In Picnic in the Pasture
It’s the first morning of summer break and I cannot wait to begin my adventures. I hurriedly dress in my favorite jean shorts, the ones with the butterfly patch on the back pocket. My stomach growls when the wonderful aroma of blueberry pancakes makes its way to my nose. I rush toward the smell and am met by a steaming hot stack and a kiss on the forehead from my mother. I notice that my green and yellow plastic picnic basket is waiting for me. Its age is beginning to show. But even though it’s scratched up and has the beginnings of a crack in the lid, I feel the damage is nothing that a little duck tape cannot remedy. I shovel the last of my breakfast into my cheeks and take my plate to the sink. As I hurry out the back door, my mom reminds me not to venture farther than her voice can carry.
The old rusted gate is waiting for me. Its years of use are evident in the faded blue paint chips struggling to hold onto the metal frame. I am careful to climb the gate closest to the hinge, which my father says is the only safe place to cross. I stand on the other side with my hands on my hips deciding which path to pursue. I finally decide on the one to my left that continues up over the grassy knoll toward the cluster of locust trees. I strategically maneuver over the highest peak of a mountain ridge and the death defying high wire of a circus just to reach the other side of the knoll. I inhale deeply, breathing in the wonderful mix of grass, crisp air, cow poop, and a hint of honeysuckle.
The cluster of limestone before me is the perfect place for my picnic. I approach slowly, deciding the layout of my new cottage as I draw nearer. The largest rock is the perfect dining area. The rock has been drinking in the morning sun for several hours and is wonderfully smooth and warm against my bare legs. I am happy to see that my picnic contains all of my favorite foods: a tuna sandwich (plain with no foreign objects like onions and celery), a bag of Doritos, some Oreo cookies and a juice box. I look up to find an unexpected guest arriving for lunch and stand to see if she would like to share my food. “Ms. Holstein” pauses just long enough to evaluate my spread and then graciously declines stating that she is late for a meeting at the local watering hole. I extend an invitation for the next time she is in the neighborhood, and she moos her agreement.
After my food is devoured, I lazily lay back on the cool rock that has been designated my bedroom. I stare up into the old branches of the locust tree and wonder how many other people have been to this special place. I try to imagine what they might have thought, what food they may have enjoyed, and what they may have done when they played. I must have drifted off to sleep because I am aroused by the voice of my mother calling me. I quickly gather my things and scurry back over the knoll toward home. It never seems to take as long to return and it’s definitely not as fun!
