Remember, the days when families used to get together? Family reunions. Potlucks. Everybody brought their own dishes to share. There was always the red, white, and blue angel food cake from Great Aunt Jenny that was popular at the Fourth of July, many fruit and whipped cream salads, but the salad to beat was grandma‘s potato salad. There was scalloped corn and pork and beans. The main dish was usually a casserole or two along with plenty of fried chicken, meatballs, and meatloaf. And, ohhh, let’s not forget the full table of desserts. Besides the angel food cake, the scotch-a-roos and brownies went lickety-split. More than enough to feed the army of farmers and family, who took the day off from the field to share time with the family. It was inevitable that something was forgotten. Forks or napkins. A serving spoon. Or the baby’s bottle. All gather together on a hot summer day. Farms and fieldwork left behind, today done much earlier and more to do once back at home.

 

Each park shelter was filled every weekend with families built with blood, sweat, smiles, and tears. But at the top, binding them all together was always faith. While waiting for each family to arrive, the plastic table cloths were spread, and the children ran to play. A cattle watering trough was brought in and filled to the brim with ice and every kind of soda imaginable. The favorite on each child’s lip was shown a grape purple stain from the soda they drank. A clear indication that they were guilty and had not asked permission. For back in those days, soda was a treat, and not an every day occurrence, and never plentiful and cold in the fridge.

First cousins, second cousins. Aunts and great aunts. Grandparents and siblings. Sometimes you didn’t even know who it was that you were racing against to get to the swings first. Plaid shorts with long, gangly legs below sporting freshly skinned knees from yesterday’s adventures – big wheel races, hide and seek, but probably a hot and fast game of tag.

 

The swings swang higher as we pumped our legs to and fro. The challenge was to get higher in the sky than those swinging next to you. Swinging so high it made your tummy tickle. Feeling light as air, is when you knew that summer was really here. But higher yet we wanted to climb. We called to the one we knew would come to push us all ever higher. Cousin Alan, “ please come push us”. An underdog here and another one there. We all went flying. Many giggles and squeals to spare.

Who could jump the furthest from the highest point they swang? More than daunting, downright scary from way up there. Though, jump we did and fell to the ground. More skinned up knees and grass stained derrières.

It did not matter, not one bit. It was off to the races, once again, we went. To the merry-go-round we fled, knowing that Alan would follow us there. More than a nudge, or a gentle push. Gravity taking hold. To the edges we flew. More laughter and shrieks filled the air.

Come one, come all, the grandparents they called. Prayer before every meal, a dedicated must. All fell silent, bearing our faith. Every one, both young and old, thankful for the meal and the family that was there. The eldest, most honored said grace.

First the moms and the littlest filled their plates. Then back in line, the mothers returned, to make sure the rest of the children all took some veggies and not all desserts. Finally, with great patience the elders followed suit. Paper plates of yesteryear overflowing and crowning with a taste of each dish brought. It was a definite two-hander because it was not the chinet of today.

More than one plate failed throughout the years. But that never mattered. There was always plenty to share.

Painted picnic tables, green or blue. Shall we sit with our family or branch out with a few new? Our tummies all full, but there’s always room for round two. The men, for sure, were not shy. A second helping, and maybe a third, it did not matter. Their figure never rotund for the hefty work they did do. One look at their hands and you knew. Their hands told the story of the fields they grew. Massive and strong, their voices too. Lively chatter filled the shelter. Stories of long ago and recipes shared.

As each finished, the little ones licking their fingers. The mommas reaching for the wet washcloth in the plastic bags from the picnic baskets below. Little faces and hands all cleaned now ready for play. The older children, too cool to play all crammed into one car or two to the town pool they flew.

Where did the time go? It flew. Time for chores and time to go. I wish I had known to savor each moment. I wish I had more time. I wish there were another.