My brother was in high school when my dad started making the picnic table. With all the wood he used you would think he cut down a forest to make it. Our picnic table could seat at least ten and it would take almost that many to move it. My dad never made anything small and simple, whatever it was, it seemed to be large and heavy and could probably withstand hurricane force winds.
The barbecue pit was a hole dug in the ground with some bricks and the rack from an old refrigerator as the grill top. Many chickens, burgers, and hotdogs were grilled to perfection. Hickory was the preference over charcoal, but no matter, the care was there with every detail and each morsel would melt in your mouth. This was done for graduations and other festive times or for just the urge for a good ole barbecue.
I cannot remember when this ended or what happened to the table, but when I do see a picnic table I have thoughts of pity on how pathetically small they are, then I remember with fondness the hard work once again invested in not only the food prepared, but the thought in including as many as can possibly sit around a table under the blue sky. This was a time and a place of family, protection, and the life of bustersdaughter.
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