A Checkered Present

The photograph hangs on the entryway wall in my dear friend's home. Dozens of others surround it, but my gaze rests on this one each time I visit. Her grandparents sit on a cloth spread out on the grass in front of a parked 1930-something automobile, smiles on their faces, a breeze blowing their hair. They're not her grandparents or even anybody's parents yet; they were engaged to be married at the time. A picnic basket sits between them. The picture is black and white, but I've no doubt the fabric I see beneath them is red-and-white gingham, because what says "picnic" more than that?

I say it each year as the last edge of spring ushers us into summer: "This year I'm going to bring back the picnic." Memories rise of my mom packing an ice chest and six children into the car, driving to a lake or a desert or anyplace with a picnic table awaiting us. We would make sandwiches, explore a bit, then drive home. The scenes weren't photo worthy—no woven picnic baskets or charming automobile, although a vinyl checkered table cloth did cover the picnic table—yet the light mood and simplicity of these days leave a joy-etched print on my memory.

My husband and I sat at a picnic table this week, plastic grocery bags and food containers decorating our space. We picked up takeout food then walked a path to a lovely park area a short drive from our home. "What a great idea," he kept saying, as we enjoyed the breeze, our meal, and each other.

A friend and I hiked on a trail in our nearby mountains yesterday, and not feeling safe about yet eating in restaurants due to Covid-19, we both packed a lunch. After our hike, we sat just off the road under a tree, a cement block providing our seating. She ate her salad while I drank my smoothie. My ukulele happened to be in my car, so I brought it over. I'd recently learned how to play "What A Wonderful World." She sang, reading the lyrics off my phone, while I played. We enjoyed our meal, a song, and each other.

Today finds me, at the end of May, looking forward to that quintessential picnic I say I'll bring back each summer. I look back, however, on the past week, these two meals shared with loved ones in the outdoors, and discover I've been living out what I'm longing for. While I still do want to put some effort into that more intentional, old-fashioned picnic (and have just the perfect gingham dress picked out to wear), I look again at my friend's photograph of her grandparents. The surroundings are charming—the basket, the vintage clothing and car, the checkered cloth—but what makes the photograph sing is the the love and light on this couple's faces as they enjoy the breeze, a meal, and each other.