MOM, MY SHOES ARE STILL IN THE RIVER !

Now that the picnic season is upon us, I am reminded of an experience my husband and I had with our youngsters.

One Saturday afternoon, I was staring into the open refrigerator when the seven-year-old twins, Reg and Ron, thundered across the kitchen floor.  "What's to eat, Mom?"

"I guess it's hamburgers," I said.

"All RIGHT! Let's go on a picnic, Mom!" they said.

Four-year-old Jennifer chimed in. "Please, Mommy, please!"

"Well, if Daddy . . . ."

"Yay!" yelled the twins. They raced out into the yard.

"Daddy, we're going on a picnic!" Ron announced. "Can you get the charcoal an' stuff?"

I wasn't too worried about my husband's response, since he doesn't mind cooking on the portable grill.  But when Reg invited two of our new neighbors to go with us, I scrabbled through the kitchen catch-all drawer for the slip of paper that held their parents' phone number. Why it wasn't on the refrigerator door, I don't know.

Mrs. Chandler reassured me. "Oh, Erik and Gretchen will love that! Mind if we come along?" 

We were ready to leave in less than thirty minutes, and didn't forget a thing.

Our two-car caravan had barely arrived at a nearby park when all five children made a frantic dash for the swings and slides section. The clutter of toys and baseball gear they had insisted on bringing was abandoned, something I had expected to happen. 

The guys carefully checked the direction of the prevailing breeze before lighting the charcoal. It didn't make any difference. We still waved and coughed at each other through a blue haze until the bricquets had banked. Then the wind miraculously vanished. We started cooking and spread out the other food.

Suddenly, a faint cry for help reached us, accompanied by much giggling. Then we saw a big guy from a nearby family group carrying a wet, muddy Reg toward us.

"Reginald Andrew!" I yelled.

He made a face. "Sorry, Mom! I couldn't help it."

"Thanks," said my husband as Reg's benefactor unloaded him. "I'm sorry we had to bother you."

"No problem," the man said. "Happens to most of us sooner or later." He shook his head in amusement as he strode back to his own family.

 I knew what had happened. Reg wants to be a fighter pilot if he grows up. Privately, his dad and I think he'll be a dowser. His nose leads him to water no matter where we are.

My husband scolded Reg and grounded him, then he and Mr. C. went to investigate the river. I looked at Reg in dismay. He wasn't wearing his good clothes, of course, but what he had on would have to be hit with the garden hose before being put into the washing machine.

The men returned to report that the river was two feet wide, four inches deep and not a ripple broke the surface. That accounted for the stagnant smell and the mud.

The hot dogs joined the hamburgers on the grill. As I tried to concentrate on keeping them from curling up, Ron squelched up next to me. The same stench that adorned Reg hit me in the face.

I groaned with frustration. "Ron, you've only had those shoes three weeks!"

"Mom," said Reg, "my shoes are still in the river."

Erik volunteered to rescue them.

"No, Erik . . . ," began his mother. But he was gone.

We did manage to bring Jennifer and Gretchen down with clumsy tackles.

"Why don't you big girls watch the table?" I suggested.

"Yes," said Mrs. C., catching her cue. "We don't want the starlings to fly off with the buns."

Jennifer and Gretchen were noisily enthusiastic about this new responsibility.

Mr. C. threw something into the trash can. I peered over his shoulder in time to see it was a badly charred hamburger.

"So you brought hot dogs?! Looks like you were right."

In spite of our efforts, the frankfurters began to form crescent shapes as they cooked. One of them made a bid for freedom and fell into a patch of grass under a tree.

Mrs. C. grabbed for the wiener and threw it back, announcing, "A little grass never hurt anyone!"

"Yeuck," I said, promptly letting another hamburger slide into the coals.

A second later, we both let out a shriek. "It hopped! That wasn't a hot dog! What did you...?"

From our husbands' point of view, it must have been funny. Why else would they have doubled over, shaking?

At this point, Erik returned, backed with mud himself but triumphantly waving Reg's slimy shoes. His father roared, but not with laughter. 

Someone discovered we had no can opener.

"Sure we do!" insisted my husband, bringing out his Swiss Army knife.

We set the first can of beans on the grill while we poured fruit juice over the insects that had settled in the paper cups.

"Are you trying to drown the bugs?" a disguised voice asked.

No one had remembered the potholders, so we used tongs to lift the can from the grill, spilling sauce into the hot coals.

"Something's burning, Mommy!" warned Jennifer.

"Well, darn it!" I exclaimed, but actually, it masked the smell radiating from the boys. 

Between lots of giggles, everyone stuffed themselves.  Finally, clutching her little, round stomach, Jennifer said, "Mommy, this was so much fun!"

Shyly, Gretchen agreed with her. Not to be outdone, all three boys proclaimed the picnic the best time they'd had since they met. Four rather frustrated adults looked at each other, saying nothing. Children can find enjoyment in the most irritating situations.

It was time to pour water over the coals.  Steam still rose as we carried the grill back to the curb and set it on the ground to finish cooling. To the best of our knowledge, not more than three near-accidents occurred as passing drivers wondered what was on fire. A couple of cross-country runners barely slowed down to look as they loped by. But the overage hippie we'd seen roaming around sat down on the sidewalk a short distance away to contemplate the steam.

 The children were rather quiet on the way home, occupied with something in the back seat. As we neared our street, Jennifer piped, "Mommy, can we go to that park next weekend?  Please?"

"We'll have to see," I demurred. "But why next week?"

"Because," said Reg. "These aren't my shoes!"  

"Reg!"

"No, Mommy," said Jennifer. "It's 'cause the frog in his pocket will get homesick by then. An' Reg has to put it back under the picnic table where he found it."

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© 1987, 2001 Shirley Ann Parker. All rights reserved. (Originally scheduled for publication in Living with Children, but editorial policy changed and rights reverted to the author.)