Picnic Memories

            A few days ago Art and I packed a picnic lunch in our small L.L. Bean cooler. We put on our hiking clothes and headed over to the Biltmore Estate.  It was a sunny but cool day. We are living in the middle of a world-wide pandemic.  Buncombe County is under a “stay home – stay safe” warning.  However, the grounds and gardens of the 8,400 acre estate in the middle of Asheville were open so that people could walk or bike.  We parked in a mostly empty parking area by the Lagoon and set out for the gardens.

            The Estate seemed eerily quiet with not many people around.  Even the regular airplanes flying over Asheville weren’t overhead to disturb the silence.  The gardens were a reminder that despite the spring day, few things are in bloom yet.  Some magnolias, forsythia, and plenty of daffodils …but no azaleas.  After all, it’s only the end of March.  However, when we walked up to the formal gardens below the house we saw the annual tulips coming into bloom.  “Biltmore Blooms” is how they advertise this gorgeous display of multicolored tulips planted especially this time of year to entice tourists on spring break.  This year there are no tourists and only some local residents like us taking photos and appreciating their beauty.

            I felt special being there without the usual crowds of visitors.  I doubted that has happened very often since George Vanderbilt’s 125-year old summer home became the biggest tourist attraction in Western North Carolina.

            Knowing the Biltmore doesn’t encourage picnickers during regular times we walked back to the car and drove up a hill to Deer Park ,which is mostly removed from the more public areas.  We parked in a completely open parking lot, got out chairs and the cooler and enjoyed our lunch while listening to the birds around us.

            “Our first picnic of the season,” Art said as he reached for a tuna sandwich.

            “Yes, a little early but nevertheless, special, “ I replied. Then the memories of picnics throughout my life and especially of Mother, came rushing at me. 

            “Mother loved to have a picnic outdoors any time even if it meant wearing a winter coat,” I said. 

            “I remember,” said Art.  He never forgets the many picnics we went on with my parents.  He has heard me say “I grew up on picnics” , for years.

 Mother & Dad on a picnic with Hayden

            Mother loved going on picnics more than anything else in life.  Dad was not a fan and yet ,that was the one thing in their marriage she insisted on. When my brothers and I were kids, Dad was on the golf course on weekends and Mother was a “golf widow”.  She’d pack a picnic and take us three and a friend or two in the car.  In Buenos Aires, it was usually to the Club Naútico, on the Tigre River.  We’d have our lunch and Mother would settle into a chair with a book while we played in the muddy river and swam or chased around on the playground. She was happy eating outdoors wherever she was in the world.

            Christmases in Buenos Aires were hot and difficult.  We’d be up early opening presents. By 10 a.m. Dad would be vacuuming up the mess, taking down the bedraggled Christmas tree.      
              Mother would announce “Get your bathing suits, I’m packing a picnic.  We’ll go to the Club.” 

            It was an annual ritual and we were used to.  Thinking back on that I realize that getting us all outdoors was a way ward off the homesickness she always had at holiday times when Christmas felt strange in the heat of summer.

            Mother organized picnics no matter where she was living in the world.  I remember them in the wild countryside outside of Bogotá.  She’d get Dad to drive and she’d find a spot under a tree, spread an old blanket, and bring out the lunch. In Vermont, when she lived there alone while Dad was in Saigon, I can see her bundled in her winter jacket sitting at the picnic table at Hawkwood enjoying a sandwich and some hot tea.  There might still be patches of snow around.

Mother on a picnic

            At our Biltmore picnic last week I remembered the most poignant picnic Art and I had with Mother….the one that will haunt me forever.  It happened nearly 10 years now but still is a clear memory that does not fade.  It was September 2010 and we had rushed to Carolina Meadows in Chapel Hill to be with Mother after Dad died.  His death was not unexpected.  It was a relief and yet a shock.  

            The phone rang the second morning we were staying at Carolina Meadows, while we took care of all the arrangements that needed to be done.

            “Kris,” Mother’s voice came on feebly.  “You need to come over now and get the urn out of here,” she said. “I can’t bear to have it sitting here in my living room.”

            Of course, we went right over with no plan of what we were to do with Dad’s ashes.  Art picked up the urn from Mom’s apartment, took it downstairs, and hid it in the trunk of the rental car we were driving.  Mother was beyond making decisions about anything.

            “What would you like to do, today?”  I asked her.

            “Go on a picnic,” she whispered feebly.

            I went downstairs to the kitchen of Fairways, the assisted living facility where she lived, and ordered a picnic for three of us.  I helped Mom get ready and Art picked up the picnic basket that was ready for us. We gently helped Mother downstairs with her walker and got her into the car.

            “Where should we go?” I asked her.

            “Jordan Lake,” she replied.  “Dad and I liked to go there for picnics.”  I had been there before with Mom and knew it was a familiar place.

            I don’t remember what we ate for the picnic, but I do remember it was a hot day. None of us said much.  Mother sat quietly eating slowly, looking sad and frail.

              “Mom,” I said to her.  “You stay here and rest.  Art and I are going to go down to the lakeside to take care of the ashes.”

            She nodded and made no comment. She sat without moving where she was as we disappeared.  When we returned about a half hour later, having dispersed Dad’s ashes in Jordan Lake, Mom had not moved.  She said nothing.  We cleared off the table and slowly helped her to the car for the drive back to Carolina Meadows.  Perhaps it was my imagination but I sensed that Mother had let go a bit. She seemed exhausted from the outing but something told me she would be alright.

            Our lovely picnic and hike through the gardens at Biltmore was short-lived.  That same evening an email came from the Biltmore Estate announcing that the County was requiring that the estate be closed. They had issued a more stringent “stay home – stay safe” order.  How fortuitous that we had thought to go that particular day without realizing it would be our last for some time. I thought about those beautiful grounds and particularly the extensive gardens in the spring.  It struck me that all will bloom as always but with no audience except the birds, a hand full of gardeners, and the wide open skies above.

  

            I thought about the eerie days we are living through now. How unreal it feels to be house bound during a world wide Covid-19 pandemic.  I thought about the strong memories that came to me as we sat in the empty parking lot at Biltmore enjoying the silence and a picnic.  I had Mother with me but beyond that I felt she was sending a message. When times are tough, when you are despairing and lonely, going on a picnic (whether it’s to a scenic spot or right outside your door on a porch or deck or under a tree) is food for the soul.  It was for her. It reminded me to carry on that family tradition just as we did last week.

Starting our own family picnics ....