A Picnic

A Picnic

1967

Father Mike, Laura and I stand in front of the columbarium in a shaded section of Scott Schwartz Park. A major donation from Walter and Elinor prompted the city to rename the park and redraw its boundaries, obscuring its history as the grounds of Saint Matthew’s. Separately, silently we meditate on our individual losses.

I mourn with my mother for the reunion of her twin daughters she never got to see, the great grandchildren, nieces and nephews she never got to know. Her eyes search my heart and find a space I’ve created for her to rest.

Laura stands in front of the place where Fred’s ashes fill a plain wood box behind a Spanish limestone tile. She traces her fingers over the word Beloved carved in the stone.

Father Mike stands behind us, hands clasped, head raised. Does he see the little chapel that stood here seven years ago, the souls that gathered in this place to hear words of peace?

Voices drift across an expanse of sun-lit grass bordered by clumps of silvery artemisia and golden poppies. We turn from our reverie and walk the flagstone path designed to keep us off the grass. The whup-whup of the rotary sprinkler head takes me back to lazy days I spent with Miren out on the back patio in the Glass House where she still lives with mom and dad and baby brother Al. It’s funny how my thoughts turn first to the babies now instead of Valerie. These days I have more compassion for the times Valerie and Leora huddled together, sharing their secrets.

“Amona! Look!” A ladybug tickles across the finger Miren holds up for my inspection. My ever-curious daughter has delved into Euskara, the Basque language, to find the proper title Miren and I agreed I should be called.

Toddling behind Miren, Laura and Mike’s newly adopted baby son Robbie takes a few steps, falls over onto the grass, and struggles to stand and try again.

We’ve gathered in the park because Valerie and Andy are in the middle of a construction project. They are putting in a swimming pool. I question the wisdom of that, but I have to be satisfied with the promise I extracted from Valerie to never leave my grandchildren unattended in the backyard and to enroll them in swimming lessons at once.

Roger and Andy are grilling hamburgers while Danny and a very pregnant Ursula cover the redwood picnic tables with a light cloth made of the same bleeding Madras fabric Ursula used to sew her maternity smock.

A car door slams in the parking lot and David and Sophie troop across the playground. David balances a pink box containing a sheet cake. Sophie bounds ahead. Before he can catch up, her lips have bounced from cheek to cheek. Miren and little Robbie gather around her, clambering for attention. She sets her wedding planner down on the table.

“Cake tasting after lunch,” David sets the box in the center of one of the tables, out of reach he thinks.

Unlike Danny and Ursula’s quick civil ceremony, these two are planning the event of the year. Father Mike and a Rabbi we have yet to meet will officiate at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco. At the reception in the ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel, scions of industry will mix with musicians and modern dancers, a large delegation of Sophie’s Greek New York family, and a small knot of Israelis. Dara will make her first trip to the United States to witness the marriage of her son.

My stomach flutters when I try to picture this crowd. Crowds make news these days. Young people crowded Golden Gate Park in January in some sort of celebration that is attracting convoys of kids to San Francisco from all over the world. Peace rallies and anti-war demonstrations flash across our television screen. Is it ridiculous of me to worry that some news reporter will think there is a story in a high profile wedding and the groom’s business contact with the increasingly unpopular military?

Roger urges me to just go with the flow, but I’m the sort who wants to know where the flow comes from and where it’s going. I share these thoughts with Father Mike on a short walk we take after lunch while Laura and Valerie supervise the swing set play.

“Everything moves so fast these days.” Even on a Saturday, we hear the sounds of heavy equipment pouring concrete for pillars that will support a freeway expansion.

“Are you wishing for more time to appreciate what you have or regretting that your children are moving off in directions you can’t know and won’t live to see?”

“Whoa! I’m not exactly staring death in the face.” I come to a stop.

Father Mike laughs and keeps walking, motioning to me to keep up. “No, but you are beginning to realize you will live the last season of your life on memories while your children continue to swing on stars of hope for their future. It puts you out of pace.”

“What do you mean?” We stand at the edge of the park where a portion of the valley stretches out before us. Father Mike tilts his head and raises his chin. For the first time the graying at his temples catches my eye.

“Do you remember the play Our Town?” He continues to gaze out over the rooftops that glisten in the distance. “Do you remember? Emily wanted to go back and relive just one day of her life on earth. What happened?”

“The things that she thought mattered so much didn’t matter at all.”

Father Mike nods his head slowly. “But we can’t tell them, can we? We hold that knowledge in our hearts, we love them and we let them go.”

Father Mike turns around to face me, flashing his famous grin. “Attend that big wedding, Dee, and don’t worry about the forces that pound for attention outside the doors.”

How does he know my thoughts? In a familiar gesture, he taps his heart. “The light comes from the love David and Sophie have for each other. Be in that light.”

We circle back to where our families are packing up. The sun hangs lower in the sky now. As it travels, it shoots light through the gaps in an immense California Bay Laurel the city left standing when they built the park. The light comes to rest on curly heads bent over their sandbox toys, faces smeared with butter cream frosting, ears deaf to parental urging to abandon their play and come home.

About the Author

About the Author

In our beautiful, terrible world, people struggle to find their footing on uneven paths. Sydney Avey writes about ordinary people who muster faith and courage to step over uncertainty and continue the journey. Her novels invite compassion for the stumbles of the past and offer hope for the future, if only a glimmer.

Sydney Avey is also the author of The Sheep Walker’s Daughter and The Trials of Nellie Belle.

Sydney Avey’s poetry, short stories, and articles have appeared in Foliate Oak, Forge, American Athenaeum, Unstrung, Blue Guitar Magazine, Ruminate and MTL Magazine. She has a degree in English from the University of California, Berkeley and has studied at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival as well as many other conferences and seminars.

Sydney and her airplane enthusiast husband divide their time between Sierra Nevada foothills of Yosemite, California, and the Sonoran Desert in Arizona. She is a choral singer and enjoys travel, theater, and spending time with family and friends.