Warm weather used to be the signal.
As a kid you knew Sunday School picnic could not be too far away.
There was a certain order to life back in the good old days.
There was the end of winter, the end of school, the beginning of summer vacation and
Sunday School picnic. That was life's marching order and we stepped lively to
the beat.
Sunday School picnic was the reward for getting up early on Sunday mornings all year long,
to sit on little chairs drawn into a tight circle and attentively
listen to your teacher as he or she raised your awareness of the scripture. This was
not a recreational time. You came to Sunday School to learn and you can bet there
were plenty of parents and grandparents gathered to make sure that was exactly what
happened.
The Sunday School picnic though, that was an a horse of another color.
That was pure enjoyment with a capitol E!
Although picnic was the operative word, amusement park was the reality, at least for the
little church I attended. The picnic normally was held at one of a handful of nearby
amusement parks. It did not matter which one was chosen for which year. They
all had their specialties and they all were fun to go to.
Of course the picnic was well chaperoned. And this is where the grandparents, and
the picnic came in.
Almost to a child, we were accompanied by our grandparents. The majority of the
mother and fathers had to work, or they had younger children at home who had to be
attended to, so it was the grandparents who drew,and enjoyed, the chaperoning assignments
at the Sunday School picnics.
They wore it as a badge of honor and each had special preparations they would make for the
annual event.
Lights would be on late into the night, the evening before the picnic, and if you inhaled
deeply at any part of town, you could smell chicken frying and potatoes boiling.
These were the clues to a picnic in progress.
The older aunts, and grandmothers were preparing the picnic part of the Sunday School
picnic. We kids could smell the food, but our thoughts were elsewhere. Our
bodies ostensibly were tucked into bed to get enough sleep for the event, but our thoughts
were wandering through bumper cars, roller coasters and a million and one arcades.
Sunday School picnic day arrived with a burst of sunlight and a hundred kids urging
parents and grandparents to get up and get started.
Everyone arrived at the church at about the same time. All were burdened down with
bulging picnic baskets, that would, if joined collective, go a long ways
towards solving world hunger. We all milled in front of the church awaiting the
other big event of the Sunday School picnic, the arrival of the sleek silver,
air-conditioned, seat-reclining bus that would transport us to our destination.
The cheers began as soon as a glint of sun reflected off of a bright patch of silver
indicating the bus had turned on to the street. It held up traffic as it parked
directly in front of the church and grandparents and charges marched oh so civilly into
its gaping confines.
We kids wanted to run, skip, jump, or celebrate but we restrained ourselves to just a fast
walk, that made our grandparents shuffle faster than usual, as we all rushed to get
a seat at the back of the bus.
We sang church songs and did all of the things expected of kids enroute to the park.
And we stayed pretty much leashed, until the bus arrived and started to disembark
its passengers.
This again was part of a routine we knew well. You just did not arrive and then go
dashing off to the rides, first you had to establish your home base for the day and make
sure you knew how to return to it after you went roaming off.
Home base was a tree-covered, cool, picnic groove, usually in close proximity to the
biggest roller coaster in the park. It did not need covered pavilions.
The trees provided both shade and protection. It was a cool bower
filled with sturdy, red picnic tables, constructed with broad boards, and anchored into
the ground.
They had to be sturdy to handle the picnic baskets that were ceremoniously placed on their
tops. The kids annually competed to see who could get on the most rides. The
grandparents, they had a more subtle competition going on. It was called, who
was going to lay out the most expansive and unique picnic lunch.
Although we did not know it, we kids were the judge.
The table that drew the biggest crowd of hungry kids was the year's winner. Of
course, you started with your own table. It was a sign of appreciation for having
your grandparent bring you. But after you had your perfunctory piece of chicken and
scoop of potato salad, then you started exploring the picnic buffet circuit to see
what new and interesting things had arrived for this Sunday School picnic.
I'll never forget the year that Mrs. Quarles entered the competition. She was the
lead soprano in the church choir. She had a reputation for being a pretty fair
cook too. She did not have children of her own, but she had enough nieces, nephews
and friends to make her presence at the Sunday School picnic.
One of the rituals of the picnic was the unpacking of the baskets. This is when
everyone would pretend not to look, but scope out what everybody else had brought.
My grandmom was at the same table as Mrs. Quarles, so it was easy for me to see something
unusual hit the table. It was a big Mason jar. Filled with red stuff.
And yes, on closer inspection, it turned out to be stewed tomatoes.
Now this was a first. I had seen just about everything, I thought, in that short
life of mine but stewed tomatoes at a Sunday School picnic, that was a first. And
they were old-school stewed tomatoes. They were not thickened with just a little
flour and water. Nope, these had cubes of bread floating in them.
My verdict was out as to how well this fit into the picnic competition.
I rode until my stomach cried hunger. I had dropped from the top of more roller
coaster hills than I cared to count. I had experienced more bumps and bangs than a
New York cabby in the bumper cars and my pockets no longer jingled, after the
arcade ate all of my quarters. It was time to go back to the picnic groove and
really Sunday School picnic.
That Mason jar of stewed tomatoes looked right back at me as I hit the table. It was
like it was staring at me. Try me, Try me! it kept saying.
I hit my Grandmom's basket. Down went a piece of chidden. Shoveled up was a big
mound of potato salad. Sloshed over top of it all was a large, cold glass of ice tea
from the community urn operated by the Sunday School superintendent.
Something kept me from discarding my plate. It was that Mason jar of tomatoes.
It had cast its spell on me.
I maneuvered into position to request a portion from Mrs. Quarles. I was the first
taker and she was glad to oblige. The lid was removed and a dollop was placed on my
waiting plate. Without hesitation, I began to spoon them into my mouth.
Flavors like my tongue never bathed in before passed through my mouth. A hint
of green pepper, a tang of onion and some flavors that to this day remain unidentified.
Simply put, the stewed tomatoes were fabulous. I went back for more and in all
honesty, even more after the first more.
I was not so much known in my youth as a picky eater, as I was the kid to follow to get
the most bang for your buck at a Sunday School picnic. When they saw my smiling
face, the other kids followed me like Christopher Columbus to the new land.
Before you knew it, Mrs. Quarles had a line in front of her, all seeking these mysterious
stewed tomatoes. The first Mason jar quickly emptied but that was not a problem.
Her big picnic basket had several Mason jars in reserve.
That was quite a Sunday School picnic. We all got back on that big silver
air-conditioned bus filled with food and us kids, tired from all the rides we had taken
and all the playing we had done.
Since the picnic basket competition was informal and unsanctioned, there never was a
declared winner. But there was little question who the star of this Sunday School
picnic was.
That Sunday, when she rose to sing her solo, it seemed that Mrs. Quarles stood just a
little taller and all of us kids were licking our lips, in remembrance of the Sunday
School picnic, where stewed tomatoes stole the show.
