Pieces of a Picnic

The season is nearing its end, the signature of early fall on display - golden rods, and rusty-colored mums, yellow-tinted birch, a brilliant red blaze on a random maple; nights are cool, air a little crisp and the sunlight of late afternoon casts long shadows that lay a little lower each day. Farmers markets start selling apples, feature cider, pumpkins and other squashes. And corn tassels are dried and brown, but sweet corn can still be found.

The plan was to go to the farmers market for a half dozen ears of corn for lunch. Once we had the corn and a few potatoes, we strolled through the market commenting on the non-produce vendors—a masseuse, The League of Women voters, a couple of musicians and a potter, whom Jennifer struck up quite a conversation with. Jennifer throws and has a craft fair scheduled for next weekend in Littleton, NH, so the two potters chatted about shop while dad and I roamed around the rest of the market. I was looking for spinach wondering if anyone would be carrying the disease laden green.

Jennifer and I had planned to tackle mom’s room, clearing the clutter out and giving it a good cleaning. Except Jennifer suggested we go apple picking. It sounded much better than standing around in mom’s room with a dust rag, so we headed off to Schuylerville. Working under the guidelines of pure spontaneity, we stopped for soft ice cream – raspberry dipped in chocolate – before we got to the orchard. Dad wondered if it would spoil our appetite for corn. We replied, “of course not, dad.” So he ordered a one too.

We climbed a small hill near the stand and sat on a picnic table painted like either a Gateway computer or a Holstein cow. Jennifer reflected on her first memories of her siblings. Mike came home for Thanksgiving with Margie, but she did not know if they were married at the time. I was leaving for the army and was standing in the driveway with the recruiter who came to pick me up. Jennifer remembered the time mom cut off Robin’s hair and when Robin left for Memphis to attend school to become a lumber grader, one of the first women in the US to become one. I asked her about Mark. She responded, “fighting.” She was being a pain the ass little sister. It is the perspective of the youngest, the one who doesn’t remember the day their sibling comes home from the hospital as a newborn, but instead recalls the day their older brothers or sisters left home.

The temperatures were perfect for soft ice cream. It did not have to be gobbled down to avoid it melting away, but it did require a steady pace of licking to keep the raspberry from dripping off my fingers. I thought of mom. This could have been a typical day—two sisters out with their Dad. When we returned home we would tell Mom what we did, but I knew that today I wasn’t going to have that precious opportunity.

Saratoga Orchard lies at the crest of the hill before descending into the Hudson River Valley. There was some confusion about the U-pick apples, which turned out to be rather expensive compared to the already picked apples. It was not possible to take a bag into the orchard and a mob of people to fill it. Instead, it was required that admission be paid to the orchards for each person regardless if they were picking apples. I didn’t want apples neither did dad, but Jennifer did and we wanted to go with her.

I guess you can say we just sort of snuck off into the orchards (we did pay for the apples). After getting a peck of Cortlands and Macintoshes we worked up a craving for cider donuts. And then a little sampling of Tennessee hot wings. That was lunch and the corn became dinner.

On the way home we had to stop by the Schuylerville Monument. Because dad said they don’t put up monument unless there is a good reason. I thought a monument for No Good Reason would be a good reason to put up a monument. However, since it is past Labor Day it was closed. Everything around here closes after Labor Day because you never know when it is going to start snowing after the first Monday in September. It is suppose to be in the eighties tomorrow.

Jennifer and I did get to mom’s room after Dad fired up the lawn mower. I didn’t expect to find any surprises. I scouted out the room in July. Why had I done that? I can’t really say. We made some progress sweeping away the spider webs and dusting off her night stands, straightening up her books and notions on her headboard. Jennifer reclaimed some books she had given mom. I left mine in her room. There wasn’t much that we disposed and we set aside magazines, unopened bottles of lotion, soap and other toiletries to donate to soldiers overseas. We found several dog collars with rabies tags tucked away in a box. These belonged to Rusty and Holly, her dogs.

I kept thinking of all those Saturdays as a kid when we had to clean the house. Mom was a great housekeeper and she wasn’t one to hang onto sentimental things. But we did find some things that meant a lot to mom. I found a hand written copy of a poem on an index card by Mary Oliver titled “In Blackwater Woods.” It was tucked behind a photo of Holly, her sheltie, taken by me when we were all in Mexico:

Every year, everything I have ever learned
In my lifetime leads back to this,
The fires and the black river of loss
Whose other side is salvation
Whose meaning none of us will ever know.
To live in this world you must be able to do three things;
To love what is mortal,
To hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends upon it,
And when the time comes to let it go…
To let it go.

She wrote, as if it was her own title for the poem, “One Death and Life for Holly and Me."