Tuesday, November 15, 2005
The Picnic
We’re back from the Northwest, and I can report that my new nephew is a real good-looking guy. We were well-fed, well-entertained, and very well-rested. I came back with a little cold, so I’m hoping today isn’t too intense for me, but that will be what it will be. In the meantime I wanted to move on from the heavy weirdness of that last post. Here’s a recollection that is among my most cherished - one that, I hope, gives the proper cast to what’s left of this week. Drink up.
Andy’s dad, Alex, lent gravity to the affair. It was another caravan of old friends heading up to Dry Creek Valley for some reflective relaxation. We knew where we were going and what we were looking for there. What we found was all that and more, but first things first.
First we stopped off at the crossroads market to pick up some lunch. The deli counter gleamed at us with its fluorescently-illuminated bounty of a dozen delicious salads and two dozen superb meats awaiting the slicer; several short aisles of condiments and chips, roasted artichoke hearts in herb oil and a dizzying variety of cheeses in the cooler - all the necessities of life and all the most sublime gourmet accompaniments thereto. We put in our sandwich orders, grabbed some caprese and some carrots and some ratatouille or something - the details blur, it was so long ago - but we shopped bountifully there for our anticipated lunch.
I rang out first and took my haul outside, under the broad awning, and waited for my friends by the crude benches, to savor the exhalations of the morning fields. It was still fairly early and we had gotten a rather good way out in the country. I’d been around there enough times already that the place felt very homey, with its barnhouse floors and roadhouse tavern next door, too authentic to be quaint but old and true and comforting. As I waited, small bouquets of beautiful people wandered in through the old swing doors of the grocery, or came back out through them, satisfied shoppers returning to their vehicles toting heavy sacks of redolent comestibles. In the damp grey morning air I could smell everything - the fields, the cars as they occasionally passed, the overcologned and under-deodorized, the breath of the earth.
Alex stepped out of the store and stood beside me in silence for a few moments, his hands on his hips. His brow furrowed, but then again it always did. He was visiting from across the country. He alone among us had never been here before. “Like Italy,” he murmured with a soft accent. “I can believe it,” I languidly replied, and then we lapsed back into silence for a while.
Eventually we all completed our purchases and a drove around for a while, hitting a couple of wineries and renewing our acquaintance with the terrior. Come lunchtime we were at Preston and the sun shone warmly down on us. We drove up in our little caravan along their lengthy tree-lined creekside drive, parked near each other, grabbed our grub and meandered out toward the generous and inviting country house before us. I think we must have tasted some wine there and gotten some to have with lunch - they do make an exceptional product, to say the very least. What I do remember clearly, though - more clearly than anything else that day - was sitting out in the picnic gardens by the vineyards with Alex and the rest of the gang. We had walked out past the courtyard and the arbor-shaded tables, and worked our way towards the horticultural plots. There, on a lawn lying verdant, thick and cool between bordered beds of artichokes and herbs and fantasy lettuce, we laid out our blankets and bodies, and luncheon was served.
Already blissed out by a morning of beautiful vistas and excellent wines, we let the sun pour down on us as we retrieved our sandwiches and sides from our shopping bags, sat down, and laid on. The food was delicious. The wine was outstanding. The sky was blue and the midday heat tenderized us. Conversation slowed. People just sighed, mostly.
Alex had always been, to my knowledge, a man of great dignity and propriety. He sat with his legs stretched out before him, and cast a relaxed gaze back and forth around the gardens, watching the six of us nibbling on the downslope of lunch; when he reached back to support himself on his palms, I could see the faded blue numbers hastily tattooed on his forearm back in Poland. “You kids don’t even know how good this really is. It doesn’t get better than this.”
As one, we turned toward him, our hearts bursting from our chests. “Oh, but Alex,” we assured him, “we know. We really do.” And we thought that we did. But even now, that afternoon of sunlight and wine continues to reveal new sublimities to me. When you reach perfection, it never stops getting better, even after the moment has long since slipped into the past. The key, I think, is to recognize it while it’s still happening.
