The Demise of Picnics

Somehow walking makes me nostalgic. This morning was no exception. As I walked, this warm April morning that boasted smells of spring and rain, I thought about picnics I have known, and why don’t we ever have picnics anymore?

Mom was the picnic instigator….packing some bread and butter, milk, and some fruit, she would jump into the black Ford with the three of us and go find a picnic tree. It always had to be a tree that was graced with our presence. After we ate we explored the area, and then back into the car, minus the seat belts, and the car found its way home.

One afternoon in Clinton, Oklahoma, I wanted to have a picnic. Mom said, “All we have to eat is a can of pork ‘n’ beans, and it is too much for you.” After a bit of verbal tussle, Mom allowed me to take the can of pork ‘n’ beans in the backyard for a picnic. She also allowed that I would be sick, I would get tired of pork ‘n’ beans and I shouldn’t eat too much. I spooned the ambrosiatic beans into my mouth under the large elm tree and felt so at peace with my world. Mom’s allowances didn’t happen. I still love pork ‘n’ beans, I didn’t get sick but I was fully satisfied.

Birthdays were always fair game for a picnic. I remember one particular picnic that resulted in banning homemade ice cream from my diet for about 10 years. Yes, we picnicked in a sandy area where a slight wind blew. The bowl of ice cream soon had granules of sand that entered my mouth. Sandpaper against my teeth. Crunchy ice cream. No amount of chocolate could eradicate the gravelly remembrance of that bowl of ice cream.

Then there were Midnight Snacks. I didn’t realize until later that it was just after dark on those delightful evenings in our luxurious south yard on a carpet of grass. Each of us, Jim, Gene and me, had a job to do. Jim made lemonade, Gene made popcorn and I made fudge. We trooped out to the yard with our contributions and enjoyed them. Since our Midnight Snacks included a Family PowWow, we all sat crosslegged in a circle and discussed weighty family matters. It might be ‘why we didn’t have enough money for our 5 cent allowances for the week’, or it might be ‘what chores we were responsible for’. One night we discussed Grosmom Siemens and her death. That was the night I allowed myself to cry. I missed my Grosmom. The fudge ingredients became scarce with World War II, but the Midnight Snacks and the Family PowWows continued.

After marriage, I realized a difficult prospect in my life. My husband did not enjoy picnics. He would rather not eat outside with the bugs and the ants and the inconvenience when we had a perfectly good kitchen. Somehow that didn’t deter him from suggesting a picnic for our daughter Anna’s 1st birthday. I labored all morning on a birthday cake (no Walmarts back then), potato salad, sandwiches and other things were packed in a basket and we jumped into the car — not a black Ford this time – but an upscale 1956 stationwagon. We found a picnic table in the nearby park. We prepared to eat. And just as we began, Anna, standing on a park bench, fell face first into her birthday cake. The surprised look on her face was enhanced by the white frosting. We packed up and went back home to eat in our perfectly good kitchen. Our three sons did not argue, it was almost nap time.

The last notable picnic I remember was also orchestrated by my dear husband. After teaching all day I came home and he suggested that we go fishing. The sandwiches were ready. The boat was ready. I changed clothes blithely choosing to forget all the previous picnic disasters. We fished awhile. Putting the wiggly gooey worms on the fish hooks, I shivered. Poor little worms. Remembering the ‘hooked’ experiences, I decided I needed to eat a sandwich. What? No place to wash my hands? I could feel the goo of the worms with every mouthful. I wiped my hands on my pants, but knew the DNA of the worms could be harvested. (Too much CSI) The sun was sinking in the west as I began to eat. Later I wanted to rest and my dear husband had placed a lawn chair in the boat for my comfort. The fishing-picnic became tense as the boat nearly capsized while opening the lawn chair. Long before the night ended and we finally made our way to the shore, I knew that this would be my last evening of fishing and probably the last picnic I would enjoy.

After all, we have a perfectly good kitchen where we can eat without bugs, tipping boats, mosquitoes and other natural abhorences.

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