Picnic season is waning, with the beginning of autumn starting this week for all except the hardiest aficionados who back-deck grill all four seasons, or for the diehard football tailgaters. Finally, I figured out why I’m having so much fun at 69 years of age. The answer lies in PICNICS. Picnics are fun, especially for those who like to eat great food and play athletic games.
The best picnics I ever attended were held on Memorial Day in Jackson’s backyard. The yard was of average width but was very deep and backed up to the backyard of the home next to us. All the neighbors were invited, and all brought something to eat. My rough guess is there were somewhere around 100 people attending. I was in middle school, and in later years, high school. Of course, being a boy and having a father who worked many years for a pie company, my favorite was dessert. I usually chose either watermelon or those great vanilla and chocolate Dixie Cups. The ice cream was tasty, but just as important was the movie star on the inside of the cardboard top of the cup. I remember mostly cowboys. To add to all of that excitement, there were the sports: tether ball, basketball, softball, horseshoes and croquet. As I advanced to senior high, the only black cloud over this picnic was that it was near the end of school, and in the back of my mind, I knew I should be studying for finals, which I always seemed to be late in starting.
My family had many picnics either on the wide front porch of our house or in our backyard. It was always more fun to invite others outside the family to eat the specialties dad cooked over the charcoal fire (propane grills didn’t exist then), which were usually burgers or chicken or an occasional roast. One such picnic in our backyard featured badminton, which served me quite well. My wife’s parents attended. Being young as I was and fairly recently married, there was always a question of how I should address my in-laws. Barb’s mother was already taken care of by her young granddaughter who really liked the television show Flipper and called Barb’s mother Flip, which I piggybacked on. But what about Barb’s father? This picnic provided the answer. Her dad was playing badminton dressed in shorts and bright red knee socks. From then on he became Flash. Flip and Flash, what a couple.
A “picnic” Barb and I attended a few years ago, since moving to Honey Brook, was at a local Amish farm that provided a chicken barbecue for anyone stopping by and willing to pay the modest price. We thought that would be a good idea and sat at a picnic table provided. We enjoyed the barbecued chicken, but only for a short time. Before we knew it, there were live chickens pecking under our table. All of a sudden, our chicken didn’t taste very good. We never returned to the farm again for a chicken barbeque.
One final picnic. Barb was preparing tomato sandwiches for lunch. It was a late lunch, about 2 p.m., and we were starved. She thought she would add some munch to the meal by getting a tube of potato chips out. On her way to putting the chips away, she dropped the can and they went all over the floor in front of the refrigerator. I clasped my head between my hands thinking now we have to clean up before we eat. I must say, I controlled my emotions nicely because I stood there for just a few seconds and then yelled, “PICNIC!” as I plopped down on the floor in front of the refrigerator with my plate and drink and Barb following me. We laughed and ate the chips off the floor. Now, whenever we drop something or do something wrong, one of us just yells, “PICNIC!” This is great. It brings a smile to our faces and keeps the blood pressure down!
The reason why I’m having fun right now is because I agree with one of the songs in Peter Pan, part of which says, “I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up not me!”
Jeff Hall, of Honey Brook, contributes columns to Berks-Mont Newspapers.
