Imagine a time, if you will when there were no fast food stops, no Subway sandwiches, no quarter-pounders with cheese, no stuffed crust pizza. A time in the fifties and sixties when if you wanted to have lunch, you brought it along.
Okay, on some of the roads more traveled, there was the mandatory must-stop for kids. Connie and I (and Mama, truth be told) would always start talking about needing a rest room when a Stuckey’s hove into view. We had to count on Mama because Dad was all about the destination and not the journey
Stuckey’s was the original hybrid. Besides having reliable rest rooms, no matter where you started or where you were headed, between 11:30 and 12:30, a Stuckey’s would magically appear on the road ahead. I have trouble calling it a restaurant, although they always had a good café on one end with hot dogs, hamburgers and sandwiches. Parents could relax at the tables after a meal, glad of a little respite from the constant chant of “When will we get there?”
Connie and I, finally released from the table, would roam the treasure-laden aisles. Pecan logs filled with nougat, tooth-shattering peanut brittle and fudge shared shelves with regional items. There were rubber tomahawks in the mountains and model shrimp boats and seashell jewelry boxes near the coast. Stuckey’s was a mecca for treasure chests filled with plastic gold coins, snow globes with a friendly snowman waving through the micro-blizzard and pink flamingos. Fully stocked with pecan logs and souvenir ash trays, we were back in the car and on our way.
For our day trips to the mountins, Dad was a fan of back roads, the winding ones that always looked like they might just come to a dead end around the next turn…roads that were tan gravel or paved and neglected. He loved roads with graying houses stuck on a hillside and porches that sagged like old horses and with chickens foraging for scraps on the bare ground. He loved to see old people sitting in rocking chairs and always waved politely as we passed by. They were his people…the residents of hidden valleys left behind by time and much like the world of his childhood.
This was time when picnic tables were scattered willy-nilly along smaller roads. One or two tables sat under a shady grove of trees with cleared areas wide enough to park the station wagon.
Here, Dad was only a helper. Mother would cover the well-worn table with printed cloths and straighten the corners as though the queen would be joining us for lunch. Dad would then bring out the picnic basket, a couple of full paper bags and the metal Coca-Cola cooler. The cooler would be placed on the ground and he would set the basket and bags on the table. It was not his place to open the bags or the basket. His job with the food was complete. Connie was too young to help and I was, well, a miniature Bob.
We would scout the area, while Dad held Connie’s hand, I would lead the way ready to warn them if a snake was hiding in wait or a bear lurked in the shadows of the trees. I was a serious child and because Dad had given me the job as look-out, I was on constant guard but I was also a ground scanner, always searching for unusual rocks or arrowheads or bird feathers. Mother never knew what to expect when she washed my clothes. Bottle caps, marbles, or pennies, I would pick them up and stick them in my pocket.
While we walked, Mom was busy. First, from bags she would take paper plates, cups and and napkins plus plastic forks, knives and spoons. In the cooler, along with Cokes and a glass jar of tea were sandwiches. She was not, except for church dinners, one to make finger sandwiches. Dad would always pick those up with two fingers and extending his pinkie finger say, in his best British accent, “I shall have a nice cucumber sandwich.” As a result, two things happened. My mother would never even consider making a cucumber sandwich, and she would cut the sandwiches she did make into triangle halves with the crust still on. She would wrap each sandwich in wax paper, folding it like some origami master.
There were always sandwich options. Dad would usually opt for ham and cheese and Connie and I would eat pimento cheese or peanut butter and jelly. For Mother, there was one sandwich to rule them all. She would, the night before a trip, peel tomatoes with a long chef’s knife. I was terrified to watch because she broke all the knife safety rules and peeled the tomato toward her hand. She would then slice the tomatoes and after a thick layering of mayonnaise on light bread, would lay out the perfect slices and salt and pepper them liberally. They would go into the refrigerator overnight because she liked the bread to soak up the juices.
There was a morning ritual before a picnic that is so alien I hesitate to talk about it. Mother would get up early and pan-fry chicken. There was no Kentucky Colonel to ease the burden, and fried chicken, still warm in its tin foil shroud was a favorite of my father. The ritual seems humbling in today’s world but it was an act of love, one among many for my mother.
We would return from our walk to find a picnic table laid out in perfect order as if by magic. The analogy of Beauty and the Beast is not lost on me but my father was a gentle beast and my beauty of a mother was his equal in every way.
If a church van had stopped by at lunch time, there would have been plenty for everyone. Deviled eggs and chips, a bowl of potato salad, sandwiches, fried chicken and even slices of homemade pound cake covered the table…all we could eat and more. We would sit and eat and laugh at some story my father would tell. His stories were as abundant as the food and when they were told and we were full, we all helped putting things away and packing up the car.
Mother loved the picnic areas near water and hungry or not, we would pass up beautiful sites until Mom saw one near a stream. She took every opportunity to keep us soaked. From running through the sprinkler with us at home to taking us to the swimming pool, she taught us to love the water.
She believed children should wade barefoot in the coldest water she could find. That’s why we spent many weekends in the late summer or fall riding up curving mountain roads. When the car was packed, Mother would seat Connie on the picnic table and take off her sandals. I was too big for such attention and would take off my own Keds and socks. Barefoot, the three of us would make our way to the mountain stream and step into the bracing water. As the trailblazer of the family, I would take the first step in and pronounce the stream cold but acceptable. I would busy myself turning over the worn stones looking for salamanders or crawfish. Mom would hold Connie’s hand since she was still a toddler and she would splash to her little heart’s content. I love that phrase because it is times like these when our hearts are truly content. There is no noisy grumbling world, only the susurration of the stream, the rustling of leaves in the wind and the laughter of a child.
Soaked and chilled from the water we would make our way back to the picnic table where Dad sat waiting for our return. Mother would always have a towel on hand and would kneel to dry our feet, rubbing them to warm them up before we put on our shoes. Looking back, I understand the Jewish tradition of washing the feet. It is a symbol of ultimate, selfless love…of the care and sacrifice we are capable of in our best moments.
The rest of the day we would stop at overlooks to peer down into the haze filled valleys and across to the blue-gray peaks of endless mountains. As the afternoon grew late, Dad would begin the descent toward home. By the time he stopped the car in the driveway on Leroy Street, Connie and I were both fast asleep in the back seat. Dad would carry Connie and I would stumble, barely awake into the house. Dinner was what was left of the picnic lunch and we would eat what we pleased.
The day would end, as all days must, and we would settle in for the night.
Mother would come by before I went to sleep and ask if I had said my prayers. I would always say “yes” even if I had forgotten. If I had understood then, the things I begin to understand now, I would have thanked God for that day and would have prayed for many more.
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