Summer Sundays meant picnics at Ellicott Creek Park—an extended family tradition. Mom, her siblings, the uncles who married in, and a gaggle of all their kids would gather like clockwork. It was chaotic, predictable, and somehow… perfect.
The uncles had a system. On Sunday morning, they’d head out early—like, really early—armed with the Sunday paper and a full case of ice-cold Genesee. The beer was transported in a baby carriage, because obviously. They’d roll that thing into Ellicott Creek Park like it was perfectly normal to haul alcohol around in a pram. Which, back then, maybe it was.
Their mission – lock down a picnic spot before the other townsfolk filtered in. Prime real estate: near the playground, with some shade, but close enough to the fire pits. They’d set up shop, crack open a beer, unfold the paper, and transport themselves to their happy place. By the time the rest of us showed up, they were already two beers in and feeling pretty pleased with themselves. I have to say, they were dutifully in the background, and I remember feeling taken care of, protected, with those dependable uncles taking the lead.
The menu – always the same, and proudly so. Each Auntie had her specialty: Helen’s potato salad, Mary’s macaroni salad with tuna, and Mom’s famous baked beans—made with white lima beans, in case you’d be confusing them with Texas fare. (Gosh, I haven’t made those beans in thirty years—maybe it’s time for a comeback at the next BBQ!) Sometimes Granny and Poppy would show up and bring something fun and different… Skippy Cups or something equally appealing.
Of course, there were Sahlen’s hot dogs, still strung together like something out of a cartoon, Weber’s mustard—always Weber’s—and heaps of corn on the cob, the true star of the show. Dozens of ears would soak in a pot until the coals were glowing white-hot, then get roasted to perfection. Honestly, corn was the main course. Everything else was just filler.
The adults had their beer, and for us kids—a dime packet of Kool-Aid: basically flavored coloring, a cup of sugar, and two quarts of water.
Each of the sisters had her own protocol. Helen’s brood was allowed to roll their corn right over a stick of margarine, coating it in delicious, dripping yellow grease. Mom was too classy to allow such barbarism. We had to slice off a cube with a knife and try—somewhat awkwardly—to glide it across the cob. I always cast an envious glance toward Helen’s practical, if goopish, method.
The salads and beans never changed, and that was part of the charm. Every mama brought her signature dish, as expected.
I loved those outings. There was something magical about all the cousins together, the buffer of Mom’s siblings keeping her in check—glorious!
A couple of outstanding memories:
Mom’s 30-year-old brother pushing us so high on the swings the chains would lose tension. I swear, with just a bit more oomph, we might’ve launched right over the top of the frame. Thrilling and scary.
Brother Ralph burning his fingers pulling a soda can out of a fire pit. Not our fire pit… something he came across as we explored the park. Did he get to plunge his fingers into abundant butter… er… margarine? Not sure… but everyone crowded around with concerned faces to implement care. Imagine not having to hear, “That’s what you get for being where you don’t belong.” Although, in my bones, I feel that’s exactly what Mom wanted to say. Like I mentioned… her siblings keeping her in check.
When that thirty something uncle wasn’t there to swing us into the atmosphere, we explored the bushes, where chunks of quartz rocks were in abundant supply. I wasn’t necessarily into rocks or crystals… and I’m not even sure if these rocks had any metaphysical properties in the marketable sense. But I sure liked my coveted and glittery collection.
As years went on, our cluster of seven cousins more than doubled into seventeen. Families got overwhelmed and consequently, Sundays at the park became mere memories.
These were such special times. Even as adults, we cousins celebrated the memories with full recall, sharing each incident with nods and spontaneous laughter. Even the nostalgic flavor of Aunt Helen’s potato salad stood the test of time with her recipe making the rounds. The whole notion of the original seven cousins—like puppies in a whelping box—made me pretend in my head that a family with lots of kids was happier. I made the determination that I would aim for six kids when it was my turn to be a mom. Six was always my number. I now realize, it was never about the number— it was always about belonging.
