a gesture she’d acquired at the age of three.

    Though I am a gifted eye rol er, my daughter is world-class. Katy is adept at adding subtle nuances of meaning I couldn’t begin to master. This was a low-level I’ve-already-explained-this-to-you rol .

    “Because picnics are fun,” Katy said.

    Boyd switched windows, stopping midway to lick suntan lotion from the side of my face. I pushed him aside and wiped my cheek.

    “Why is it we have dogbreath with us?”

    “Dad’s out of town. Does that sign say Cowans Ford?”

    “Nice segue.” I checked the road sign. “Yes, it does.”

    I reflected for a moment on local history. Cowans Ford had been a river crossing used by the Catawba tribe in the 1600s, and later by the Cherokee.
    Davy Crockett had fought there during the French and Indian War.

    In 1781 Patriot forces under General Wil iam Lee Davidson had fought Lord Cornwal is and his Redcoats there. Davidson died in the battle, thus lending his name toMecklenburgCounty history.

    In the early 1960s the Duke Power Company had dammed the Catawba River at Cowans Ford and createdLakeNorman , which stretches almost thirty-four miles.

    Today, Duke’s McGuire Nuclear Power Plant, built to supplement the older hydroelectric plant, sits practical y next to the General Davidson monument and the Cowans Ford Wildlife Refuge, a 2,250-acre nature preserve.

    Wonder how the general feels about sharing his hal owed ground with a nuclear power plant?

    Katy turned onto a two-lane narrower than the blacktop we were leaving. Pines and hardwoods crowded both shoulders.

    “Boyd likes the country,” Katy added.

    “Boyd only likes things he can eat.”

    Katy glanced at a Xerox copy of a hand-drawn map, stuck it back behind the visor.

    “Should be about three miles up on the right. It’s an old farm.”

    We’d been traveling for almost an hour.

    “The guy lives out here and owns a pipe store inCharlotte ?” I asked.

    “The original McCranie’s is atParkRoadShopping Center .”

    “Sorry, I don’t smoke pipes.”

    “They also have zil ions of cigars.”

    “There’s the problem. I haven’t laid in this year’s stock.”

    “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of McCranie’s. The place is aCharlotte institution. People just kind of gather there. Have for years. Mr. McCranie’s retired now, but his sons have taken over the business. The one who lives out here works at their new shop in Cornelius.”

    “And?” Rising inflection.

    “And what?” My daughter looked at me with innocent green eyes.

    “Is he cute?”

    “He’s married.”

    Major-league eye rol .

    “But he has a friend?” I probed.

    “You got to have friends,” she sang.

    Boyd spotted a retriever in the bed of a pickup speeding in the opposite direction.Rrrrppping,he lunged from my side to Katy’s, thrust his head as far out as the half-open glass would al ow, and gave his best if-I-weren’t-trapped-in-this-car growl.

    “Sit,” I ordered.

    Boyd sat.

    “Wil I meet this friend?” I asked.

    “Yes.”

    Within minutes parked vehicles crowded both shoulders. Katy pul ed behind those on the right, kil ed the engine, and got out.

    Boyd went berserk, racing from window to window, tongue sucking in and dropping out of his mouth.

    Katy dug folding chairs from the trunk and handed them to me. Then she clipped a leash to Boyd’s col ar. The dog nearly dislocated her shoulder in his eagerness to join the party.

    Perhaps a hundred people were gathered under enormous elms in the backyard, a grassy strip about twenty yards wide between woods and a yel ow frame farmhouse. Some occupied lawn chairs, others mil ed about or stood in