TRAINS, PLANES and PEANUT BUTTER MEMORIES

TRAINS, PLANES and PEANUT BUTTER MEMORIES
Heather McKeown

Picnics can happen anywhere, can't they? Checkered cotton tablecloths can spread themselves onto tables, grass, sand, the tailgates of cars. These squares of material, usually filled with dainty fare and some tasty libation. The eyes seem always to be cast downward at these forays into 'getting back to Nature' meals. Folks usually concentrate on the food and drink at hand. The atmosphere can be romantic, giddy, pensive or just plain appreciative of the time, place and company. Outdoor recreational eating can be full of educational opportunities, too, especially if parents or grandparents are involved.

        When Holly and David were young 'uns, we lived about thirty-five miles north of Chicago, in Lake County. We actually lived on the shores of a little lake. Whenever I could, I'd pack a lunch and we'd head to a local park that had real train cars to play had on and in. We called it the 'choo-choo Train Park' and, before and after downing the food, we'd become conductors and engineers in our minds. We always ended up really feeling the motion of the parked engines and cabooses. How? We made it all happen in our heads. The imagination of children is totally contagious. I can see in my memory now, the eyes of my children looked straight ahead as we 'made the trains take us across the world'. I can visualize their excited faces even now.

        Somehow and in an instant, my children grew up. Empty nest syndrome really hurt and a good friend once told me that I was 'addicted to my children' and 'totally co-dependent'. That was a complete understatement, but I went with it and began living life without children.

        Enter a grandson. Who knew that life could be relived when in the presence of a new being? It was suddenly fun to be me, again. Visits to barns, hikes in Trout River, getting dirty, sharing cow experiences, coloring and picnics became a way of life again. Ah, sweet joy.

        This story's about picnics so I'll tell you how Grandpa Rick and I exposed our Shea to his first educational meal in the wild. It wasn't really wild actually. There was a Douglas DC-3 parked at the Swanton Airport. I love planes. Everything in the world of aviation thrills me and always has. The chance to expose Shea to such a great plane, up close and personal, was too much of a temptation to pass up. I packed some good food and off we went. The drive down the long airport road off route 78 was my first chance to point and say, 'LOOK, SHEA! A bi-plane. LOOK! LOOK! A homemade experimental airplane! LOOK! SEE THAT??? IT'S A DOUGLAS DC-3. A GOOD OLD FASHIONED TAIL DRAGGER!” When we had parked, the walk around took place. What a great way to work up the appetites of a tiny boy! The hunger for flight may have out scored the desire for a peanut butter and banana on whole wheat sandwich that day! Enthusiasm is contagious and an appetite grows on what it feeds.

        Before we knew it, over an hour of our airplane inspection had passed. Cesnas, Pipers, Beechcraft, experimental, twin-engine sorts, single/double/eight-passenger planes of every color had been vetted. Grandparents getting hungry, Shea wondering why we were still on the ground!
La piece de resistence was the DC-3. We spread the tablecloth, opened our lunch bag and parked our carcasses beneath her. She was blocking out the rays of a hot sun and her wings felt as protective to us as those of a mama chickens over her chicks. There was a bit of oil leaking but it only added to the definition of place for us. I can still see Shea's little face looking up at the fuselage and asking questions about that plane. Picnics are for looking up or out and pretending.

        That was a great picnic. Do my children remember the choo-choo train park in Illinois? Will Shea remember his DC-3 umbrella? I don't know. But I'll never forget either. Blessed be.

Thanks Heather ... it's always a p;easure to read your stories