Pass the mustard, and the magic.

Picnics are one of life’s simple joys.

Even the sound of the word is melodious. Picnic.

Okay… maybe not melodious. It is “catchy” though…

And to hear the phrase, “We are going on a picnic,” conjures up all sorts of warm and wonderful images.

Just down the street about a half a block, is The Battery. It overlooks the Charleston Bay, and Fort Sumter, among other things.

People picnic there all the time. I love to walk through the park and watch them picnic. They are happy… eating their cold fried chicken, macaroni salad, and potato chips. Or bologna sandwiches, coleslaw and pretzel sticks. Chocolate chip cookies, or apple pie. Some bring a basket, others bring a canvas bag.

They spread out their wool blankets, and set the stage before them. There is nothing fast about it… all is slow, and savored. Methodical. The picnic is both meticulous and messy.

Smiles and laughter…passing plates… sharing forkfuls of food… even though they all have the same exact thing.  A game of frisbee or touch football.  Swing-around-airplane rides.

Heartwarming. Fun. True. Loving.

For a moment, I thought I would suggest that everyone be required to take one picnic per month… and the world might be a better place. Then… I thought better of it. No.  I would not suggest such a thing. Making it a requirement would wring the magic right out of it.  And the enchantment of the picnic would be rendered ….. useless.

Oh.  I believe in magic.

There are those who say it doesn’t exist.  But I am convinced that it does. And when asked where I think magic comes from…. I say…

Magic comes from the heart.

Just take a good look at a picnic.

Published by