No ordinary day

PICNIC TIME 

 

It's 8 a.m. Sunday. Joseph and I are just gathering our wits so we will do nothing special for once. Our first decision is to stay in bed a little longer. Next, we are not going to get dressed all day and will hang around in our nite clothes, maybe sit on the veranda while the air is shady but still warm. I'll make pancakes. Joseph will clean up my mess and we can both gorge on whatever I don't burn and delight in the gobs of creamery butter we will slather on them and top that with flowing rivers of real maple syrup. Just the thought of our Sunday freedom is a well-earned blessing. We have our breakfast, look over the heavy Sunday newspaper (that has little news and too much flamboyant advertising) and just watch the grass grow.

 

The chiming of our doorbell at 10:15 disturbs our doldrums. 'Who goes there?' I ask before I open the door. 'Surprise! Surprise!' shouts our daughter, Zel. My eyes open wide seeing her sunshiny face. She glows, looks beautiful, could be a model. Hell, I forgot for a moment, she is a model.

 

I know I have shocked her, disappointed her, barely dressed at 10:15.
'Where's your new husband, Zel? Did you two split already?' 'Oh, Ma, here he comes. We have something for you.' I call out, 'Joseph, we have company. Zel and Barry are here to visit.' It takes Joseph ten minutes to appear, say 'hello.' He looks spiffy in white duck slax, a brown and white striped crisp shirt, no shoes.  Just as he is showing Zel that he doesn't go around in his sleep wear all day, Barry appears carrying a large wicker picnic basket. He and Zel hold it together, lift the lid. Jospeh and I gasp. The lid is stocked with a red and white checked tablecloth, large napkins and shiny forks and knives, a brand new cork screw that had to be a wedding gift. Two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon are tucked on the side with plastic wine glasses. The smell of fried chicken arouses our interest. There is a can opener for Heinz beans, pickles carefully wrapped in Saran, a big bag of Schultz potato chips, cookies and slices of cake. ' Get dressed, Ma', I am told. 'We have a table reserved at Rock Bottom Park. This is Picnic Day for all of us.'  Zel knows I am not a picnic lover, hate ants, but I hurry to change, bring socks and shoes downstairs for Joseph.

 

Our reserved table is waiting. Zel spreads the checked cloth on top, sets the table as if we were having a banquet. Everything looks inviting. The chicken is still warm. The paper plates are sturdy. None crumble. Zel won't let me do a single thing as she tells me over and over, how good I have been to her and to Barry.

 

Barry taps an empty wine bottle with his spoon and makes an announcement. 'Dear New Family. We are not done with you. We are going some place else. It's only twenty minutes from here. Let's go!' We drive without the AC as the early fall air is cool and friendly. I ask questions. 'How are you doing? How do you like married life?' Imbecilic questions.  Zel utters wistfully, 'Ma, It's wonderful. Barry is kind, down to earth but our schedules give us little time together.' I lean over the front seat, reach Barry and give him an uncomfortable hug.

 

In only fifteen minutes we pull into a forest of trees, dark green, light green, tall, spreading, bowing down, loaded with apples, apples of all kinds. Small signs tell the pickers what kind of apples are on each tree. Ladders lean against the trunks. Barry has extra large black plastic bags in his car trunk, hands one to each of us and gives orders. 'Everybody go! We'll meet here at the Granny Smith arbor at 4 o'clock. This place closes at 4:30. There will be a line at the scales so don't be late.

 

Pickers walk along, inspecting, eating big red Delicious apples. They are so crisp and sweet. I stop, take a chance and climb a few steps, reach six luscious ones that have no worm holes.  I remember my father telling me a worm hole is good. That means the worm came out. Zel has disappeared. This is fun. A sign points to the Gala apple trees. I love them, have to spend a lot to get them in the super market and they aren't always juicy.  Romes are mealy to me, so I skip those, climb, reach high for Winesaps. Never had a bad one in all my years. They can be tart, make my lips curl but these feel solid. Plop into my black bag.

 

A whistle blows, pickers climb down. I do as they do and head towards the scale. There are several lines that move fairly fast. Zel finds me and I let her in. Barry and Joseph are in the next line, arguing about who pays for all the apples. Barry wins, or loses. It depends on how one feels. He pays with a smile.

 

All four bags go in the trunk, minus one of our choice for the ride home. Without the signs, I have no idea what I am eating. One was juicy, one was surely not ripe yet.

 

Back at our house, Zel and Barry hand us our heavy bags of apples, hug us almost to death, thank us over and over for being such wonderful parents and drive away.

 

For the entire next week I am making applesauce, apple pies for the freezer. I bake them. I puke on them. Enough apples. I give them to neighbors. The apple stock seems to be growing in the bags. Joseph thinks I don't see him drop a few in the garbage can and cover them with trash.

 

At the super market, I am aware of the prices of apples and realize I have enjoyed a real bargain, IF one doesn't count the gas and manicures to fix my broken fingernails.