Something Summery

Virginia Hughes

On any summer Saturday morning Dad may announce, “All who dig 25 dandelions with a worthy root, will win a first-class seat to a picnic at Salamonie Reservoir this afternoon.” We would respond with squeals of joy and race to the garage for buckets and hand weeders.

Those of us who remembered the Salamonie picnic from last summer, were anticipating the swimming, hiking and picnic to come. “But what if I don’t wanna dig weeds?” A slacker dared to squeak. Dad would not answer such questions with words; rather he would beam a laser from his eyes toward the offender, and everyone would commence digging. Overachievers bartered extra weeds to younger siblings trading upcoming chore duties such as clearing the table, vacuuming carpets, or burning trash, the only fun chore among them. No one was left at home on these outings because from eldest to youngest, we worked it out among ourselves. Within this weed driven economy for children, we lessened the burden of weeds in the lawn and worked up big appetites for Mom’s bread and butter refrigerator pickles, grilled chicken and potato salad. Mom’s table presentations were elegant; picnics included. Living in rustic locations had solidified her resolve to elevate us in all ways. She always set a beautiful table even after giving birth to her “eight barbarians,” one of Dad’s pet names for us along with “my dear heathens,” and “behold the clamoring of the uncouth.”

While my dad used colorful phrases, he would never ask us, “Were you born in a barn?” One may think it was out of respect for the birthplace of Jesus, but some of his children were born in such unplanned places, that a barn would have been an improvement. My parents’ commitment to church planting in the boonies had us moving a lot and being born or as Dad may say, “Breaking and entering into the world,” in various odd places such as the church aisle during a Christmas Eve service, the edge of a rice field, the thatched hut that served as our local medical clinic which regularly burned down; and one in a jeep on the way to the hospital. Dad had many dramatic accounts about doing his best to get to the doctor before a birth. During a typhoon when flooding washed out a bridge, he had to turn the jeep around and figure out an alternative route. Through howling wind and pounding rain, he called out to encourage Mom as she dealt with advanced labor in the backseat, “Hold on Frances, don’t have the baby yet!” And Mom answered back with certainty, “Just keep driving Bill, because the baby has arrived!” My mother brought composure to chaos. She was a warrior for elegance who placed a beautiful lace tablecloth over a rustic wooden picnic table. Glassware and silverware were set alongside good plates, cloth napkins and condiments in pretty dishes with serving spoons. No paper plates, plastic cups or plastic silverware on her table. We carried coolers, picnic baskets and thermoses filled with iced tea, cold water and lemonade as well as folding chairs to the station wagon as it sagged under a load of people and provisions. We chugged along until we arrived at Dad’s favorite picnic spot up on a gentle hill near the boat ramp, with beach visibility and hiking paths off to the side. My brothers had their island machetes safely buckled in cases around their waists as they enjoyed feeling wild. They were ready for snakes and bad guys which thankfully we never encountered in the Indiana woods. Running on trails brought a freedom we all needed.

The sky was a more welcome ceiling than the tabernacle where we would attend services in August’s boiling heat come camp meeting season. Out here birds sang blissfully in the treetops. Once the picnic was devoured, Mom sat in peace with the latest copy of “Reader’s Digest.” She occasionally looked through binoculars to watch over her flock by day. As we tired of hiking, we turned to wading in the lake and building sand lumps, called castles on the shore. Dad, exhausted from church business and family raising, snored contentedly on a blanket in the shade. Reducing the confines of the schedule, changing the setting, and getting outside to breathe is understood by all who seek simple joys outdoors. We pass this legacy of reveling in creation onto our children and grandchildren. We look up in worship to say, thank you Lord for this immaculate sky, shapes in the clouds, breeze in the grass, nodding wildflowers at our feet, a splash in the lake and warm sunshine on our skin.

Thank you for our loved ones who grow dearer with every passing day. Thank you for a season to shake off the indoors, busy schedules and chores. We race outside to become something summery.