In Morgan Hill, take East Dunne Ave. east for a curvy, exciting
13 miles to Henry W. Coe State Park, the second largest state park
in California. And, then, experience an exciting dream. Hike,
observe, picnic in this
“back country.” This is a marvelous family “outing” And, it’s
right here. Next to Morgan Hill.
In Morgan Hill, take East Dunne Ave. east for a curvy, exciting 13 miles to Henry W. Coe State Park, the second largest state park in California. And, then, experience an exciting dream. Hike, observe, picnic in this “back country.” This is a marvelous family “outing” And, it’s right here. Next to Morgan Hill.
Or, take Gilroy’s Leavesley Road to New Avenue to Roop Road to Gilroy Hot Springs or Coyote Lake County Park for a family “outing.”
Families should have these experiences to remember. Today, at almost seventy-five years, I still remember my families’ outings from when I was 10 or 11.
I remember, on a beautiful, sunny Saturday afternoon in July 1940, my family piled into our classic dark maroon 1935 Ford with suicide doors. Barely room in this car for Mother, Daddy, Grandmother and me, we flung back the front opening doors and jumped in. Daddy drove and Mother sat beside him; Grandmother and I sat in the back seat. The car headed to the picnic grounds.
This Saturday picnic was only one of many, many summer experiences that my family loved. No matter that the storm clouds of World War II billowed up from the horizon, we ignored them and had fun, as I remember.
The sedan had a narrow extended back; the trunk lid only slightly canted from the perpendicular. Yet, in this trunk was our picnic dinner.
So, on this day, we headed out to the Methodist Picnic Grounds.
In the glow of my daydream of growing up in Enid, Oklahoma, I recall that summer vacations were always fun. As I remember, the Depression of the 1930s did not detract from our family’s good times. We seemed to have more than enough to eat. And, in our great white house with five bedrooms and a four white columned porch, which extended across the front, our family; grandmother, uncle, mother, father and me, the only child, survived quite nicely.
Nevertheless, dreaming about these times, I recall the wonderful Methodist Picnic Grounds on a summer Saturday afternoon.
The dirt road took us to the fenced gate extending across the driveway of the picnic spot. Daddy got out and pushed the gate open so we could drive in. The entrance driveway divided around a tree. Staying to the right defined our entrance to the picnic grounds. Continuing on, we came to the picnic tables. Mother and Grandmother took the picnic basket to a table with benches attached.
In this dream, I am a boy. I wear short pants and Mother has taken off my shirt. She says that I can go play in the stream. Happily, I meet my friends.
Many families came to these picnic grounds by the creek. So many boys in short pants. So many girls in sun suits. And, we children, ran to the creek.
Laughing and playing, my friends and I crossed the creek. Sometimes the creek flooded up to our knees. Yet, at other times, we would run with all our might up to the high bluffs across the creek.
No matter, scrambling up the cliffs, we would jump out with all our might into the creek below. Or, run on the bluff to the south to an even higher promontory and splash into an even deeper part of the creek. We thought of ourselves as invincible.
At some time before dark, our parents retrieved all their children. And, they fed us from their picnic baskets.
As the sun set, my family packed up the picnic remains and put them in the trunk of the 1935 suicide-door Ford. I complained that I didn’t want to leave. Mother was adamant and insisted.
Nevertheless, in my dream, on a wondrous summer evening, we drove back home. Even after 75 years, this is such a wonderful reminiscence
Why not take your family on a summer “dream.”
Seventy-five years from now, your kids may remember.
Burton Anderson, a U.S. Marine veteran of the Korean War, has lived in California for 47 years. He has a background in the aerospace industry. He may be reached at ba****@*ol.com
