End of School Picnic

Zoom, splat! Jimmy's kite landed smack dab in the middle of Mrs. Valdez's brilliant yellow Jell-O mold. I thought it was great and laughed till tears rolled down my face. Mrs. Valdez didn't think it was funny, especially because the yellow Jell-O mold, in our school color, was her unique contribution to the school picnic. She made three of them each year.

My country school celebrated the last day every year with a rousing picnic on the shore of the Huerfano River in southern Colorado . The recreation area was really someone's cow pasture loaned out to the school for the day. Large trees rimmed the pasture and sheltered a flock of magpies anticipating a good meal. The evicted cows hung their heads over the fence eyeing the green grass being tromped upon by the hordes from Gardner School of Gardner, CO.

Sixty children, ranging from first through seventh grade crowded the cow pasture. Soon parents with picnic goodies began to congregate. Now, I didn't say “with picnic baskets in tow,” because I had only seen the traditional two-flapped, handled basket in the pictures of my second grade books. No, farm families tend to think in broader terms.

Parents arrived with every sort of container—milking bucket, washtub, huge enamel pots, and wooden crates—filled to the brim with picnic treats. Laundry baskets were a popular transport for pots of baked beans, breads, or canned peaches.

While the kids performed wild aerobics in the three-legged race and the potato sack competition, the parents competed in the picnic food arena. Fathers set up several grills for the multitude of hot dogs and hamburgers. Mothers unofficially competed in the best pie, cake and cookies categories. My mother was competing in the best potato salad category. Other parents set out a myriad of macaroni, spaghetti, cabbage, and fruit salads knowing that their friendly competition was second only to the official contests of the kids.

Betty Jo and I tied our legs together with a bandana, looped our arms across each other's shoulders and raced down the improvised track. I tripped and we went sprawling in the sparse grass. I didn't cry but I wanted to. My mood changed rapidly when we spotted the winners cleaning the unquestionably fresh cow pie from their shoes.

Of course, someone had to fall in the river. For days, we had been threatened with dire consequences if we should make the bad decision to play in the waters of the river. It was a serious discussion because, in those days (circa 1963), most of my classmates didn't know how to swim. Local waterways were creeks barely four to eight inches deep. Most of us had never seen a swimming pool and no one swam in the swift moving Huerfano River which might have been 20 feet across at its widest. In June, the river was wild and freezing with spring runoff from the high mountains. It sucked at its banks and carved small canyons with its power.

There were enough water snakes, salamanders, and tiny frogs to tempt any small boy and Ben just had to go down to the river. He was a stubborn, skinny kid with wild black hair. He was small enough to sneak past the watchful eyes of the teachers and parents. Ben went to the water's edge and was enchanted. The raucous roar of the water mesmerized him and the sparkle of the clear water hypnotized him. Caution was forgotten. He reached out a hand to grasp a grinning black and white salamander and plop, the bank gave way and he plunged into the roiling water.

The other little boys, the ones who egged Ben on, shouted. Mr. Bailey was closest and he went into the river after Ben. Another father, Mr. Rodriguez, ran downstream and grabbed a branch to fish Ben out; Mr. Bailey needed help too. The water was horribly cold.

Ben's teacher, Mrs. Tirey from Second Grade, was beside herself. She was a tall, stern, seemingly cold woman but she alternately hugged Ben and shook him as she thanked God that he was only wet. Ben was crying, not only because he was scared, but also because he anticipated the whipping he'd receive when he arrived home.

Ben spent the rest of the afternoon wrapped in a horse blanket by the cookout grill. He watched with doleful eyes as the men turned the hot dogs and the kids ran and played. It was a clear message to the rest of us so we wisely spent our time playing chase, or watching the big kids play baseball.

I always remember that day because it was then that I finally felt part of this loving community. I had entered second grade mid-year. Both my meek mannered mother and I struggled to acquaint ourselves with the new school and the camaraderie of the farm families.

During the ride home that day in the rickety old truck, my mother was quiet. She finally asked, “Did you have fun?”

“Oh, yes, Mama,” was my heartfelt reply. The small smile at the corners of her mouth told me that she, too, was pleased with the End-of-School Picnic.

Deborah Martinez Martinez , Ph.D.

An enthusiastic researcher since completing her advanced degree from the University of Colorado at Denver , Deborah lives in the deep southwest, ancestral home of her Spanish Mexican forebearers. For the past 30 years, she worked as a college recruiter for a federal opportunity agency and for Colorado State University of Pueblo. She retired in 2009 to pursue her second career in writing and her passion for history. As a historical interpreter at the local museum, she turned her volunteer assignment as a wool dyer into a three-year research project on dyes used on the frontier including cochineal (cactus bugs from Mexico ). She has given lectures and dye demonstrations for both adults and children using the resources of the land—pine cones, rabbitbrush, aspen leaves. At the same time, she has completed 10 children's picture books and two middle grade novels on historic and contemporary Hispanic themes and submitted them to national and regional publishers. She is a member of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators. She promotes literacy by working with Hispanic Initiative for Literacy Opportunities to produce a children's play, and with the public library as a storyteller.