Sunset in Fairhope

There is going to be a picnic in the park, we’re told.  Blankets spread out on the grassy bluff overlooking the bay, the Baldwin County Pops, plenty of kids.  After my day at work is done, I make sesame noodles with shrimp and green onions, Pillsbury biscuits, a salad with bright orange peppers and corn cut fresh off the cob.  Perrier and Capri Suns.  Four camp chairs, plastic plates and a handful of Mardi Gras cups, hot biscuits in a brown paper bag, cold fried chicken for the boys.  A paper towel roll pokes out of the top of my reusable shopping bag.

We send Jack up to his room to put on his shoes.  Ten minutes later, after I holler that we are about to drive away, he comes down the stairs, one sock on, the other foot bare.  In his arms are two shoes, the other sock, a set of play “pirate” keys, his bear, a compass, the pirate spy glass, and a plastic alligator.   “I ran out of time, so I’ll just finish this up in the car” he says, matter-of-fact.

We find a spot, checking for fire-ants before settling under a companionable magnolia.  Jack cannot leave the bugs alone, chasing away each one that ventures onto our picnic blanket.  The crowd is spread out over the knoll, and we gaze over their heads to the stage where the band is set up, and behind them the bright, bright bay.

The concert begins with a couple of speeches.  Veterans are invited to stand and be thanked.  Then, a surprise – families of military servicemen are asked to stand as well, and thanked for their own sacrifices.  I stand, a little misty-eyed.

The music begins.  In short order, antsy kids run wild, parents halfheartedly shushing.  Some children nearly knock over a half bottle of red wine propped next to a pink gingham lined picnic basket.  Its owner lies with her head in her mother’s lap, oblivious to the dousing in red she nearly received.  Her mother (I presume it is her mother) gently rubs her temples, smooths her hair, while she lies still and clicks around on an iPhone.  Liam and Jack bolt down their chicken, then hop out of their chairs and race towards the precipice, unaware that the foliage conceals a fairly straight drop down a considerable distance to the bay below.  My nerves thus shot, I cannot sit down again, but stand between them and the edge.

They climb a tree until told by a woman to get down, then run off and kick a ball in a circle. At one point, they are given an American flag and invited to parade through the crowd.  We listen to the pops, watch the sun go down.  A few minutes before bed time, we gather dirtied plates, roll up grassy blankets, shove it all into our bags.  The children wave their flags merrily as we walk away, and two buglers play Taps in a round.  We walk past massive homes, massive trees lit with spotlights, Spanish moss trailing and gas lights flickering as the bay begins to lose its sparkle, the sun gone.  Twilight settles in.  The boys holler the words to God Bless America, which they learned at school, and we carry the dregs of our picnic through one of the prettiest little towns this country has to offer, until we reach the car, and pile it all in, and head for home.