It was almost like old times; they were both doing their parts to put together the picnic, but there was a sense of something missing. Scattered on the counter were a roast chicken with Meyer lemon, garlic and fresh oregano picked from the garden, crisp black grapes, a round of Cowgirl Creamery Red Hawk cheese, a wedge of Pt. Reyes Blue, a loaf of Nightingale multigrain bread, and a small jar of green olives they had cured last fall. What were they forgetting? She had remembered the blue gingham tablecloth and the napkins the color of marigolds. She watched him set out the cutting board, a good knife, small plates, utensils, two stemmed wine glasses, and a wine pull.
It was getting late. Time spent on the computer that morning had almost eclipsed their afternoon trip, a problem that had become a pattern. They were rushing now. Getting away together wasn’t easy. They were both so busy with work, housing issues, and bookkeeping, the business of life. It all left them feeling more like college roommates than lovers.
They tucked each item gently into a wicker basket and cooler until the counter was clear. “Wait!” she said when it seemed they were almost ready. “The binoculars! Where are they?”
He ducked into the living room and reappeared a moment later. “Found them on top of the bookshelf by the couch,” he said, slinging them over his arm as he walked through the office to turn off the glow of the computers.
“And we almost forgot the wine!” She pulled out one of their favorite pinots and a bottle of chilled water. Finally, they placed the basket and cooler in the trunk of the car alongside a couple of pillows and a plaid blanket.
With one hand on the steering wheel and one on his thigh, he was deep in thought as they drove across the City. She reached over and placed her hand on his thigh awkwardly for just a moment, and then placed it back in her lap.
As they headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge, they began to talk about other picnics in their past together: watching the sun set from a mountain ridge with a view of the Pacific Ocean, curling up among tall grasses on a sand dune at the beach, sharing shish kebobs at the top of a hill in Turkey, enjoying cold tuna pasta and Chianti in a cove in Sardinia. She recalled fondly the time they had visited a friend who owned an antique shop in St. Helena. How that friend had closed the shop, pulled china and linens from the shelves, and set a table for a picnic inside, ordering good take out, opening a bottle of Domaine Chandon sparkling wine. That day was white, lace, and silver. They had a lucky life together.
When they had gotten married out there thirty years ago, they had promised each other they would visit Pt. Reyes often, but it had been a long time. They fell into a comfortable silence as they drove up 101, turned onto Lucas Valley Road, and went past the huge blue reservoir, following winding roads through green hills towards Pt. Reyes Station, roads that back then they had named their wedding trail. She placed her hand on his thigh and left it there. He turned his head towards her and smiled.
The sky, the road, the greenness around them anchored them in the present. For the first time in a long time, they shared what the day had to offer made golden by the glow of the past. The drive past St. Mary’s in Nicasio reminded her of their wedding day in a small century-old church, set in the countryside and filled with a hundred of their friends. How their friend Zhdan had shown up with his daughter Xenia, then about five years old, and a basket of flowers, to be the an impromptu flower girl. (Recently, Xenia had become a mother.) How last minute they paid for a limo that took them from Nicasio to Inverness and circled Pt. Reyes Station three times before heading off. The wedding party reception had been held at the beautiful Gault house that, at the time, could be rented for weddings. A tap dancer had shown up as part of the dance band.
After the ceremony, they paddled away on Tomales Bay in the canoe their pal Mark had brought along as a surprise. It was all set up among their friends: the house on the water for their wedding night would have the lights on. There would be a champagne bucket and flowers in the window—that would be their cue that they had found the place. It was late in the day when they headed off in the boat, the sun about to set. Their parents had been excited and anxious and followed them by car on a road along the edge of the water to make sure they made it. Later, the parents had dinner together at the Pt. Reyes Lighthouse Restaurant to celebrate the day. When it came time to pay the bill, they were told that someone had already picked up their tab. When they asked why, the waiter explained that the people at a nearby table had suffered a loss and that their party’s happiness had turned their mood.
As they drove through the town of Pt. Reyes Station, past the restaurant, which was still there, they acknowledged how much seemed pleasantly the same. Their shoulders relaxed. He took her hand in his and squeezed it for a moment, then rested his arm on the back of her seat. Ideas for where to picnic brought up more memories. She thought of the Estero Trail, winding through a forest and out to the edge of a lagoon.
A cozy seat amid trees with a vast view of the beach. It had been one of their favorite locations over the years. They spoke about an Easter there many years ago with his mother and friends. His mother had been so happy that day, vibrant as always in her Florida yellow knit sweater, white pants, gold hoop earrings. Not long after, the dementia would start taking hold of her. It was the day they had spotted the mountain lion on the walk back to the car, high on a cliff, and wondered if they would ever be able to get her out to Pt. Reyes again.
Limantour Beach might avail them a view of whales this time of year, but it might also be windy. At Muddy Hollow, they had often enjoyed watching ducks. One of her early gifts to him was a birding class out there that they had both embraced, and now they always traveled with binoculars. He had gotten quite adept at recognizing birdcalls, but they agreed that, given the lateness of the afternoon, Muddy Hollow might be a little too shady. There was Bear Valley Trail, which ran out to the beach, but that would require a longer commitment than the time they had. So many choices. The National Seashore seemed almost overwhelmingly vast with possibilities and different ecosystems.
They kept driving and decided to find a new place—new to them, at least. They took a turn to the right, out past Heart’s Desire Beach.
They had held their first anniversary party on the shore of Heart’s Desire and canoed away again after, this time with friends, Mark and Patricia and their baby Will, up Tomales Bay to a cove where they all camped for the night. There was a standoff with a family of raccoons, but the sky was full of stars and friendship, and, eventually, a peaceful sleep. Another couple, Wendy and her husband, who lived on the Bay, brought them the New York Times and champagne by boat the next day.
Driving on, they spotted Abbott’s Lagoon and thought, why not? Though it really wasn’t new to them. Years ago it had been a New Year’s Eve destination. They would take part in the huge end-of-the-year bonfire, everyone bringing things that they were ready to burn, like old tax forms, letters from a no-longer lover, things like that. Huddling together with some friends and many strangers, they would say goodbye to another year, warming their hands and their stomachs with hot chocolate and brandy as flames shot into the sky and mingled with the stars.
But somehow they had never before seen Abbott’s Lagoon in springtime; somehow it had eluded their attention all these years. They pulled into the parking lot, straight into a perfect spot facing the trail. Looking out the windshield together, they let out a shared familiar sigh. The water, shimmering in the distance like firelight, called to them.
Loaded with all they had brought, they followed the trail, passing small blue lagoons that glowed like sliced sapphires in the generous green meadows on either side. They filled up on red dragon flies, purple Douglas irises, yellow lupine, orange poppies, the occasional croak of a frog, the meandering ducks, quacking and diving, the sound of the breeze weaving its way through the grasses. A male and a female quail sat on the rail of a small bridge. There was something Japanese about that bridge, the way it arched quietly in the landscape, reminding them of their travels to that serene country. They took the time to admire the birds’ elegant headdresses. It was clear that they, too, were enjoying the day.
The path opened to a larger lagoon, past gently combed grassy sand dunes, to the deep blueness of the sea beyond. They walked out to a log at the far end of the beach. This was the place, the space and intimacy they had been seeking. Spreading the cloth, unpacking the basket, they remembered the blue bowl, packed at the last minute, placed in the back seat of the car. He ran back to get it. Breathing quickly, but smiling he returned and handed her the bowl. It was filled with plump cherries, shiny red like patent leather, and a perfect addition to their still life lunch.
This picnic would become a new memory to add to the many they had gathered from the past. It would be a reminder for a while when things got too busy, too hard. This place with its deep blue lagoons and green meadows rolling to the sea would remind them of what was necessary, important. Leaning against the log, tucking into one another on the warm sand, they were quiet for a moment, then truly together again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sharon H. Smith, founder and co-editor of the Birdland Journal, is a poet-writer and former book designer, lives in San Francisco with her husband and frequent collaborator, architectural photographer David Wakely. She hosts writing workshops in her home in West Sonoma. Her work has appeared in Haunted Waters Press, Juddhill, Gravel Literary Journal, Tell Us a Story and Eunoia Review, Adanna Literary Journal, KQED Perspectives, Glassworks Magazine and other publications. Her chapbook entitled Held: A Father Lost and Found will be published by Red Bird Chapbooks this spring. To learn more about Sharon, go to her website, www.savorsmith.com